tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50314138167596392702023-08-17T05:42:25.692+01:00Curtseygirl's BlogKirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-86760799120100943852012-01-19T01:16:00.002+00:002012-01-19T01:22:13.181+00:00Kyte<span style="font-style:italic;">This was how I managed to de-stress my distress at leaving Australia to return to my home in England. 1st January 2011.<br /> <br />Do not try this at home...</span><br /> <br />Cast:<br />David: my dad<br />Louisa: my mum<br />Catherine: my best friend<br />Paul: Mr Catherine<br />Kirsten: are you serious???????<br /> <br />“No, I think they just wanted a bit more ‘girl time’ together, it’s nothing personal. What say you and I go out and have a beer together? Just the two of us. Bloke time. You may be a Pom, but you love my daughter like a sister and that’s good enough for me.”<br />“Thanks Mr...”<br />“It’s Dave. I’ve told you, call me Dave.”<br />“Cheers Dave; that would be grand.”<br /> <br />David winced. “Grand”. Pom words. Then he smiled, grabbed his keys, and went to tell his wife where he and Paul were going. Then she smiled.<br /> <br />“They’re gone now,” said Louisa.<br />Kirsten sighed. “Do they know?”<br />“Of course your father doesn’t. He knows you are upset but he is sure you just need a bit of ‘mum’ time before you head off.”<br />“Well, that is true in a way.”<br />“Yes daughter, but not in the way he thinks of it, is it now?”<br />Kirsten smiled. “No mother.”<br />“I love that smile Kirsten, I am pleased to see it.”<br />“Thanks mum...mummy.”<br /> <br />Kirsten was sad. It was both the first day and the last day. I suppose every day is that in some way, but this was really was. The calendar was full of ones, 1/1/11, but there was also a small message in the box beside it. “K: JQ704” Kirsten had a plane to catch. The start of a year, the end of a holiday. The start of a whole new set of relationships, or of old relationships in new forms.<br /> <br />Kirsten was sad.<br /> <br />“So...”<br />Kirsten sighed.<br />“So, what do we do Kirsten?”<br />“Let me, please.” Kirsten’s friend Catherine knew better than anyone what needed to be done, and how it could not be expressed.<br />“Cate it must be....”<br />“Yes Kirsten I know it, but let me do the speaking.”<br />Kirsten nodded.<br /> <br />There was a lot of talking. Some of it was explanation, some of it was archaeology. Some of it was architecture, physics and physiology. Most of it was psychology. A plan was formed, a strategy was agreed.<br /> <br />“Will this really help?”<br />“It always has done in the past.”<br />“But, Kirsten, it has been twenty years.”<br />“Twenty-three mummy, I was fifteen.”<br />“So it is, even more so then.”<br />“Even more so then mummy.”<br />“And yet Catherine could...”<br />“Catherine could, but I need my mother to do it. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”<br />“You had enough practice back in the day Mrs Ellison.” Catherine smirked.<br />Kirsten and Louisa laughed.<br />“You’re the one in form Mrs Brown.”<br /> <br />Silence. Smiles. Peace? Not so much, perhaps “a comfortable tension”.<br /> <br />“And you’re sure it will help?”<br />“It won’t hurt.”<br />“I wouldn’t be so sure Kirsten.”<br />Kirsten smiled.<br />“Well I suppose that’s true. No pain no gain.”<br />“No pain no drain.”<br />Kirsten turned her smile towards Catherine, and lowered her eyes. “Yes. Yes that is exactly true.”<br />“But daddy?”<br />“Will know nothing of it, Paul will keep him until Catherine gives him a text message.”<br />“He did well making it look like daddy’s idea. Thank you. Both. I love you. I love youse all.”<br />“So where does it happen?”<br />“My bedroom?”<br />“Fine. And the...”<br />“Yes.”<br />Louisa smiled. “You have thought about this haven’t you?”<br />“Yes mummy, but I never thought I would actually need it. I’m a day and six months away from turning thirty-nine.”<br />“You’re never too old for your mother’s love Kirsten. Kirsten Louisa.”<br />Kirsten smiled.<br /> <br />Kirsten’s room was as she had left it. Now in truth she had left it only an hour or so before. Her bed was made, and the stuffed animals back in place against her pillow. The suitcase on the floor was packed, closed, but unlocked. The wardrobe door was open where Louisa had hung up a freshly ironed dress, the one Kirsten would wear tomorrow to church.<br /> <br />But Kirsten’s room was also the way Kirsty had left it: the Kirsty whom Kirsten had been when she had lived in this house. The stuffed animals on the pillows were twenty, thirty years old some of them. The twin posters above her bed celebrated sporting victories from the 1990s, and the photo on her desk bore a striking resemblance to Kirsten, had she been twenty years younger. (As indeed, in that portrait, she was.)<br /> <br />“It’s the same room.”<br />“My darling girl, you seem to be suggesting that that is the point.”<br />“Yes mummy, it is.”<br />Mother and daughter cuddled. Mother kissed daughter on the hair above the girl’s forehead. She pulled back, placed a hand gently under her daughter’s chin, and raised the girl’s head until they were looking into each other’s eyes.<br /> <br />“Yes mummy,” Kirsten replied to the unspoken question.<br /> <br />Mother and daughter moved across to the bed. On the bedside table, between the Bible and the lamp, lay a black hairbrush. A paddle brush. The paddle brush. Kirsten sat on the bed and folded her hands in her lap. She looked down at her shoes. Louisa picked up the hairbrush and looked at it.<br /> <br />“Will Curtseygirl know about this, Kirsten?”<br />“I expect so mummy.”<br /> <br />Louisa smiled.<br /> <br />“I’d better do it right then. So, Kirsten Ellison, how many?”<br /> <br />Kirsten began to sob.<br /> <br />“Kirsty, please don’t. I...”<br />“Mummy, I really need you to. Please mummy. Twelve please mummy.”<br />“Of course darling. You had better stand up then. Catherine are you staying?”<br />“No Louisa I...”<br />“Catie, darling, you must.”<br />“Kirstie I...”<br />“Cate. Please?”<br /> <br />Catherine nodded. She too had begun to cry.<br /> <br />“Go raibh maith agat mo cara.”<br /> <br />Louisa was sitting, and Kirsten standing.<br /> <br />“Kirsty?”<br />“Mummy, please...”<br />“Sorry sweetie. Kirsten Ellison!” Louisa raised her arms from her lap, offering her left hand to support Kirsten’s action.<br />“Thank you mummy.”<br /> <br />Kirsten laid herself across her mother’s knees.<br /> <br />“Now, you said twelve?”<br />“Yes mummy. Twelve please.”<br />“You know what that means Kirsten Ellison.”<br />“Yes mummy; that is why I asked for twelve.”<br />“Then you’ll need to stand up for a moment won’t you?”<br /> <br />Physics and costumes.<br /> <br />“Of course mummy. Sorry mummy.”<br /> <br />Kirsten regained her feet and pulled up the back of her skirt. She held it back with one hand as she took her mother’s assistance with the other and laid herself back across the waiting lap.<br /> <br />“What about your stockings?”<br />“Tights mum. They stay on.”<br />“Of course.”<br /> <br />WHACK!<br /> <br />“Oh ho oh ho oh!”<br /> <br />WHACK!!<br /> <br />“Mmmha.”<br /> <br />The sobs were now crying.<br /> <br />WHACK!!<br /> <br />“Ah haah ah!”<br /> <br />WHACK!!<br /> <br />“Mmmhuh.”<br /> <br />WHACK!!<br /> <br />“Mmmhuh.”<br /> <br />WHACK!!<br /> <br />“Mmmhuh.”<br /> <br />“Six Kirsten.”<br />“Ah haow. Yes mummy, keep going. Ooooh!”<br /> <br />WHACK!!<br /> <br />“Ahh ha!”<br />WHACK!!<br /> <br />“Mmmhuh.”<br /> <br />WHACK!!<br /> <br />“Mmmhuh.”<br /> <br />WHACK!!!!<br /> <br />“OW! Awhh how!”<br /> <br />WHACK!!<br /> <br />“Ahh ha!”<br /> <br />“Twelve:”<br /> <br />WHACK!!!!<br /> <br />“Ahh haaaa! Mum-mee!”<br /> <br />“That is twelve Kirsty.”<br /> <br />“Yes mummy. Ye-hess.”<br />“You might need to rub her bottom a bit Louisa...no a bit softer...yes.”<br />“Ooh...oooh...no that’s nice mummy please...ooooooooh. Ow.”<br />“What now?”<br />“Kirsten will probably have a little nap now Louisa, you and I can perhaps go and have a cuppa in the kitchen and we can talk about it if you like.”<br />“Kirsten?”<br />“Mmhmm. Yes mummy that is a nice plan. Thank you Catie matey.”<br /> <br />Kirsten stood up and lent forward to kiss her mother. She stepped out of her shoes, removed her dress, and climbed into bed.<br /> <br />“Sleep Curtseygirl.”<br /> <br />Kirsten smiled. <br /> <br />“Yes mummy!”Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-10385163689270541222010-11-25T03:38:00.001+00:002010-11-25T03:41:14.194+00:00Go, And Cyn No More“Children!”<br />“Huh?”<br />“Don’t ‘huh’ me, you say ‘Pardon Miss Redman.’”<br />“You already sound like a teacher. Okay, ‘pardon Miss Redman’, what do you mean by calling out ‘children’ as a random comment?”<br /><br />Cynthia and Allison were studying together in the front room of their flat. The room had been silent, save for the quiet hum of the coffee machine in the kitchen, until Cynthia had called out.<br /><br />“Children. That is what I teach.”<br />“Duh!”<br />“No, I mean when people ask me what I teach I don’t want to say ‘Grade Four’ or ‘Maths’, I want to say ‘children’. I think that puts the focus in the right place.”<br />“Hey, that’s good. I like it.”<br />“Thank you.”<br />“It’s just as well, because you suck at Maths. And English: you should of said ‘children are who I teach’.”<br />“And you should have said ‘should have’ and not ‘should of’.”<br />“Shut up.”<br />“Make me.”<br />“You’re the one who made the random comment. I was working here in silence.”<br /><br />Allison and Cynthia had been sharing a house for almost a year; a 2-up 2-down fifteen minutes’ walk from their university campus. Cynthia was in her final year of a Bachelor of Education, Allison in her final year of a Master of Arts. The women had met on campus four years earlier when they were volunteers in a Psychology clinical trial, and had become fast friends. It was their shared bizarre sense of humour which had decided them upon spending their final year of studies as housemates.<br /><br />“Cyn, what are you reading now?”<br />“Psych. Developmental Psychology. Piaget.”<br />“Isn’t that a car?”<br />“No, pee-ah-shay, not purr-show. Piaget was a child psychologist, one of the big names in the field. All pre-service teachers have to read Piaget. What about you?”<br />“I’m writing a coursework essay on the South African Republic.”<br />“But isn’t it called the Republic of South Africa?”<br />“It is now, but it wasn’t in 1898. How is Monsieur Piaget?”<br />“Boring.<br />“Boer-ing?”<br />“Shut up, that joke only makes sense if you’re reading it. You can be too clever at times you know.”<br />“Not if you say it with an ‘every-corner egg-sent’. Boo-er.”<br /><br />When visitors came to Allison and Cynthia’s house it was the banter between the two that stood out. It was always light-hearted, never spiteful, but it was very quick. It was one of Allison’s favourite things about Cynthia. That and the fact that Cynthia was a red-head, so there was always material for her wit.<br /><br />“To be honest I’m just not seeing it.”<br />“Seeing what?”<br />“How this idea works. I know it makes sense to know the way kids think, because kids aren’t just little adults, but the stages of cognitive development are throwing me. What is a cognitive anyway? It sounds like something you’d find in an engine.”<br />“Hey, did you hear about the mechanical transporter plane that exploded over Japan?”<br />“No.”<br />“Yeah, apparently it was raining Datsun cogs...boom tish!”<br />“I’ll boom your tish in a minute.”<br />“Promises, promises.”<br />“And you wonder why I don’t take you seriously as a disciplinarian.”<br /><br />Disciplinarian. Cynthia knew that this final year was make-or-break for her, and whilst Allison loved Cynthia for her cheeky wit, Cynthia loved Allison for the fact that she was three years older than her and had the nature of a no-nonsense person about her. Fun was fun, but when it was time to work then it was time to work. Allison had a scowl than could curdle milk, Cynthia desperately wanted to learn it to use in class.<br /><br />“Do you need some discipline?”<br /><br />SNAP! There it was. Allison had gone from smart-alec to guardian in a blink. Cynthia knew that she needed to snap-to just as quickly.<br /><br />“No thank you Allison. But thank you.”<br /><br />Allison spanked Cynthia. There was no other way to say it, for that is what took place. Sometimes it was for maintenance, sometimes for release of stress, and sometimes as discipline in the correct sense of the word. More aligned to training than punishment, Allison helped Cynthia to learn by keeping Cynthia’s mind on the job. Sometimes Cynthia needed tea, sometimes a back rub, sometimes a pat-on-the-back-across-the-lap. It had been the same for Allison when she was an undergraduate. There was nothing sexual about it, and it certainly wasn’t useful for many of the women they studied with, but according to the Psych Prac where they had met Allison and Cynthia knew that just under 20% of female students responded that they benefitted from regular or occasional “physical encouragement”. Following the end of the clinical trials Cynthia and Allison had continued to experiment upon each other, although Cynthia needed more assistance than Allison simply because Allison was further into her course of studies. Allison liked being smacked, but Cynthia needed to be.<br /><br />------------<br /><br />“Alla!”<br />“Are you shrieking for me?”<br />“All-aa!”<br /><br />Allison came running. “What? Do you want me, or have you converted to Islam? I have told you my name is ‘Allison’.”<br /><br />“I just got my essay back. On Piaget.”<br />“And?”<br />“Seventy-five...”<br />“Well done!”<br />“...out of one hundred and fifty. It was marked from 150 because it is worth fifteen percent of our final mark in Dev Psych.”<br />“Not so well done then.”<br />“No. I have asked if I may resubmit, and have been told I may. Will you help me?”<br />“Dearest one I would love to, but I am up to my eyes in Jan Smuts right now, and I know nothing about Peugeot.”<br />“Piaget.”<br />“See! How can I...oh. Oh?”<br />“Oh.”<br /><br />Allison smiled. A kind smile. An ‘I will be delighted to help you smile.’<br /><br />“You always make me scared when you smile like that Allison. It’s almost like you enjoy doing this.”<br /><br />SNAP!<br /><br />“You know that isn’t true Cynthia Dawn. It isn’t true at all. So how shall we do this?”<br />“You’re the boss, but it’s about my essay so...”<br />“Right. Put your essay on the desk, open it to the comment page, and assume the position.”<br /><br />Cynthia did as she was asked. She cleared a space on her desk, first pushing back the keyboard tray of her computer. She laid the essay on the desk and flipped it open to where her lecturer had written his summary comments in pencil. She hated when they did that, used pencil rather than pen. It made the comments so hard to read. From Allison’s command Cynthia knew she would be reading the comments while her friend spanked her. It was just like that scene in ‘Secretary’, although James Spader would have been a much lovelier option.<br /><br />“The writing is in pencil, it’s very feint.”<br />“Then you’ll have to bend over closer to the page won’t you?”<br />“Hmm.”<br /><br />Cynthia undid the button on her slacks and dropped them to her knees. She was wearing tights underneath her trousers as she had been on a field-placement day at the local Infants School and so was in “teacher-dress”. As a teacher though she knew not to wear a dress. Her first day of sitting on the floor to read a story to Reception while the five year olds looked up her skirt had taught her that much. ‘Slacks for school, skirts for meetings’ was her motto.<br /><br />She bent forward, and without awaiting further instruction began to read the comments aloud.<br /><br />WHOOP!<br /><br />It was the paddle. Cynthia liked the paddle. It was made of leather and whilst heavy and loud it didn’t hurt that much. The paddle was more for a reminder than anything else. Cynthia knew that if she had failed her assignment, or if Allison had found it first, then she’d have been receiving the hairbrush, or possibly ‘the bat’ which was a wooden paddle.<br /><br />WHOOP! WHOOP!<br /><br />Cynthia read through the comments twice, punctuated by Allison’s attention. She remained in place while Allison discussed the assignment with her, and various considerations of the lecturer’s comments. When a plan of action for the resubmit was in place, Allison called Cynthia across her knees.<br /><br />SMACK! <br /><br />The hairbrush upon the knickers. This was the ‘discipline’ part. Cynthia had been careless in her essay according to the comments. It had not been a lack of knowledge on her part but a lack of attention to good essay style, and to correct use of footnoting. She had pulled down her own tights and laid herself across Allison’s knees. She liked being across Allison’s knees, but she didn’t like being there having already bent over her desk first.<br /><br />SMACK!<br /><br />“Ow.”<br /><br />---------------<br /><br />“Thanks for seeing me Stevo.” <br />“You know you’re the only one who I allow to call me that.”<br />“Only because you know I would do it anyway.”<br /><br />David Steven was in the final few weeks of writing what he hoped would be the final draft of his doctoral thesis. He had been one of the final year Psychology students who was monitoring the results of the clinical trial where Allison and Cynthia had met, and had remained in contact with the women. In truth he was happy to take some time away from the word processor to have some coffee with Allison, cabin fever had begun to set in and he had been losing concentration.<br /><br />“How are things at home for you Allison? Are you still living in sin?”<br />“Living with Cyn is not the same thing Stevo; you know we don’t share a bed.”<br />“But I notice you share clothes, isn’t that her skirt you are wearing?”<br />“Women do that you know. She is on teaching prac this week and had run out of trousers, so she borrowed a pair of mine.”<br />“So things are good then.”<br />“Yeah. But I am worried about her.”<br /><br />Allison had been concerned about Cynthia for a while. Sometimes when Allison went to talk to Cynthia it was like she wasn’t even there. Just a shadow, a silhouette, and what appeared to be a declaration from her friend that she needed space. Space Allison could handle, she too needed space, but the sense of the silhouette unnerved her.<br /><br />“So are you still...ahem...continuing my research for me?”<br />“We spank each other if that is what you are asking.”<br /><br />David shifted in his chair slightly, and seemed to have something in his pocket that needed attention. Allison smiled at him.<br /><br />“And how is that...ahem...working out?”<br />“Well that’s the thing David, it isn’t. I mean I enjoy going over a knee as much as the next girl, but it seems in this case that the next girl isn’t benefitting from it. Cyn is really struggling right now, I can see that, but I feel as though my attentions aren’t really meeting her need.”<br />“So, what, she needs to be spanked more? More frequently? More forcefully? For a longer time?”<br />“I don’t know.”<br />“How are her marks?”<br />“Fading I think. I don’t know she won’t show me her bum.”<br /><br />David laughed.<br /><br />“No Allison, I mean her results.”<br /><br />Allison blushed and put her hand over her mouth to stifle her own laugh.<br /><br />“Oh. Of course. She is still doing well, but not nearly as well as she should be. She had to resubmit an essay on Piaget.”<br />“Ah. Did you know he did his PhD in snails? He was actually a Biologist.”<br />“That’s very close to fascinating future-Doctor Steven; I can barely contain my indifference.”<br /><br />David smiled.<br /><br />“Oh, sorry. That is what gets me into trouble with Cyn, I can be quite snappish. Sorry. But I am worried about my friend.”<br />“What can I do?”<br />“Are you serious in asking?”<br />“Yes. I like you two girls. You know that. We have been friends for three years now, and I value your...ahem...input...into my ongoing studies. As you know I have continued to keep track with some of the other women and men who participated in that study, and in fact had a long-term project going with several groups.”<br />“How is that?”<br />“Good. It’s good. Three groups of women. One group study as they do. One group is spanked regularly in a ‘maintenance’ set, and one group can ask for spanking ‘as and when’. I am tracking the results by the girls filling in diaries for me, and also with occasional clinical tests for endorphin levels and heart/breathing rate.”<br />“How do you do that?”<br />“The women come in to the lab to be wired up to monitors. Then we get them to sit a ‘spot quiz’ and then immediately afterward some are spanked and some are not. We monitor to see how their heart-rate and so forth is affected. Since the spankings are allocated at random the women don’t know whether they will be spanked or not.”<br />“Is any of that going to be useful for me?”<br />“I hope I could teach you how to spank Cynthia more effectively.”<br />“Couldn’t you just spank her for me?”<br />“That would disrupt your close friendship. I will consider it, but I want you to try first. However, the first thing you must do is stop asking Cynthia to spank you. If you are to help her to see you as a disciplinarian she needs to be...”<br />“Submissive? Ha, have you met Cynthia Redman?”<br />“I was going to say she needs to be comfortable in seeing you in that role. That she also spanks you, even for fun, can be disruptive to her forming the correct associations with your command to her to knuckle down.”<br /><br />SNAP.<br /><br />“I see it. I acknowledge that. Good point.”<br /><br />David smiled. He had been told of Allison’s sudden change in focus and was pleased to have seen it. He would be asking Allison about that at a later time.<br /><br />“Excellent. Now, how about I show you a technique to use with Cynthia.”<br />“Thank you David, that would be helpful. Now, what do I need to do?”<br />“Come here, young lady.”<br />“Ooh!”<br /><br />------------<br /><br />SMACK! SMACK!<br /><br />“Do you see?”<br />“It’s more what I feel right now David.”<br />“But do you...”<br /><br />SMACK!<br /><br />“...get it?”<br /><br />SMACK! SMACK!<br /><br />“Oh I am getting it, don’t you worry.”<br />“That’s...”<br /><br />SMACK!<br /><br />“...my girl.”<br /><br />SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!<br /><br />“Oof. Yes. Oww-wow!”<br />“Enough?”<br /><br />SMACK!<br />“Yes tha...”<br /><br />SMACK! SMACK!<br /><br />“...ha-haaa-ank you Da... ”<br />SMACK! SMACK!<br /><br />“...AAAavid.”<br />“Good. Stand up, and you may rub.”<br />“Ooooh!”<br /><br />Allison regained her feet with some help from David, and immediately went to work upon rubbing her bottom. He had introduced her to several techniques, first by explanation and then by short demonstration. It had taken longer than Allison had hoped, so would not be travelling home on a crowded bus rather than the half-empty ones of an hour before. Not that she minded having to stand up, but she wasn’t looking forward to having her tended backside crushed and jostled by the crowd.<br /><br />“So, you need to speak with her a lot more. Call her ‘girl’, that seems to be effective with many young women. Spend more time with her over your knee and with her outer layer removed but her underwear in place. Don’t be afraid to ask her to ‘bend over something’, it was good what you did with the essay but you should have perhaps used the soft paddle across your knee, for longer, and then the harder one as she was bent over the desk.”<br />“Yes sir.” Allison was still rubbing, sore bottom with one hand, tears with the fist of the other.<br />“And don’t be afraid to put it into perspective with her. Don’t go down the school-girl road with her, but treat her as a trainee teacher who needs to be trained in discipline. Use a ruler on her bottom. Use a cane, or a strap.”<br />“Oh no, she doesn’t like belts.”<br />“Then don’t use a belt. A belt is something men use to hold up their trousers and to beat women. Use a strap, without a buckle, or a Scottish tawse which is a discipline tool. You can think of it as a longer version of your leather paddle. Of course discuss this with her first. How are you?”<br />“Sore. But thank you. I ‘get the idea’, but I think I needed a spanking anyway. If you say that Cynthia shouldn’t be spanking me any more I suppose I should take what I can get.”<br />“I can always connect you with one of the other women in the group if you’d like. Or a man. I do not want to set up a fetish society on campus, but having opened Pandora’s Box for some of you I do feel responsible to you to continue your pastoral care in an ethical manner.”<br /><br />Allison smiled and let her skirt drop back into place.<br /><br />“A fetish society wouldn’t be so bad though. Miss Redman “a brain for school and a bottom for Cyn” has the most amazing nurse’s outfit I have ever seen. Spearmint green, long white stockings, she looks amazing with her long red hair.” <br /><br />David adjusted whatever it was in his pocket.<br /><br />“Oh, and speaking of stockings, I think you laddered my tights with that last flurry from the hairbrush. Either that or I caught a nail while rubbing away that amazing sting.”<br />“Well, I wouldn’t want to have damaged Cynthia’s skirt now, would I?”<br />“No doctor,” winked Allison, “that would be my job. Totsiens!”<br /><br />----------<br /><br />“She really said that?”<br /><br />Cynthia was sitting on the sofa in David Steven’s office at the University. She had completed her observation days at the school and had a week between then and her own teaching experience in the class to write up 1000 words of observations and conclusions. She had taken an hour away from the library to see David in his office.<br /><br />According to David, Allison had been in to see him about her concerns about her, and had had some ‘observation and teaching experience’ of her own. Cynthia had also been feeling that Allison’s efforts to sustain an acceptable rate of achievement in herself had been falling short, and had come to discuss this with David.<br /><br />“Great minds think alike.”<br />“And those of perverts are focussed only ever on the one thing anyway.”<br />“You have read me so well.”<br />“It’s what I do.”<br /><br />Cynthia smiled.<br /><br />“So, are you going to show me what you showed her?”<br />“No, I’ll let her do that.”<br />“Not even a little bit?”<br />“Are you wearing underwear?”<br />“Why, would you like to see my bum?”<br />“I’d rather not. That’s why I am asking.”<br />“Fine. So, are you wearing underwear?”<br />“Yes.”<br />“Tights?”<br />“No.”<br />“Same.”<br /><br />David smiled. <br /><br />“I suppose I could give you a little demonstration then. Come here girl!”<br /><br />---<br /><br />Cynthia loved being over the knee. David wasn’t spanking her hard, and was only using his hand, but it was nice. Following their conversation she had stood up from the sofa and had lowered her trousers while David had pulled an armless chair from beneath a pile of books and set it in the middle of the room.<br /><br />“Would you like one of these journals for the back of your pants?”<br />“That would rather defeat the purpose, don’t you think?”<br />“I don’t know Cynthia, I quite like a challenge.”<br />“Then I challenge you to spank me with the journal.”<br />“Next time.”<br /><br />Cynthia had pouted. David had pulled on her arm and she allowed herself to be taken across his lap. He had scolded her for lowering her trousers, he told her he had intended only to spank her on her fully clothed bottom and that he had a good mind to tell her to pull them back up again. Cynthia was amazed at the feeling of peril in her stomach, and wasn’t certain whether it was the voice of the angry man across whose lap she lay, or the threat that her spanking might be withdrawn.<br /><br />As she regained her posture and rubbed absently at her bottom, she’d not been spanked anywhere near tears, she considered how much she valued the presence of this man. Not that David was any sort of ‘catch’, but she knew that the gift of a male friend who was prepared to pull her trousers down and smack her bottom when her bottom needed to be smacked was not something to be blasé about.<br /><br />Besides, he had called her ‘girl’, and she loved it when people called her that.Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-80559450900360013812010-11-25T03:36:00.001+00:002010-11-25T03:38:31.858+00:00Annie Dream Will DoAnnie was a dreamer. She always had been. Her school reports at the end of each semester usually ran to a prescribed script, “If Annabelle were to apply herself she would see great improvement in her results,” or “Annabelle is often distracted by her own thoughts”. Her English Composition teacher thought she had struck gold when Annie entered her class at the beginning of the year; such an imagination was bound to produce a world of literary excellence. That gold soon dimmed, tarnished, and finally rusted down to powder as Annie continued to dream dreams and see visions, but neglected to put them on to the page. It seemed that there was no motivation, only meditation going on in this girl’s life.<br /><br />Then BAM! Out of nowhere the tap was opened. Essays, accounts, recounts, narratives in the first, second, and third person, an amusing take in blank verse on “Humpty Dumpty” from the point of view of the Wall, and all with illustrations to match. Annie was an artist.<br /><br />---<br /><br />Annie was an artist, and like all artists Annie was alone. Sometimes lonely, sometimes solitary, always alone. Today was one of the days when she was happy to be by herself, but as ever in the senior dormitory at Willows House, the boarding house for St Cecily School for Girls, solitude was impossible to maintain.<br /><br />« Ciao Anna, cosa stai facendo? »<br />“Oh hi Rina, just a bit of homework.”<br /><br />Rina Coliardi was one of Annie’s two best friends, and had the bed two down from hers in the eight bed ward. Rina had recently turned sixteen and had been sent to St Cecily on a year’s exchange from her school in Florence.<br /><br />« Quale soggetto studi? »<br />“English, as you should be.”<br />« Scusa, mi dispiace. »<br />“Then I have some Geography to complete for Miss Seine.”<br />« Ah, quello è amore. »<br />« Rina! Deve davvero parlare inglese. »<br />“Brava! Again I am sorry.”<br />« La prossima volta sarà colpito è sul fondo!»<br />“Then I shall speak English only, thank you for one last chance.”<br /><br />Annie enjoyed the company of Rina, even if she did find her a bit chatty. Rina had left the room again and Annie was left with her thoughts. Quello è amore, “the one that you love”. Was her crush on Miss Seine so obvious? There truly were no secrets in a dormitory, but there was confidentiality. Even if Rina did know, she would tell no-one. Annie opened the folder that she had closed when Rina had startled her, and returned to her note:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dearest sweetest Miss Seine<br />I like the skirt you are wearing today and the ribbon in your hair.<br />I love your hair and want to have hair just like yours.<br />I hate being pumpkin coloured,<br />I want to be dark and lovely,<br />Like you,<br />The almost All-Black Beauty.<br />Your Pumpkin xx</span><br /><br />Annie winced. She had never been so personal in giving away her hair colour in these anonymous notes. What if Miss Seine discovered who she was?<br /><br />---<br /><br />Ella Seine’s heels clipped on the floor as she walked the short corridor between her classroom and the staff study lounge. Her twenty-second birthday had fallen on the previous Thursday and she had finally got around to collecting the small pile of cards that her girls had left for her. They had all been sweet and loving, profuse with little exes under their names, (and hers), and the posies of flowers from the Monsignor’s garden had made her happy, even if the groundskeeper was less impressed by the holes in his display.<br /><br />One card however, more a letter than a card as it had been composed on orange-scented paper, had startled her a bit. She decided to show it to her school-appointed buddy, her senior colleague in geography, Ms Spark.<br /><br />“Muriel, may I speak with you for a moment?”<br />“Of course Ella. You look flustered, is all good with you?”<br />“Yes. I have been walking and I am gagging for a hot wet one.”<br /><br />Muriel wagged her finger playfully.<br /><br />“We’ll have none of that double entendre here Miss Seine. A young woman with a French name should not display such obviously New Zealander manners.”<br />“Bah, they sank The Rainbow Warrior. Sorry. Yes I am fine but I would like some tea.”<br />“What did you want to speak with me about?”<br /><br />Ella showed her the letter.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Darling Miss Seine.<br />Happy Birthday Miss,<br />I hope it will be a beautiful day,<br />Because you are a beautiful woman,<br />And a beautiful person.<br />I trust you with my life.<br />With all the love of my<br />Heart.<br />Your loving and devoted Pumpkin.<br />xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx</span><br /><br />“Are you concerned by this Ella?”<br />“Confused is a better word Muriel. Is this not inappropriate?”<br />“It’s a simple teacher crush my girl. I’m sure you had them when you were a child.”<br />“Of course, but I never wrote love letters to the mistresses.”<br />“Bah, a crush girl. A woman as beautiful and as friendly as you should not be unaware of her effect upon her students.”<br /><br />So long as that is all it is, thought Ella.<br /><br />-----------<br /><br />The letters from Pumpkin had continued to arrive. Sometimes they were slotted into her mark book on her desk during lessons, but not always the same lesson or the same year level, so there no clues there. Sometimes they arrived on her desk via internal mail, or were left in her pigeon hole in the staff lounge. Several came via her homework box where the girls could submit assignments as they were completed. These at least were date/time stamped. One arrived by post neatly addressed to her in an envelope “Miss Ella Seine, Dept. of Humanities, St Cecily School For Girls, Lower Bothering, Herts. SG27 0TK”. The postmark showed it had been sent the previous Saturday from Southend-on-Sea. None of the girls were from Southend, it was too far for the day girls to travel in, and the boarders had all been at Willows or Burrows.<br /><br />It was a puzzle to Ella, but more of an enigma than a mystery. The letters were all sweet, flattering and confidential rather than erotic or dark, but it was still unsettling for her. She had shown several of the letters to Muriel Spark, but the older woman continued to pooh-pooh them as a “crush”.<br /><br />---<br /><br />Lower Ten was, despite its name, a group of very intelligent girls. It was Ella’s favourite group, smart and studious yet not so stressed as her A-Level girls were. Ella was early to class that day and set her desk up before quickly dashing across to the adjacent faculty room for a glass of water. When she returned, a pink slip of paper lay folded on her mark book. Ella noted that it had been carefully lined up so as to underline the box where she had written her name on the cover.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">E is for elegant<br />L is for lovely<br />L is for lovely, (you are twice lovely)<br />A is for athletic, (I saw you coaching netball)<br /><br />S is for smile, yours is beautiful<br />E is for extravagant, the gifts I want to bring you<br />I is for intelligent, as you most certainly are<br />N is for night-time, when I have you alone in my thoughts.<br />E is for erotic, those night-time thoughts.</span><br /><br />Ella quickly filed the letter into the back of the book, deciding to keep it to herself. <br /><br />The next morning Lower Ten produced another of the pink notes, with identical placement on the cover of her mark book.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">P is for pretty, which I lack in abundance.<br />U is for ugly, which you lack in abundance.<br />M is for mother, and mountains, and MILF<br />P is for puella, the Latin for girl.<br />K is for kiwi, my second favourite bird from New Zealand.<br />I is for me, that is I. I love you Miss Seine.<br />N is for never, because I know you will never love me as I love you.</span><br /><br />Beneath the poem was a sketch of a butterfly, whose each wing bore the name “Ella”. It sat on a jack-o-lantern whose human tongue was reaching out of its ugly mouth toward the butterfly.<br /><br />---<br /><br />In the front row of Lower Ten sat Annie, Rina, and their third musketeer Julie Carpenter. Annie liked to sit near the front; she said it was so that she was away from the trouble-making and attention seeking girls nearer the back. Rina sat near the front so as to be close to help with her English. Julie sat with Rina. Annie pretended to read her text book and peered over the top of it, watching Ella casually fingering the pink note. She had seen the teacher’s blush as she had read it, and the widening of her eyes when presumably she’d reached “MILF”. Annie knew she could never confess her love openly, but she knew that the casual notes were not enough to sate her feelings any longer. The drawing had been a boon for her, Annie was thrilled by the feelings she gained when that lusting tongue had come from her pencil. Annie liked that something she had produced had affected the emotions of Miss Seine; she only hoped it wasn’t going to end in tears.<br /><br />---<br /><br />“Deidre! Oh Dee I have missed you so. How are mummy and daddy? Is Setanta behaving himself?” Annie had been allowed to phone her parents and her younger sister had answered the phone. Annie loved her family, and whilst she was proud to be away from home and at St Cecily School she missed them all terribly. “Oh really? He’s a naughty doggie, a naughty NAUGHTY doggie. You tell him what a bad boy he is. But give him a snuggle-cuddle for me.” Annie smiled; Setanta had been into the neighbour’s yard and had left a big pile of his messiness right next to one of the old lady’s wellington boots. “Yes I am having a lovely time at school and I have made loads of friends”, Annie lied, “and the teachers are mostly nice. Oh it is a shame mummy and daddy are out, but you must give them my love! And you must have some for yourself Dreary.” Annie chuckled, “yes of course I remembered, oh ‘Fanny-smell’ is it? I see you also remembered. Okay sweetie pie, my love to all!!”<br /><br />“Sweetie pie? What will Mademoiselle River-in-Paris say to know that you have been cheating on her?” Julie had snuck up behind Annie and was jabbing her in the kidneys in a failed attempt at a tickle.<br />“Mind your business Missus Sprays-duco.”<br />“Hey! I’m Carpenter, not Car Painter!” Julie feigned distress.<br />“It was my sister if you must know.”<br />“Big or little.”<br />“Little. I am the biggest. I wish I had a big sister.”<br />“You could always ask Miss Insane.”<br /><br />Annie walked off, fuming.<br /><br />-------------<br /><br />Annie sat at her desk, drawing absently. She hadn’t really thought about it, she was just downloading her anger into scribble. Julie Carpenter could be such a bitch at times, but such a love at others. “Girls,” she said, “ha! Who needs ‘em?” Annie smiled, tore off the scribble, and began to work on something more defined.<br /><br />---<br /><br />“Ella I understand your concern, this is getting beyond what we might have thought acceptable.”<br /><br />Ella was sitting in the Head Master’s office with the man himself, Fr Peter.<br /><br />“Thank you Father. As a first-year teacher I wasn’t sure where ‘the line’ was, but I was pretty sure this last letter had crossed it.”<br />“And you have no idea who this girl is?”<br />“As I say, Lower Ten is where the last two notes came from, but there have been others.”<br />“Others?”<br /><br />Ella reached into her bag and handed the pile across to Fr Peter.<br /><br />“Southend is on the coast of Essex. We have no girls from Essex, it is in a different archdeaconate.”<br />“Yes, but look at the date. The week before then a team of girls from St Veronica’s at<br />Leigh-on-Sea had come to us for the hockey tourney. One of our girls may have confided in a friend and had her post the letter upon her return.”<br />“Your beloved is certainly resourceful Miss Seine.”<br />“With all due respect Father, I may be her beloved, but she is not mine.”<br />“Granted. In view of the language in these last three letters, and the limerick you found chalked upon the board in your homeroom, I shall take a very serious view of this. You are sure you have no idea whom?”<br />“No sir. As I say circumstantial evidence points toward a hockey-playing red-head in Lower Ten, but there is not enough evidence to prosecute on that basis.”<br /><br />Fr Peter smiled.<br /><br />“I suggest you go therefore and have a quiet word with Annabelle O’Reilly. If not her then we can keep an eye out. If her, well she needs to come to see my carpet.”<br />“Sir?”<br />“Miss Seine even if you are not seeking vengeance, and are prepared to demonstrate understanding of this schoolgirl-crush, you have been harassed in a sexual manner and that is not condoned here at all.”<br />“Of course Father, I understand. Thank you for seeing me sir.”<br /><br />---<br /><br />Annie had completed her drawing, but was still working through her scruples. Did she dare send this one to Miss Seine? It was well drawn, and she was proud of it, but even Annie knew that the line had been crossed with this one. Were this scene ever to eventuate in real life Miss Seine would have been summarily dismissed, and probably charged by the police. Should even the picture appear the same consequences might have applied. No, this one must remain for Annie alone.<br /><br />---<br /><br />Ella stopped at Annabelle’s door. She hadn’t really thought of this bright girl as being “Pumpkin”, indeed the identity of her admirer was rather flattering considering how talented and intelligent Annie was. But still, the girl was fifteen and the line had been crossed. Ella only hoped that the episode would not have to end with Annie bending over in Fr Peter’s study to “look at the carpet”.<br /><br />---<br /><br />Annie heard the clack of heels stop outside the door, and presuming it was Rina she decided to not put the drawing away just yet. Rina of course had known that Annie had this crush; quello è amore and all that. She hoped that her Italian friend would also enjoy the drawing skills. She pulled the drawing out of her file and placed it on her desk. Then she went to sit on her bed, and called a cheery “it’s open” to the polite knock at the door.<br /><br />---<br /><br />The first thing Ella saw as she entered the room almost dropped her to the floor. There on the desk in 6B pencil was an image of herself naked to the waist. From both ends. At the feet of her figure knelt the likeness of Annabelle O’Reilly, also nude. Annie’s figure had one hand on Ella’s thigh, and the other between her legs. One of Ella’s own hands was matted with Annie’s hair, the other cupping a breast. <br /><br />It was an extraordinary drawing, almost beautiful.<br /><br />« Figlio di puttana. Merda! »<br /><br />Ella turned just as Annie threw her hands up in front of her face.<br /><br />“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”<br />“Annabelle I...you drew this?”<br />“Yes Miss.”<br />“And the notes I have been...”<br />“Mine also Miss.”<br /><br />Both fought to regain their composure. Ella won.<br /><br />“This is a remarkable drawing Annie, and your poetry too. And I can say I am flattered, but...”<br />“I know Miss.”<br />“What can we do about it?”<br /><br />Annie had begun to cry.<br /><br />“You know that such things are unacceptable in our school. And I was quite perturbed by the clandestine attention.”<br />“I like you Miss. I meant no harm, I just...I just really like you.”<br />“I see that Annie, and I know it. But still...”<br />“You must tell the Headmaster. Oh, shall I be sent away?”<br />“Yes and no. It is true that the Father must know, as I have spoken to him of my unease at these letters. But no, you shall not be sent away.”<br />“But how then shall I be punished?”<br />“You’ll most likely be caned.”<br /><br />Annie burst into tears.<br /><br />“As I understand it the cane is used for girls above the ninth grade, but that you will be allowed to leave your skirt and underwear in place.”<br /><br />Annie gasped, she had presumed the caning would have crossed her palms.<br /><br />“And it’s four strokes since you are in the old fourth form.”<br />“Oh Miss, please. Please? Is there nothing else?”<br />“I’m afraid not Annie. For the letters themselves and the love I would have interceded for you, but the last poems, and now this,” Ella lifted the cartoon, “this I cannot overlook. I forgive your lack of awareness, but still you must learn what is acceptable and what is not.”<br /><br />Annie took a deep breath, and nodded.<br /><br />“Miss, couldn’t you punish me?”<br />“What do you mean?”<br />“You could smack me.”<br />“Annie I have no authority to cane, you know that.”<br />“No Miss, I mean yes Miss; I know Miss. But as a boarding house mistress you can spank can’t you?”<br />“Only the smaller girls Annie. A single, sharp smack on a covered bottom for the little girls if they are cheeky toward me. You are in tenth grade, and this is a school matter, not a Willows matter.”<br /><br />Besides which, thought Ella, by the looks of your drawing my spanking you would only encourage you!<br /><br />“Please Miss, it’s the cane. Couldn’t you just smack me with a hairbrush or one of my gym shoes? On my knickers perhaps?”<br />“If I do this Annabelle, the notes and drawings must stop. I am flattered by your attention, but your affection has become uncomfortable for me. I am delighted that you like me, and pleased that you love me, but the lust...um eww!<br /><br />Annie laughed.<br /><br />“I can handle that Miss. So will you? Will you smack me yourself?”<br /><br />Ella smiled. “Find me one of your dance slippers, and then come here.”<br /><br />---<br /><br />“Thank you for seeing me Father. I did have a word with Annabelle. It seems she was unaware of any inappropriate activity.”<br />“She was unaware of the activity, or unaware that it was inappropriate?”<br /><br />Ella smiled.<br /><br />“We found the heart of truth, and it does not require you showing her your carpet.”<br />“I am so pleased Miss Seine, I find that a very unpleasant task. For your part I am certain that you would have handled the discussion with a large amount of resolved tact. Incidentally, how did you get to the heart of the truth?” <br />“I began at the seat of the girl and pursued an appropriate course from there.”<br />“Splendid.”Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-12211868067485831722010-11-25T03:32:00.000+00:002010-11-25T03:35:52.277+00:00Two UpANZAC. Australia and New Zealand Army Corps. These words are sacred in the Antipodes, and the men they recall are legend. Every 25th of April since 1916 the men and women of New Zealand and Australia have stopped to remember all who have fallen in wars fought by these two nations.<br /><br />The year 2010 marked the ninety-fifth anniversary of the dawn landings of the A.N.Z.A.C. armies at Gellibolu in Turkey, and the ninety-fourth celebration of the event on “Anzac Day”. Thousands gathered before dawn to recite Binyon’s Ode, to sing the protection of “Those in Peril on the Sea”, the proclamation and advance of Australia Fair and to intercede for divine defence of Pacific’s Triple Star, Aotearoa. Parades of returned servicemen and servicewomen, current servicemen and servicewomen, former and current members of the Red Cross, along with the State Emergency Services, the Police, regimental and city bands and the Scouts and Guides marched proudly through two national capital cities, six state capital cities, one territory capital city, and regional cities, towns and hamlets across the lands down under.<br /><br />Following the dawn services, the marches, and the church parades, (for Anzac fell on a Sunday that year), the men and women of Australasia retired to the rooms of the local Returned and Services Association or Returned and Services League to enjoy some amber refreshment, a game or two of two-up, and to bullshit on about how brave they used to be.<br /><br />Sacred space. Sacred place. Sacred day. Sacred ways.<br /><br />We will remember them.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Rebecca and Allison enjoyed the day. Both were proud grand-daughters and great-grand-daughters of soldier veterans, and besides which Anzac was a public holiday. That Anzac had fallen on a Sunday meant that Monday would be taken in lieu: a long weekend. Ripper!<br /><br />“Bex, fancy a beer with the diggers?”<br />“I’m more of a wine girl.”<br />“Should be okay mate, both world wars happened in France.”<br />“Then you’re on.”<br /><br />Rebecca and Allison found their local RSL rather musty, with its flags from various nations, wars, and campaigns around the wall, and the pennants of servicemen’s leagues with which this branch had exchanged pleasantries. Allison could not help noticing that while there were banners from every state and territory of Australia, and many from the United States, Europe and United Kingdom, there was not one banner from a New Zealand RSA. <br /><br />“Typical!”<br />“Huh?”<br />“There’s no banners from Kiwi RSLs. Have you’se mob forgotten the N-Z in Anzac?”<br />“It’s New Zealand wine.”<br />Allison smiled.<br /><br />The girls walked across to where some of the diggers were playing a game of “two up”. This is a simple betting game where two coins are tossed up on a paddle, the idea is to pick whether the coins will land as “Odds” (one tail one head) or “Evens” (two of the same). Occasionally the game will be for “Heads” (two of) or “Tails (two of), with “Odds” indicating a win for the “spinner” or the man operating the paddle. This game is legal only on Anzac Day, and only within a recognised club or pub.<br /><br />“Wanna play?”<br />“Nah, let the diggers go for it. It’s their day.”<br />“Just the two of us, we could bet between the two of us.”<br />“What’s the bet?”<br />“Winner gets one on her head, loser gets one on her tail.”<br />“Huh?”<br />Allison smiled.<br />“Simple Bex, you call Odds or Evens on the next throw and I’ll be the other one. If you win, you get a kiss and I get a smack. If I win, it’s the other way around. Next spin I get to call.”<br />This time it was Rebecca who smiled, she had forgotten that Allison enjoyed the occasional spanking.<br />“I like it a lot. But when do we have to pay up?”<br />Allison thought about it.<br />“We will play for twelve throws, a neat dozen. When that is done we will find a place to be alone and do the deal there.”<br />“Agreed.”<br /><br />The girls shook hands.<br /><br />---------------<br /><br />After twelve throws the result had fallen with four smacks to Allison and eight to Rebecca. The girls quickly finished their drinks and left the meeting room to transact their business in confidence. A quick scan of an empty corridor led them past the toilets to a smaller meeting room which appeared to be set up for a committee. In the corner was an old Apple Macintosh computer, and some paper and pens. Next to the red pen lay a 45 cm ruler.<br /><br />“I have the most smacks, so I get to go first.”<br />“Go where Bex, up or down?”<br />“Down. That way when you are over my knee I will be sitting on a sore bottom.”<br />“Yeah, but if I smack you hard then you can get revenge!”<br />“Allison, if you DON’T smack me hard I will get revenge. Now you sit here,” Rebecca had pulled a chair out from the table, “and you’ll be needing this.”<br /><br />Allison took her seat, and her weapon, and smiled up at Rebecca.<br /><br />“Skirts and undies?”<br />“Skirt up, undies up too since we’re not entirely private.”<br />“No worries, good plan. Right then Miss Rebecca, bend over young lady.”<br /><br />Rebecca giggled, but did as she was told.<br /><br />“Just a tic while I flick your skirt back.”<br />“Ta, it’s lucky it was a bit cold today.”<br />“Why’s that?”<br />“I’m wearing my warmest opaque tights.”<br />“Do you think that...”<br />WHACK!<br />“...will help much?”<br />WHACK!<br />“Oooh. Maybe no...”<br />WHACK!<br />“...ahh...not.”<br />WHACK!<br />“So are you...”<br />WHACK!<br />“...having fun yet?”<br />WHACK! WHACK!<br />“Spirit of th...”<br />WHACK!<br />“...eeeee, yah, Anzacs.”<br />“Get up, s’my go now.”<br /><br />Rebecca stood and let her skirt flop down over her hands as she massaged her bottom.<br /><br />“Geeze Louise!”<br />“I’d rather ‘awesome Alli’ if you don’t mind.”<br />“You’ll be ‘ouchie Alli’ in a minute my girl.”<br />“Promises, promises. First you owe me eight kisses.”<br />“And you’ll owe me four. Pucker up butter-cup.”<br /><br />“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU UP TOO!”<br /><br />Allison and Rebecca jumped apart at the sound of the roar. In the doorway was an old man in a faded beret and a set of medals across his tweed jacket pocket. Rebecca knew the man as one of her neighbours, and knew that he knew her parents.<br /><br />“We were just...”<br />“...looking for a bloody good hiding is what you were. How dare you?”<br /><br />Allison went to speak but was cut off.<br /><br />“I don’t give tuppence ha’penny for your explanations girlie. As for you Rebecca, I am extremely disappointed. This room is off limits to you, and is certainly off limits to that filthy kissing between ladies rubbish. Ha, ladies? Ladies of the STREET I bloody well think.”<br />“We are sorry Mister...”<br />“...don’t you bloody well ‘Mister’ me Rebecca. You'll address me as sir.”<br />“Yes sir. We are sorry, we were only playing.”<br />“Yes well you are too old to be playing such games. If you were small girls I could imagine this is acceptable, but not for young...ladies? Not for grown women. Well you will be sorry, mark my words. Follow me, the pair of you!”<br /><br />The man marched out.<br /><br />Allison giggled, Rebecca paled.<br /><br />“Man, I didn’t get my smacks Bex. Unfair Koala bear.”<br />“Shut up Al, I think you’re about to get more than enough. And I am going to get more than you.”<br /><br />The girls followed the man back into the main gathering.<br /><br />-----------<br /><br />By the time Allison and Rebecca had returned to the room the angry man had cleared a space near the bar. Two bar stools stood prominently in the centre of the circle where the two up game had previously taken place. Rebecca could see that the crowd included many familiar faces, not all of them war veterans. She saw several of the women and men she worked with, people of her own age. Even the work-experience boy was there; Rebecca hadn’t thought he was old enough to be in the club until she remembered it was Anzac Day and a special occasion. The boy’s parents stood behind him: he was there with his mum. A boy, a work experience boy from year 10 who had to be chaperoned by his mum was about to see her punished. Punished publically.<br /><br />“There’s no need for pleasantries girlies, everyone knows what you were doing and that you are about to get a bloody good hiding for it. Come here!” <br /><br />The man was quite bossy, but then he was an ex-serviceman and an old one at that, so Rebecca thought that bossiness probably came with the territory.<br /><br />“Both of you!”<br /><br />Rebecca saw that Allison had already started to walk across to the stools, so she gave a little trot and caught up with her friend in time to stop.<br /><br />“Filth! Have you anything to say?”<br /><br />The girls looked at each other, but said nothing.<br /><br />“Right then, up and over!”<br /><br />Allison moved toward the right hand stool, took a step up on the footrest, and lay herself over the seat. She adjusted her position with her hands and then swung her legs out to maintain her balance. Rebecca noted the position and did the same.<br /><br />“Your little wager was overheard Rebecca,” began the man, “so your secret is out. All bets need to be cleared in this room. Therefore you will both receive a neat dozen from the spinner.”<br /><br />Rebecca gulped. Twelve hard smacks with the two-up paddle on top of the eight she had already taken from Allison.<br /><br />“Furthermore, since you were in a place you should not have been, namely the committee room, and using things which you should not have been, namely the office stationery, you can have another neat dozen from my belt.”<br /><br />Allison looked across to Rebecca, but Rebecca’s head was down. How humiliating, two dozen whacks in front of a room full of people, including the boy with his mum and the girls she worked with. Tuesday’s return to work after the public holiday would be embarrassing to say the least.<br /><br />“Six to start. Come in spinner!”<br />WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!<br /><br />Slow and deliberate, with force, the smacks came. Rebecca was confused as to why she hadn’t felt anything until she heard Allison gasp. She was next.<br /><br />WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!<br /><br />Without missing a beat the spinner had finished off a sobbing Allison and started his work on Rebecca. That first smack connected with some of the area covered by Allison in the committee room and Rebecca too let out a gasp.<br /><br />WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!<br /><br />“Stand up, both of you! Lift your skirts and drop your stockings!”<br /><br />Without arguing, or even pausing to think about it, both girls did as they were told.<br /><br />“Bend back over! It’s a dose of the strap for you.”<br /><br />Rebecca paused, hadn’t they been threatened with...<br /><br />“Ah, no. Six more each. Spinner?”<br /><br />WHACK!<br /><br />This time Rebecca had been first, and five more followed that surprise smack across her pantied bottom. She heard the six extra smacks and the sobs that accompanied the second stage of Allison’s discipline.<br /><br />“Now the strap. But first, let’s have those undies down.”<br /><br />Again the girls obeyed, and resumed their places.<br /><br />Rebecca though she felt her stool turn as she bent back over it. She looked down along her body and could see a thin gap of flesh between the base of the stool and the top of her pushed down tights. She saw a scuff on the toe of one of her shoes.<br /><br />She also saw the boy. Rebecca shot her head back and went to look across her left shoulder when...<br /><br />CRACK!<br /><br />...the first of twelve fierce lashes burnt her naked and exposed backside. Naked and exposed, for not only were her panties around her mid-thigh and her tights around her knees, but her stool had been swivelled 180 degrees so that her bottom was now facing the group of onlookers rather than the bar. She was left in that position while Allison was similarly displayed and flogged, and then the stools were swivelled again until the crowd could only see the top of her head.<br /><br />“Get up! Pull yourselves together and leave. The pair of you.”<br /><br />Rebecca stood and saw that the boy was looking right at her. He smiled.<br />“Nice stripes there Bex, I’ve not seen so much red on white since the last North Adelaide Roosters game!”<br />“Or black and blue since Port Power spanked Carlton at the ‘G yesterday,” chimed in one of the men from her work.<br /><br />Rebecca checked to see that Allison was dressed, then grabbed her hand and bustled out of the club.Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-42990584116930246382010-11-25T03:27:00.002+00:002010-11-25T03:32:26.436+00:00TSB“A noise the deaf could not ignore!”<br />“Pardon?”<br />“Exactly. Stop all the banging.”<br />“Sorry.”<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">But not half as sorry as I will be</span>, thought Elle as she rummaged through the desk drawer in the corridor. Once again she had misplaced an account, then the yellow letter and finally the pink letter had come. Elle had always managed to get around this by finding the original account and taking it in to the bank: white paper always arouses less suspicion, and the less pink seen the better.<br /><br />“Elle? Elle all has gone quiet. Is it okay with you?”<br />“Yes, yes you asked for quiet. I am an obedient girlfriend.”<br />“Ha! Not likely.”<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Actually I am obedient, but negligent. Is negligence disobedience?</span> When it comes to matters of the purse, and of the interest upon interest accrued by late fees. How did it go? <span style="font-style:italic;">Spending leads to bending</span>. Elle knew she was certainly banking on a spanking if she couldn’t find the account to take with her.<br /><br />“Elle?”<br />“It is good. Go back to your croquet.”<br />“Cricket! Twenty-twenty cricket.”<br />“Whatever it is; bats and pyjamas.”<br />“It’s being telecast from Brisbane, it is evening there.”<br /><br />Elle smiled to herself. Bats and pyjamas, that sounds like something you’d find at a high school slumber party. <br /><br />“Elle! Late.”<br /><br />Elle was shaken from the beginnings of a fantasy by the reminder. She was late, for work and for the bank, or at least she would be if she didn’t leave immediately. That evening would see the bats but not so much of the pyjamas if she didn’t get a wriggle on.<br /><br />---<br /><br />Elle worked in the city, and the regional headquarters of the bank she banked with was directly across the road. The account had been set up with the branch on the ground floor by her employer, so this was the account that her bills came out of and her pay went in to. She hadn’t time to bank before having to be at her desk, so went across in her lunch hour.<br /><br />The queue reached to Spain.<br /><br />Lucky queuing is our national pastime, she thought to herself with a smile. America has baseball, the Commonwealth countries have bats and pyjamas, but we could queue for gold. <br /><br />Elle had hoped to write up the deposit form while standing in the queue, but as with most banks that we trust with our money but they don’t trust with their stationery, the pens were chained to the counters. She missed five places while quickly scribbling in the necessary digits, the third place taken by an old woman with what looked like a bag of doubloons.<br /><br />“Pieces of eight I shouldn’t say”, joked the man who joined the queue behind her.<br />“I’d rather they were pieces of sixteen, and then they’d count in half the time.”<br />“So, do you think TSB stands for ‘The Sailors’ Bank’?”<br />“No it’s ‘Trusts, Savings and Bonds’...oh, I see. Yes. Yes, perhaps you get better service if you are a scurvy dog. High rates for pirates.”<br /><br />The queue moved forward and the woman with the bag moved to a window to be served.<br /><br />“She’s at the window now. Oh good, they’ve put her loot into one of those counting machines. Your money or your life old woman?”<br />“Take my life; I might need the money when I’m older.”<br />“Arr!”<br /><br />Elle had to be flagged twice before she saw she was to move across to a window, she had been too busy wiping the giggling from her eyes.<br /><br />The teller greeted Elle, then took the form from her and began to type in the numbers. She looked up, looked at Elle, looked back at the screen, and then excused herself. She returned with a man who introduced himself with some posh sort of banker’s name, and was invited to join him in a side office.<br /><br />---<br /><br />“Okay. Okay Miss...”<br />“Just call me Elle.”<br />“Elle. Elle there seems to be an issue with your account. You are overdrawn and also late with two payments.” <br /><br />The posh banker turned a computer screen around to show Elle. She wasn’t sure what she was seeing, but the fact that the last set of digits was suffixed with “DR” told her all she needed to know.<br /><br />“That’s correct, but that is why I have come in this afternoon. I wish to pay the outstanding late payments.”<br />“Right. And the penalty rates?”<br />“Oh, if there are any. I had presumed there would be some sort of fee.”<br />“There are no fees Elle, but there are rates.”<br />“So, what, a percentage? Balance plus 1%, something like that?”<br /><br />Posh banker sat back in his chair.<br /><br />“Do you know what sets TSB apart from the other banks Elle?”<br />“Not really. I bank here because I work at Jamieson’s across the road; they set the account up for me.<br />“But you’ve read our terms and guidelines? Every new client gets sent a booklet of terms and guidelines.”<br /><br />'As if I’ve read it. No-one reads that!'<br /><br />“I...glanced?”<br />“You should have read.”<br />“So what sets TSB apart from all the other banks? Is it your snazzy red uniforms?”<br />“No.”<br />“An almost fanatical devotion to the Pope?”<br />“We are a bank, Elle, not the Spanish Inquisition.”<br />“But you do have comfy chairs.”<br />“But our founders were Jewish.”<br />“Ah. No pope then.”<br /><br />Just pirates. Arr!<br /><br />“Quite simply Elle we know that clients of a bank can get themselves into difficulties at times. Adding fees and charges onto an overdue account helps no-one. We don’t get our money any faster, and you begin to dislike us. So we don’t do that. Once the fees get to a certain level we freeze them. Your fees have been frozen.”<br />“Thank you, but you spoke of rates before.”<br />“Correct. The simple situation is we want you to be able to repay your overdraft. You seem unable to do so, despite our financial counselling service and our free budgeting workshops. Therefore we have provided a compulsory fee-buy-back service on all of our products, and have done so since 1798.”<br />“The year?”<br />“1798, the day we opened the doors of our Cheapside trading house for the first time.”<br />“Okay.”<br />“So, as I have said this is a compulsory fee buy-back. You will pay me today the full amount of your outstanding payments, minus all fees and charges on your account. We negotiate a loan to transfer your overdraft to a lower rate of interest repayment, and restore your everyday account to a zero balance, which will be the fixed floor. You will not be able to access credit or debt.”<br />“And this is compulsory?”<br />“It will stop you getting into further trouble.”<br /><br />'Into further trouble? Or further into trouble?'<br /><br />“Sounds good.”<br />“This was detailed in our terms and guidelines pamphlet.”<br />“I must have missed that part.”<br />“You must.”<br />“Incidentally, I was having a discussion with a man in the queue while I was waiting for you. What does TSB actually stand for?”<br /><br />Posh banker smiled.<br /><br />“This is the next part of our conversation Elle. TSB is Tintangel Spanking Bank. Tintangel was the surname taken by our founder, a huge fan of the Arthuriad legends. You will be aware of the other two words.”<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Click!</span> It all fell into place for Elle.<br /><br />“Rates. You have run out of patience getting your money out of me, so now you are going to beat it out of me?”<br />“When we were bankers for the agrarian poor, and those who followed the industrial revolution to the cities in the eighteenth century, a beating was not uncommon for defaulters. At least TSB offered this service in a safe and civilised environment, and not at the end of a thug’s club in the dead of night.”<br />“And I have to do this?”<br />“Yes, it was...”<br />“...mentioned in the terms and conditions.”<br />Elle was left in the little office while the posh banker went to find the necessary people to assist her with her transaction. He had already handled the financial side, stamping her account remittance and receiving a matching set of banknotes.<br /><br />Elle was introduced to two people in smart uniforms. Brendon looked like he could scrum for the Springboks, although his accent was definitely European. The sleeveless red jumper over a pale grey long-sleeved shirt seemed to highlight the potential energy throbbing in his biceps. Melissa, the teller from before, was smaller, but still looked like she was up to the job of smacking a naughty girl's bottom with intent. Elle was sure that the red cardigan hid a set of guns that could provide shock and awe to any target, and if the pale grey nylon encased calves were anything to go by Elle was sure that Melissa had the thighs to chase down and tackle any prey foolish enough to run. Even in a skirt and ¾ inch heels the teller looked game.<br /><br />“Elle, here is where you do have a choice. Historically the option available to you because of your debt is limited to the whip. In our age we employ a leather paddle which will be wielded with you across the knee of your caseworker.”<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Caseworker?</span><br /><br />“Allowing for your being female you may chose to have Brendon spank you upon your underwear, with Melissa acting as chaperone. You may otherwise choose for Melissa to spank you in private, but that would be upon bare flesh. The number of lashes is the same, as that is proportional to your balance owed. This is a ‘rate’ after all.”<br /><br />Elle considered her options. The man would surely hit harder, but the woman would ask her to be naked. Even if it was just the two of them Elle didn’t think she could show her naked bottom to a stranger, even another female.<br /><br />“Umm. Are we doing this now?”<br />“Yes.”<br />“Umm, then I choose the gentleman please.”<br /><br />Melissa scoffed. “He’s not so gentle, ma’am. But I’d have picked him too.” She moved across to the door of the office, closing it behind the back of the departing posh banker, and then stood with her own back to it. Elle noticed a small ladder forming on Melissa’s left foot where a peep of toe cleavage showed a healthy tan through the grey nylon.<br /><br />“Thank you Elle”, began Brendon, “let’s get this done then and allow you to get back to work.”<br /><br />Elle shot a glance toward the clock and saw that she had seventeen minutes of her hour left. She’d not even had lunch.<br /><br />Brendon sat in posh banker’s chair and indicated that Elle should approach him. As she arrived he lifted a long leather paddle off the desk and showed it to her.<br /><br />“It’s more of a strap than a paddle, but it has a handle.” He glanced across at the posh banker’s computer screen and clicked the mouse twice. “According to our calculations, and considering your repayment of monies this afternoon, you are due twenty-four lashes. Are you ready?”<br /><br />Elle was unable to speak. Twenty-four, (24), spanks with a leather paddle, across this man’s knees. She managed to nod.<br /><br />“Then please unbuckle your trousers and lower them to your knees. Your rate shall be applied to the underwear, but outerwear must be removed. We want you to be able to restore yourself to a clothed state with your outerwear undamaged when you leave.”<br /><br />Elle considered this news, and wondered whether it was worth the extra layers of clothing. Bare with the woman or barely-there with the man? No, nakedness is still nakedness; Brendon would have to do it. She glanced across to Melissa and saw her nod. Melissa had guessed what Elle had been thinking.<br /><br />“All the girls think that Elle; about half change their mind at this point,” Melissa offered.<br /><br />“Brendon.” Elle declared her choice and began to unbuckle her belt.<br /><br />The belt and button were easy to do, but the zip was not. Not that the functioning of the zip was impaired, but the final act of unzipping to then lower her trousers, or pull your pants down young lady as she heard in her head, brought her into a realisation of what was about to occur.<br /><br />“Is there no other way?”<br />“Only if you choose Melissa.”<br /><br />Elle unzipped her trousers and dropped them to her knees, she straightened her tights and lay herself across Brendon’s lap before she could think to back out. As if in solidarity with her Brendon began the flogging immediately.<br /><br />Melissa winced as the beating continued. She had been on the receiving end of one of Brendon’s spankings the previous morning when she had failed a Professional Development task. Skirt up, tights down, and nine pelvis shattering smacks with a wooden paddle across the seat of her panties had convinced her that attentiveness was a better option than the mini-bar when she spent a weekend in the capital.<br /><br />CRACK! Twelve!<br />CRACK! Thirteen<br />CRACK! Fourteeeeeeeeeeen!<br /><br />Elle remembered that she had a late night coming tonight. There was to be a subcommittee meeting until seven o’clock and she had offered to remain and take minutes. Two extra hours of sitting on swollen buttocks.<br /><br />CRACK! Twenty-two oooo hooo hooo hoooooooooooo!<br /><br />---<br />Elle winced as she stepped from her car and onto the driveway outside her house. A solid trousers-down spanking and a long afternoon of sitting at her desk had left her feeling rather tender. She heard the front door open and looked up with a smile, happy to be home.<br /><br />“Elle? Just after you left this morning I found a letter from the bank under the breakfast table.” He waved the letter at her with his left hand.<br /><br />In his right hand he was holding her hairbrush.Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-55227776621333886242010-01-23T07:56:00.000+00:002010-01-23T07:57:22.599+00:00More Questions than Answers: Schooners and SmacksBarrawah is a town on the south coast of Trowenna: a quiet fishing village which used to be a logging port. Now it is home to schooners and smacks, and the occasional skiff. I have been coming here since I was about seven: my father has a boatshed down here and although Imshi, the boat he and my grandfather built themselves, is now long gone the shed remains.<br /><br />It is cold today, but having just arrived in Trowenna from my new home in Albion I cannot remember whether it is the winter arriving early, or staying late...I find the seasons so confusing these days, and not just those of the climate. I pull my scarf across my chest once more, a long pink twist shaped like a breast-cancer awareness ribbon it crosses my breasts between my overcoat and my jumper, and should be keeping my chest warm. I have Australian flu, (I’ve been coughing up green and gold all morning), and I don’t want to be put to bed: I don’t have long here this time.<br /><br />I pull my beret down on my head, which is not how it is supposed to be worn, but I’m too cold to be bothered by jaunty or chic. Not that Trowenna is known for such things anyway. We are a culture of food: Atlantic Salmon, cheese, gourmet beer and wine, and the ubiquitous fruit of our history; but we’ve never been ones for fashion beyond the occasional Aran style sweater or a "My XXX went to Trowenna, and all I got..." style garment in some of the waterfront boutiques. There is a plague of them in our capital, Georgian warehouses beneath brooding Unghanyaletta and its silent “Organ Pipes” which remind me of Kaapstadt and a boyfriend I’d rather forget.<br /><br />The wharf is how I remember it: wharfish, (dwarfish?), and certainly neither a pier or a jetty. There is no funfair at the end of this boulevard of tar and treated pine, neither does it “jet” but rather it runs parallel to the shoreline; indeed it is suspended above it. An old steamer slumps painfully on screaming ropes just ahead of me. Nothing changes, this place has always been old and forgotten. I look beyond the bollards and gulls and see that the pub is still there: and it has been resurrected into something not quite modern, yet nothing like it was. It will have been “gastrocised” now, all Trowennan new-builds are, but I hope it will be homely. I always loved Barrawah’s waterside pub; and I am certain that even after four years since my last coming there is a schooner with my name on it.<br /><br />I smile with childish delight, and look down at my hands. There indeed it is, a frosted beer glass with the cursive legend across it Caoirstig Saoirse, (what the hell were my parents thinking?): literally a schooner with my name on it. I maintain the smile and show it to the young man behind the bar. I’m sure we had a cheeky snogging session about fifteen years ago, but like most of the boys of summer he’s probably married now.<br /><br /><br />“You right Kirst?”<br /><br />(Am I right cursed? Undeniably so.) “Yes thank you Peter.”<br /><br />“S’bin ages since you bin’ere”<br /><br />“Four years I believe.”<br /><br />“For years?”<br /><br />“Four years, one-two-three-four.”<br /><br />“Agh so.”<br /><br />Agh so. My mum says that, I’d forgotten Peter was of Northern Irish stock too, so he is.<br /><br />“What cha doin’ in Albion now?”<br /><br />“Fuck knows really.”<br /><br />He laughs. “Na Kirst, not why you there but what cha do? Fer workin’ at?”<br /><br />I smile again. “Still in school.”<br /><br />“Geography wasn’t it?”<br /><br />My smile broadens, “yes it was, but now it’s Religion Education.”<br /><br />Peter explodes in a fit of Ulsterism, “fer fook’s en croyen’s sake Caoirstig, now what would ye be goin’ and doing a ting loike dat fer?”<br /><br />An ever broadening smile, “it’s all much the same thing Pyedor,” (I say in my best Inis Ceithleann accent), “geography, history, RE are all about the reality of a world bigger than ourselves. I hope to show kids how to look beyond their own world, not just for adventure but for society’s sake. Religions Education is the cure for selfishness.”<br /><br />“Agh so, so is a good hard slap across the backside.”<br /><br />“Well, since you’re offering...” I give him a wink.<br /><br />“Cheeky girl.”<br /><br />“Quite, so I am.”<br /><br /><br />I am back on the wharf, and so is the rain. I cannot pull down my beret any further for fear of obliterating my view so I huck up my collar and fold my arms across my chest. I stamp my boots on the wet cement: for all the world looking like a little girl in a defiant hissy fit. (For which the cure is the same as that for selfishness.) My car is just over there, but I actually like the rain so I’ll stay out a bit longer. I see Peter locking up the pub; surely only for a moment as although it is getting dark it is still only mid afternoon. It is definitely winter here, I remember now.<br /><br />Lashing and belting. Which are words to describe heavy rain? I would have been a champion at Jeopardy if ever Trowenna TV had screened it here. I love rain, it always makes me feel special: I’m rather in the mood of a bit of lashing and belting and even though I am wet I am giggling. The water cycle is such an amazing thing, and even as a Geography teacher, (and therefore destined ever to wear brown corduroy ) I never tire of reviewing its miracle. This water running down my jacket and skirt: most of it down the outside of my boots, has been so many places and been used for so many things. I love how rain connects me to the basics of the humanity of strangers: of drinking and cooking and washing. The smacks and skiffs are bobbing about on the water beyond the wharf: there is no wind in this rainstorm so there is nothing to flatten the waves as the tide meets the river on its journey down from Swanport. The schooner sits far more contrite: (as indeed I would in the presence of such wild smacks): its larger size allows a decorum in the midst of tempest which is a lesson for me in the maze of my imagination right now. If only home weren’t so far from life. I need recalibration.<br /><br />When I was seventeen I began a summer job at the Antiquarian bookseller in Swanport, and at twenty (and University) I was made mistress of the market stall in Barrawah. Now the store itself has moved to Barrawah, and it is here I choose to seek shelter from the inundation. I love rain, but I hate being wet, and in fear of my Australian flu turning Aotearoan, (where you’re coughing up all black), I go inside. The man for whom I worked in the dark and distant nineties is now gone, his daughter was at Ladies College with me and she now sits amidst the dust and flyspeck at the neat yet loaded counter to the left of the door. She greets me with a peck on each cheek, a warm smile, and the correct pronunciation of Saoirse. We’ve not seen each other since graduation from university, me as Mistress of Teaching, she as Spinster of Education (with Honours). Does she remember the books we used to read?<br /><br />“Caoirstig Saoirse, how lovely to see you darling. I have read of your exploits, and indeed have read from your writings as well. I see that you still...”<br /><br />I smile nervously and look down at my hands. Men usually find that becoming in me, but does she think me wanton for the substance of my writings?<br /><br />She smiles back. “I also...yet I cannot hope to write as you do. My husband...dead...and my parents moved to the north island. Alone...just Peter...and sometimes your mother comes to tea when she and your father are down at their shed, but...no-one since you lwent from here and...”<br /><br />The dark secret, never shared, (only us). Before we found our men folk (...dead...) we had found each other.<br /><br />“And now Caoirstig Saoirse, you write of it with loneliness.”<br /><br />“There is no-one, and I have not felt the need to.”<br /><br />She sighs and a tear forms. “Oh dearest departed I had hoped...”<br /><br />I reach for her hand, but she is standing too far from me so I abort the attempt. “Describe for me the rain,” I ask her.<br /><br />“The...”<br /><br />“Rain. I write with loneliness because I feel lonely. Tell me what you feel. Describe for me the rain.”<br /><br />“The rain is heavy.”<br /><br />“Go on.”<br /><br />“The rain is falling.”<br /><br />“And yet...”<br /><br />“Caoirstig Saoirse, the rain is belting. Look out on the water, on the river. Look at the skiffs bobbing. Look at the schooners and smacks! Oh, Schooners and Smacks...do you remember?”<br /><br />I nod and smile congratulation at her. “Schooners and Smacks...innocently describing the two most common watercraft of Swanreach, Swanport itself and of course Barrawah...yes also words in the Trowennan cant which describe...”<br /><br />“A tall glass of New South Welsh beer, and also...well...”<br /><br />“Smacks?”<br /><br />“Yes, well we always thought that was pretty self evident.” Her smile fades. “So lonely Caoirstig Saoirse.”<br /><br />“I’m not surprised dearest, it’s a bit isolated down here, out the backside of Unghanyaletta.”<br /><br />“I meant you.”<br /><br />There are no secrets that can be hidden from your first love. Not when you write an online story blog under a very thinly designed pseudonym. Even Trowenna, even Barrawah, has t’internet.<br /><br />I shed a tear.<br /><br />She takes my hand.<br /><br />We lock the door of the shop, but do not pull the blind. We go around the end of the row where the travel books are kept, (the holiday aisle), and she pulls out a step used for reaching the uppermost shelves.<br /><br />She offers me the seat. I pause for a breath, then sit.<br /><br />She smiles down at me then lays herself across my knees.<br /><br />Over the course of time I steadily beat her to tears...a rhythmic smack upon smack, each cheek, each sit-spot; the untamed wilderness of her skirt a well covered continent of exploration by the time I can no longer lift either of my exhausted arms. She is sobbing rather than crying, wracked and compliant she’d not hesitated under my rain but only writhed in response. My hands are swollen and my arms are heavy. My heart, even heavier. This hasn’t helped at all...I feel ever more lonely and ever more lost. This is no longer who I am. She has sensed this, and this is part of why she is crying. She has waited eleven years for me to return to her, and she has failed me.<br /><br />She rises painfully, and looks again down at me. Her eyes are puffy, her lipstick smeared clownishly on her left cheek and also her shoulder. She is incapable of sitting, and I wonder if she wonders as I do...what if she’d taken the seat at the outset and I'd...<br /><br />I stand, embrace her, kiss her. I’ve half a mind to lick that smear of lipstick but that passes. I turn and walk out of the shop, pausing to nod to a young woman who had been waiting at the locked door. It is only as I turn down the street and hear her asking for a copy of Raskolnikova that I realise she probably heard us going about our reintroductions inside. I also recognise her voice as that of my cousin with whom I shared a tent when we were eighteen.<br /><br />But that is another story...Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-185299675638346662010-01-23T07:52:00.001+00:002010-01-23T07:53:30.623+00:00The Story of K<span style="font-style:italic;">Good afternoon girls and boys. (Good afterNOON Miss E-LIS-ern).<br /><br />I am not in the habit of writing such tales as these, in fact I’m not even in the habit of reading them. But in the interests of artistic endeavour I thought I’d have a turn at writing some smut.<br /><br />(As you do.)<br /><br />I’ve not tried this before, so I present this to you as a first try at something beyond the envelope of Curtseygirl’s usual fantasies. So, please don’t ask me again: here’s something I’m making up as I go along. Boys I think you’ll like this. Girls, perhaps best to look away now. (I know I would.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Story of K</span><br /><br />K had been interested in spanking as a woman since one particularly cute lad in the sixth form had mentioned to her how he’d been at a party where her best friend Amanda had gone over his knee on a dare. She, (K), had been aware since the age of fifteen that spanking could be thought of as “fun” by some adults, but the sensation had never really been hers, and the shy girl that she was she’d never had opportunity to find out much about it. She remembered having asked Amanda about it, and about the boy’s story, but Amanda had been non-committal.<br /><br />(The thrashing had been going on for quite a while now. He’d used everything in the arsenal and still kept finding more. First there’d been the open palm, directed solely upon her upturned buttocks and thighs as she lay across his lap. Underwear had never been part of the equation, of course a “real spanking” could only be delivered upon the bare. The “Tantric Sex” book had suggested however that nakedness was not the option either and that a woman’s “shame centre” would trigger a deeper sense of pleasure were she to be stripped like a little girl.<br /><br />“First ask the woman to lift her skirt or pull down her trousers, leaving them around her knees to add to the embarrassment. Then bend her over your lap (best), or a table or chair. Some women find it erotic to bend over a bed, both in link to the sexual act and to punishments received in her bedroom as a little girl. Many women like to be made to feel vulnerable, as a child.”)<br /><br />What K did know about however, was writing. She’d always been excellent at English Composition and one of her essays had been printed in each of the school’s two previous end of year magazines. This year she was to be one of the student editors. “If I can’t get a smack from a boy, and I’d die to be punished by my parents at this point, maybe I’ll just write about it.<br /><br />(The palm had given way to the spatula. She had almost laughed at the absurdity of it, but the Tantric Book said domestic objects added to the allure. He had quickly passed on to the equally ridiculous egg-flipper before settling consecutively upon a series of wooden spoons, and finally the cheese chopping board which worked quite well as a paddle. Until the handle had broken.)<br /><br />K smoothed down her skirt. She’d never really understood the appeal for women in “schoolgirl fantasy”. For men it was obvious, vulnerability and all that, but for women what was it? It annoyed her that her cousin’s rugby team had had a “Sheila’s Arvo” where all the burly men had dressed as females, and so many had come in close fitting uniforms from hers and the ladies’ college down the road. Her cousin had gone as “Miss Tasmania” following K’s absolute refusal to loan him her school kilt and jersey. Where was the Boudicca? Where was the Margaret Thatcher? Why do men who dress as women have to dress as weak women?<br /><br />(“Over the chair bitch,” he tipped her onto the floor as he stood up, trapping her in a mess of legs and knotted pantyhose. “Across the seat.” She lay herself in spanking position across the chair and he began to go to work upon the upturned buttocks, first with his palms, then with his belt.)<br /><br />“So what’s sexy then?” K wasn’t even sure where to start. She glanced across at herself in the mirror and burst out laughing. Looking back at her was a seventeen year old red-head in piggy tails and a knitted pinafore. There was a ladder up the inside of her left calf and around her knee, disappearing into the crevice of her skirt. “Stairway to Heaven” she’d been told to call such ladders in pantyhose, not that she’d ever uttered such lurid thoughts. Still, the young authoress noted the coquettish charm of her pose, pen in mouth, head in hand, all tipped slightly sideways. Was this sexy?<br /><br />(“Table. Up.” She knew this would follow, it always did. Since she’d written it in her first story, the one where the four girls in the share house invite the two boys from next door around for dinner on the last Sunday night of the month; to spank each of the girls in turn for her previous thirty days of naughtiness, she knew that she’s be taking the table position. This involved her kneeling on a chair turned backwards to the table, then bending over the table itself. She’d written it was ‘unseemly’ for a young lady to bend over from a standing position, so had written this ‘S shape’ posture for her character Melissa to adopt each month when Darren would apply wood to nylon, that is, hairbrush to buttocks within pantyhose.)<br /><br />“ “She knew what was coming from the tone of her mother’s voice.”” K thought that if she was going to write a story she may as well begin on known ground. She’d only ever been spanked by her parents, her mother mainly (solely in the last three years). Mum would smack her on her knickers, across her knee, with K’s hairbrush. This began when K was about six and her last smacked bottom had come three weeks before her fifteenth birthday. K remembered only four occasions when she’s been asked to lower her underpants as well, the last episode as a fourteen year old had been one such occasion.<br /><br />(The belt again. Usually when sent “to table” the weapon of masculine employ was some sort of cane.)<br /><br />Dad would smack K on her knickers as well, but since he was stronger than mum he would use his hand. Again K would be over his knee, well she was until she was ten. Dad had stopped spanking K as soon as she began to have periods, but for those last two and a half years he’d been bending her over her bed for her smacks. He had only spanked K once upon her bare bottom, again the last occasion upon which she had been punished by him, when he had asked her to lift up her nightie. He’d used the hairbrush that night as well, perhaps he knew it was the last time he’d spank his little girl so he’d need to make it count.<br /><br />(“Lap.” So that was it for the table then. She knew the session was coming to a close when she was called to go back otk. She’d only just settled into position and received three stripes from the stiff leather dog collar across her left thigh when his mobile phone rang.)<br /><br />“ “ Her mother’s voice, but her father’s footsteps on the staircase. Elissa knew this one would hurt.”” K was pleased. “ “ She hadn’t meant to snap at her mother, but the stress of getting ready for the Senior Leavers’ Dinner had put her on edge, and when she put a fingernail through the gusset of her lacy tights as she was hurrying to get dressed she couldn’t help it. Now Michael was to be here soon to pick her up, would her dad really …””<br /><br />(“Yeah? No, sorry she can’t come to the phone right now.” It had been her telephone, not his. That was going to cost her, perhaps she’d feel the cane after all, she knew it was on the floor beside the chair. “No, she’ll not be available until later. Mmhm. No, she’s been a very naughty girl. No, she’s not in her room. No, she can’t come to the phone right now because I have put her over my knee. Yes, she’s over my knee at the moment. Yes.” Crack! The cane descended across her bottom in an angry arc. She’d felt his hand lift off her back to answer the phone but hadn’t suspected he’d be holding something punishing with the other. She squealed out loudly. “Yes, that was her. No, a cane. Oh I don’t know, maybe the width of her thumb. Of course she’s bare bottom!”)<br /><br />“ “ Elissa I know you’re stressed now, but there was no need to speak to your mother like that. Now I know you’ve been looking forward to this dance so I’ll not stop you from going.” Elissa hadn’t thought of that, actually being grounded from the dance.” K was pleased. The story had begun well and the upcoming Leavers’ Dinner had given her the idea she needed to set her scene.<br /><br />(“You think I should what? I want to give her a spanking, not a concussion!”)<br /><br />Now, how to get a spanking underway. “Just as dad would,” thought K, “just get in there.” “ “ Elissa, if you want to get this sorted out before Michael comes we’d better…” “Yes daddy,” replied Elissa, handing her father the hairbrush she’d been nursing in her lap before beginning to pull down her tights.” Marvellous!<br /><br />(“That was your boss. She told me it was about time someone gave you a good hiding and that I should use the electricity cord off the kettle to flog you with should the cane fail to make the desired impact.” “Bitch” she replied, greeted with as many as fifteen (she lost count) lashes of the dog-collar. “We don’t do disrespect for authority here, young lady. I’ll not be using the cord, but we will finish you off with a damn solid caning. Belting with the collar first." Thrash!)<br /><br />K was underway now, describing the tears in Elissa’s eyes as she pulled down her panties beneath the voluminous skirt of her party dress and lay herself across her father’s lap. She cut away from the action to describe the conversation below as her mother explained to Michael what was taking Elissa’s time in coming down …<br /><br />(Thrash, thrash, thrash.)<br /><br />… and back to Elissa’s own sense of shame and embarrassment at being bare bottomed across her father’s knee on the night of the Senior Leavers’ while the boy she liked was downstairs hearing it all in the company of her mother. The smacks from the hairbrush really, really hurt; but the embarrassment was mortal.<br /><br />(Crack, crack. The first two in a long series of concluding strokes of the cane. It was indeed the width of her left thumb, which had been the criteria he had set her when she was sent to Mitre-10 to fetch “a rod for your own butt, at the rule of thumb”.)<br /><br />K finished her story with a shared father-daughter hug, and dad presenting Elissa to Michael. Elissa dropped Michael a deep curtsey as he took her had to kiss, and father whispered to mother that the hairbrush need never be employed again. K was not surprised to feel her eyes moistened by the story, but the feeling in her knickers was new.<br /><br />(He had finished the session by reading her the story she’d written as a girl, about a girl her age at the time who had been spanked on the evening of her senior dance. “I always thought it was your best work, this one.” She stood beside the chair gently caressing her bottom. She could feel numerous weals rising across her buttocks and her thighs, and at least three of them were oozing clear stuff. She winced as she touched one particularly open cut. “My bum feels like the ripple strips at the end of the M1, you know where they paint them yellow to stop you crashing into Brent shops.” He just smiled.)<br /><br />K read over the story again and corrected her spelling mistakes. “Now where to hide this” she thought, not wanting to consider what might happen should anyone else ever get to read it.Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-65558219659874121282010-01-23T07:51:00.000+00:002010-01-23T07:52:14.876+00:00Sister Madly<span style="font-style:italic;">Following along my theme of adults in the legitimate role of “student”, (an interest of mine as a teacher I suppose), here’s a story I’ve been stewing on for a while about a student nurse. You’ll find hints of it in the “Student Teacher” stories I wrote for Yolanda and Laura. Please note, I have no medical knowledge so if the “hospital aspects” aren’t correct then get over it. I’m writing a spanking story, not an episode of ER!</span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Sister Madly</span><br /><br />“Who in St Vladimir’s name gave her this?” Doctor Jacobsen was beetroot red as he surveyed the chart. Mrs Evans had been brought into hospital the previous day suffering from chronic diarrhoea and dehydration, and had been immediately medicated and placed on a drip. Now the evidence of a monumental mess-up lay on the trolley beside him. Someone had messed up the delivery of tablets and the poor woman had been given a laxative.<br /><br />“It is initialled by ‘LE’, that’s Louisa Ellis’ initials. She’s one of the final year nursing students.”<br />“Can’t she bloody read a simple instruction? A simple chart? Who gives laxative to a dehydrated person, let alone one with diarrhoea? Can’t she see the bloody drip hanging out of Mrs Evans’ arm?”<br /><br />Louisa was only at the next bed, but behind the curtain she was invisible to the conversation. She had thought the order strange, and had indeed seen ‘the bloody drip’, but she had been told in no uncertain terms by her NUM that to question a doctor’s prescription was the task of the NUM herself, and not some snotty nosed know-it-all from university. (The Nursing Unit Manager at this particular hospital had been born during the war, but whether that was the one against the Germans or the one against the Boers, Louisa wasn’t quite certain. What she was certain of, having been told daily, was that the NUM’s first hospital had been in the middle of a frozen lake in the Sahara Desert and the NUM had had to walk ten miles through snow, uphill there and back, just to buy bandages for the troops, three times a day and out of her own money.) Louisa looked at the drug sheet in front of her, the pharmacist had definitely prescribed and the doctor and NUM had both definitely signed off on a laxative. Louisa had presumed it was some kind of complimentary emetic treatment, (in place of a painful enema), to clear out the gastrointestinal tract from both ends.<br /><br />The curtain flew back, and there stood Doctor Jacobsen, his head a steamed plum, his body a twitching stick. Louisa stifled a chuckle as she thought of how like a cartoon character he looked. “Did you do this?”<br />“Sir, the chart said…”<br />“I know what the bloody chart said girl, I wrote the bloody chart.”<br /><br /><br />“I saw it was a laxative sir, but I thought it might be emetic.”<br />“Stupid girl the drug is not the question. It’s the time. You’re three days early! Mrs Evans is supposed to take this at the end of the course of treatment I have prescribed now, to release the pressure of us stopping up her guts for a few days.”<br />Louisa looked down. The chart was for Thursday, her birthday. Today was Monday. She’d been daydreaming about the party she was hosting and had picked up the wrong file. It was her mistake, but fortunately Doctor Jacobsen had run out of steam and had puffed off to find some more.<br /><br />“Nurse Ellis?” The NUM. “I believe you owe Mrs Evans an apology. Fortunately she’d not actually taken the tablets, saving them to take with her lunch as you correctly advised. Louisa blushed and returned to Mrs Evans’ bed to offer her regret.<br /><br />Lauren Evans was twenty-seven years old and had been on her honeymoon when she’d fallen ill. Happily her insurance cover had been enough to see her back to England, but the pain in her stomach and the feelings of dizziness were not what she had been looking forward to a week earlier when Marcus had ever-so-slowly stripped her of her bridal outfit in their suite at St Michael’s Manor. First had come her shoes, then her bodice, skirt, petticoats, and her hair was released from its pins. (“Nails and staples” Marcus had called them. “Wife, were you dressed this morning, or assembled?”) Lauren’s stockings had been next to go, tantalisingly rolled down, (she wondered if he’d done that before), before the button that enclosed her “lady place” was released along with her longing. Now she was on her back in bed, (a good place for a new bride), but surrounded by grunting and farting old woman patients and old man doctors.<br /><br />“Oh Mrs Evans, I’m ever so sorry.” Louisa quite liked Lauren and had enjoyed looking after her. Lauren had appreciated the bubbly young nurse as well, but was not in the mood for it now. Anything, anyone, who stopped her getting back to Marcus was to be rid of immediately. Lauren merely grunted and closed her eyes.<br /><br />“Nurse Ellis. As you know this is a teaching hospital and discipline is part of any young nurse’s training. Good patient care, good hygiene, good care taken in all aspects of a nurse’s demeanour, practice, and appearance. We will not suffer compromise in this hospital.”<br />“No matron.”<br />“Matron? MATRON? I’m your Nursing Unit Manager and don’t you forget it. Do I look like a Matron?”<br />(Actually you do, thought Louisa, adding to herself that the war in progress at NUM’s birth was probably that “of the Roses”.)<br />“Nonetheless standards of excellence and high levels of discipline must be maintained. I must ask you to bend over the chair here.”<br />(Definitely Wars of the Roses, but was she a Lanc or a York? Tee hee. Umm, hang on, did she just ask me to…) “I’m sorry Ma’am, did you just ask me to bend over the chair?”<br />“Yes young lady I did. We are a teaching hospital and you are in dire need of teaching. I have sent Nurse Manchester to fetch the rod from my office and I am about to punish you for your oversight in patient care. Must I also add insolence to your record.”<br />“No ma’am. What do you mean rod?”<br />“Rod. A stick for beating with, child. Ah, here she is now. Manchester? Manchester, over here with that. Yes girl, now flit away, flit flit!” Louisa looked across at the transaction. Sarah Manchester was handing the NUM a thin cane. “Unless you wish to join Nurse Ellis of course?” Sarah Manchester looked at Louisa briefly, then back at the NUM. She lowered her eyes, whispered a tearful ‘no ma’am’, all but dropped a neat curtsey, and turned away from the scene, her hands absently crossing behind her back to cover her bottom as she scurried out of sight.<br />“Surely ma’am I, that is to say, you, …”<br />“Surely nothing Nurse Ellis, now bend over the chair like a good girl, although if you had been a good girl you’d not need to be in such a position now would you?” Just then Mrs Evans rolled back toward the conversation, and raised a slight smile at the sight of the elderly matron, (well, she is isn’t she), waving her cane at the young and frightened nursing student who had tried to kill her. “Ah, Mrs Evans, you’re awake. Change of plan Nurse Ellis. Across the bed. Yes?” This question addressed to Mrs Evans, who smiled again, sat herself up slightly (Louisa jumping in to assist), and nodded her assent. “Yes, caned by me across your patient’s bed. Practically across Mrs Evans’ knee. Very suitable.”<br />“Please ma’am.”<br />“Bend OVER young lady.”<br /><br />Louisa knew better than to argue, and did as she was told. It had after all been her mistake, but was she seriously about to be caned? The first stroke landed across the back of her dress just as the question had formed in her mind. It appeared the answer was ‘yes’, and five more strokes came in support of the thesis.<br /><br />“Let’s have the dress up then.”<br />“Pardon ma’am?”<br />“Six across the back of your dress, three more with the dress lifted. Nine strokes.”<br />Again Louisa acted smartly to obey, standing immediately to lift the skirt of her dress up above her waist before bending over the bed again, her hands on the other side of Mrs Evans so that the patient had a good view of proceedings, and the foolish nurse was indeed all but bending over her patient’s knee.<br /><br />“Stockings?”<br />“Yes ma’am, hold ups are cooler and more comfortable than tights.”<br />“Nurse Ellis your uniform guideline quite clearly states that female nursing students wear ‘black tights only’ with the uniform blue and white pinstriped dress.”<br />“Yes ma’am, but I thought that meant ‘black only’ rather than ‘tights only’. I thought it was to stop girls wearing white tights or flesh coloured tights. I didn’t realise you meant for us not to wear stockings. Sarah is…” Louisa stopped herself. She knew that whatever Sarah Manchester was wearing underneath her own dress would in no way alleviate what was coming to Louisa Ellis.<br />“If you wish to suggest that Nurse Manchester is also wearing inappropriate hosiery then I shall see her later for a good slippering. This does not concede anything to your case for being out of uniform.”<br />“No ma’am”<br />(Whack!) The first of the new set of strokes took Louisa completely by surprise, bisecting her bottom into even halves of pain. She raised herself slightly on her arms but was bent over again before the NUM could comment.<br />“Three further strokes were owed for your messing up Mrs Evans’ dosage. I’ll give you an additional four for being out of uniform. Two smacks for each illegal stocking; you’ve just had one of the three.”<br />“Yes, (whack! Whack!), ow, yes ma’am.”<br />“Stand up.”<br />Once more Louisa obeyed. She had not been spanked much as a child, and schools had banned the use of corporal punishment for girls before she had ever deserved its application. Still, she knew the protocols of a smacked bottom and how it always went better for the girl who was prompt.<br />“Hand me your plimsoll.” Louisa looked down as the NUM took up a seated position on the chair beside Mrs Evans’ bed. Without any further instruction she took off one of her ward slippers and handed it to the NUM. She then folded up her dress again and laid herself across the NUM’s knee. Four smart smacks of the sole of her left shoe struck her, two on her knicker-clad bottom and one each on the naked strip of thigh between the black nylon and the white cotton.<br /><br />The NUM had left the ward to enquire after Nurse Manchester’s uniform and Nurse Ellis had dabbed her eyes dry when Doctor Jacobsen entered the ward, beaming widely. “Good catch Ellis. We’d forgotten to take into consideration that Mrs Evans had been hospitalised before her arrival in England, the course of laxatives may begin immediately.”Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-85638339359476005312010-01-23T07:49:00.002+00:002010-01-23T07:51:20.066+00:00The VisitA story I wrote for my 360 friend Yolanda Carrington. It is fiction, I never got to meet her, but she helped me with some of the information. This story was my first commission.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Saturday, May 19th, 2007<br />London<br /></span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(Written for Yolanda and Laura.)</span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Preview</span><br /><br />“I’m sure I want to do this, she seems nice enough online.” Kirsten was sitting on the train on her way into London and to the first time meeting with her online correspondent Yolanda. The women had been posting on Yahoo 360 for four months and had arranged to meet up at Yolanda’s flat to get to know each other better and to play out some of their common stories. Kirsten was looking forward to the meeting, and all that the afternoon might entail, but she was still conscious of the uncertainty gnawing in her stomach.<br /><br />“I told her our fantasies are me being spanked by someone else and you spanking me and someone else.” Yolanda was rather excited at the prospect of seeing these desires met, and was reminding Laura of why she and Kirsten had agreed to meet up in the first place. “Kirsten’s a school teacher, from Australia, and told me she is bringing a scenario she had been working on for a story she’s writing. She also said she wanted to try out some things she’s not done before, especially the leather paddle. I said we like schoolies, and office scenarios.” Yolanda had been spanked by only five other women before (and one man) and was looking forward to being asked to “bend over” by a new female voice, and whilst Laura had not played a major part in the correspondence she had readily agreed to meet Kirsten.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Arrival</span><br /><br />The doorbell rang, the friends met with hugs and kisses, and all moved into the front room. Laura was dressed rather formally in a skirt suit, as Kirsten had instructed, and Yolanda in a school uniform. Following cups of tea and some ice-breaking conversation about preferences and postures, (Yolly and Kirsten had similar tastes, although Kirsten had never been spanked with a leather paddle and her preferred implement was her wooden hairbrush, something Yolly had confessed to not enjoying), Laura suggested getting underway.<br /><br />“What is it about the leather paddle that interests you Kirsten?”<br /><br />“It’s just that I’ve never received it before. The man that shares my house with me and my friend Catherine, Paul, sometimes whips me with the strap when I have been naughty, but the paddle is new.”<br /><br />“And you’d like to try it out?”<br /><br />“Yes please.” Kirsten could feel the knot in her guts rising again, excitement and apprehension all at once. She looked down at her shoes. All of the spanking this afternoon was to have been “fun”, and Yolanda had suggested that Laura’s fun spankings had never caused her to cry, but Yolanda had also said that she could take quite a long spanking, “my bum turns deep pink rather than red or crimson”, and Kirsten knew that she was not so resilient. Kirsten looked back up to see that Laura had the paddle in her hand and was beckoning her towards her. Yolanda had stood up and was standing beside the easy chair she had just been sitting in.<br /><br />“Let’s show you how it’s done first, and then you can have a turn.” She nodded at Yolanda, who turned and bent over the arm of the chair. Laura came into position and began the demonstration.<br /><br />Kirsten was pleased to see that whilst Yolanda was wincing, and moaned quietly as each smack landed upon her bottom, the paddling didn’t seem to be terribly painful, even after Laura had paused briefly to ask Yolanda to raise her skirt. Not that she was counting, but there must have been about fifteen smacks to each of Yolly’s skirt, and then panties.<br /><br />“Would you like a turn now?” Laura was holding the paddle out to Kirsten. Kirsten wasn’t entirely certain whether she was supposed to take the paddle to spank Yolanda herself, or to “assume the position”, but as she walked across to the easy chair Laura deftly turned the paddle in her hand, presenting Kirsten with the handle. “Is this okay?” Laura seemed to be asking Yolanda.<br /><br />“Yes, of course,” replied Yolanda, still bending over the arm of the chair.<br /><br />“Now Kirsten, I’m sure you know how a paddle works,” smiled Laura, stepping back.<br /><br />Yolanda was wearing a rather pretty pair of French knickers below her school uniform, which covered the entire area of her punishment. Kirsten would like to have seen the damage to Yolanda’s bottom before continuing, but that wasn’t possible. She delivered six firm smacks to the silken hemisphere in front of her, the fourth one eliciting a small “ow!” from Yolanda.<br /><br />“Would you like a turn now?” The same question Laura had asked earlier, but this time there was no doubt as to what she was offering to Kirsten. She stood back to allow Yolanda to stand up, and was about to take her position across the arm of the chair when Laura suggested the back of the sofa as a better position. “It’s a little higher up, so affords a better angle for contact.” Yolanda nodded in agreement so Kirsten took up her position there. “Ready?”<br /><br />The first smack was much as Kirsten should have known it was, central to her bottom, firm but not harsh, familiar (she’s been on the receiving end of several table tennis bats in the past) yet different as well. The smacks that followed forced “ouch” from Kirsten on several occasions, but were not unpleasant. Still, she could feel a tear welling in her eye, but whether that was from pain (unlikely) or from the excitement of finally being here with Yolly and Laura she wasn’t certain.<br /><br />Laura asked Kirsten whether she would be willing to raise her skirt. Kirsten readily agreed, but had to stand up to do so. “You’re wearing tights?” Laura commented.<br /><br />“I usually do,” Kirsten explained. “I like to be wearing tights, what with the idea that what is on display is attached to that area of private pleasure; my tights, which can be seen by the public connecting my skirt and shoes, also come up to cover my bottom”.<br /><br />“And the cotton pants?”<br /><br />“I don’t wear thongs, and don’t like frilly underwear under my tights.”<br /><br />“Fine with me. Bend over young lady.”<br /><br />Kirsten smiled; her favourite phrase as published on her 360 page: Laura had done some homework too. She bent over the back of the sofa and her spanking resumed. Whether the removal of the layer of skirt really made that much difference, or whether Laura was smacking harder, Kirsten noticed that she was beginning to hurt now, although she tried to keep that fact from the other two by biting her lip. The tears began rolling down her cheeks, (but then that was not unusual for Kirsten), and the moaning became a quiet sob. She knew she was having fun, but it was still painful.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Student Teacher</span><br /><br />“So, Kirsten, why ‘Curtseygirl’ as a nickname?”<br /><br />“Well, Laura, it is kind of cute don’t you think, but basically it’s because my name is Kirsten and it just sounds similar. When my family first took me to Australia, from New Zealand, I was six years old, and the way I was pronouncing “Kirsty” at school didn’t sound like the way the other children spoke. And I like the idea of the curtsey as a feminine form of respect since it can’t really be done effectively in trousers.”<br /><br />“That makes sense,” Yolanda was sitting in the same chair she’d been spanked across, nursing another cup of tea.<br /><br />Kirsten smiled back, “I used to be a bit militant about it, ‘You can’t make me bow or break: I curtsey and bend because I want to,’ but now I’m a bit more grown up.”<br /><br />“And this scenario you have for us?”<br /><br />“Student teacher. I have always been fascinated as a teacher with the idea of adult students. I remember seeing a sketch on TV in Australia, Benny Hill or something like that, I don’t know what. It was based in a ‘teaching hospital’, and a chief doctor was going around the wards caning the old men patients who weren’t getting better quick enough. I went up to my room and wrote a story where it was the nurses who were caned, bending over their patients’ beds if the patient’s condition wasn’t improving. It was the first story I wrote, I was about sixteen, and the first one I acted out with some friends in my first student flat. I was about twenty then, and of course I was a nurse. One of the girls in the next flat was a student nurse, so we were able to wear the real uniforms, (and not some Anne Summers latex mock up), and we used a green cane from the local garden centre; the sort you use to hold up tomatoes.”<br /><br />“And cane wayward nurses,” laughed Yolanda.<br /><br />“When necessary. It got me to thinking though that in such a situation the girls who get spanked are punished for something that isn’t necessarily their fault: and that a situation where a student teacher might be punished for the unruliness of her class might be a fun idea.”<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />The story</span><br /><br />Laura: in the role of head teacher at a mixed comprehensive secondary school.<br />Yolly: as a sixth form pupil at the school<br />Miss Ellison (Kirsten): as a pre-service teacher at the school on her final practice placement before qualification.<br /><br />“Yolanda, are you responsible for this?” Miss Ellison had had enough of 6C and was looking forward to the bell. She was not entirely certain that teaching Australian History as a unit for these sixth formers was such a good idea, but the University had disagreed and now here she was.<br /><br />“Yeah, but this is boring Miss, how come we have to learn about convicts and natives, it’s all rubbish. It’s not like I’m going to smelly Australia anyway, if I want a suntan I’ll go to Ibiza.” 6C were also sick of Miss Ellison, and Yolanda in particular. She had initially welcomed the young teacher and was quite looking forward to being let off from the rigours of the Tudor Monarchs which the crusty old Mr Bates had been teaching, but then Miss Ellison had got all stressed, and that had made her cranky.<br /><br />“I’ll give you another sort of tan in a minute!” Kirsten was getting frustrated now. “You know that as a VC school we are still allowed to use corporal punishment here, even though it has been banned in government schools.” It was an idle threat, Miss Ellison was actually opposed to physical punishment of children, but that Yolanda was really rather nasty and she had almost certainly been the one responsible for snapping the stick on the New South Wales state flag that had been sitting on the front desk.<br /><br />“You and what army? The Rum Corps I suppose? A bit of British military discipline? 500 lashes of the cat-of-nine-tails tied to the triangle outside Macquarie Barracks?” Yolanda smirked around the class, gaining the required assents of grunts from the boys and smirks from the girls.<br /><br />Kirsten smiled. “At least I know you’ve been paying attention to the subject matter.”<br /><br />“Yeah, it’s okay. Kids like us being sent to the other side of the world for doing nothin’, just nicking an apple and stuff. But you’re drillin’!”<br /><br />“And the flag?”<br /><br />“What? Oh yes, YES IT WAS ME OKAY. What are you gonna do about it Miss, spank me?”<br /><br />“Exactly. Come here.”<br /><br />“You can’t!”<br /><br />“What did you just call me? I’LL NOT BE SPOKEN TO LIKE THAT.”<br /><br />“No Miss, I said ‘you can’t’, as in, ‘you can’t spank me’. I’m eighteen years old, and besides there’s boys here.”<br /><br />“You’re a pupil in this school, a student in my class, and the rules say I can do what I need to to maintain order. Come here now.” Amazingly, Yolanda did as she was told, Kirsten wondered whether she’d been baited into doing this all along. She was not adverse to a bit of “fun spanking” herself, when she was home, in fact she’d been across her housemate Catherine’s knee just the previous night for not putting away all the washing up. Nineteen smacks with the wooden spoon: six to each of skirt and tights, and seven to her bare bottom. The last seven had been meant as chastisement and their memory was still fresh. Perhaps Yolanda was looking for a spanking. “Do you know why you’re here?”<br /><br />“Yeah, you gonna cane me.” There was a glint in Yolanda’s eyes, Kirsten was sure she’d been set-up.<br /><br />“Girls aren’t caned at this school. Girls are spanked. Bend over my knee young lady!” Miss Ellison decided that if Yolanda was looking for a smacked bottom she’d find one. The glint was still there as Yolanda gracefully placed herself across her teacher’s lap. Kirsten paused to look down at the upturned skirt before her, and the black nylon legs poking out beneath: she was really going to do it, really spank one of the girls in her class. She was going to spank Yolanda, and Yolanda wanted her to do it.<br /><br />The first spank came as a surprise to Yolanda, she hadn’t expected it to hurt as much. What she did not know was that Miss Ellison wasn't using her hand to spank her, but was using the decorative wooden boomerang that she’d been showing to 4B in the previous lesson. Its odd shape made for quite an effective handle and paddle. Again and again it came down, Yolanda began to cry out. Was she enjoying it? She wasn’t sure, she certainly had been setting Miss Ellison up to do this to her, but was it worth the embarrassment of having the boys watch her gets her bottom smacked like a little girl? Yolanda hoped that it was.<br /><br />“Return to your seat. Actually, go to the toilets and wash your face first.” Kirsten was exhausted, not by the physical effort of spanking Yolanda but by the thought that she’d actually had the courage to do it. To put the girl over her knee and smack her bottom, and to smack it quite hard, quite a few times, with a wooden stick.<br /><br />Yolanda stood up a little shakily and went out to the toilets, to wash her face and to survey the damage. She had to stand on the bench to get the right angle for the mirror, but having pulled her skirt down (it was too tight to pull up) and pulling down her tights and knickers she was both chagrined and pleased to see a soft pink glow spreading across her “seat of learning.” “Oh yes,” she said to herself, “we’ll be doing this again.”<br /><br />“Kirsten, it seems as though your practical teaching round is going quite well, but you are having trouble with one of the sixth form groups?” Laura had been head teacher of the school for six months now, Miss Ellison was the first pre-service teacher she had had to work with. “I believe you spanked Yolanda C today?”<br /><br />“Yes Laura. I had good cause to. No I am quite pleased with the way things have been going, but I do struggle with Yolanda and her group.”<br /><br />“Many teachers do. Still, I am pleased you did not shy away from corporal correction, let’s hope it was effective. It does however raise an issue: I believe you waited too long.”<br /><br />“Too long?”<br /><br />“You should have spanked her, and I dare suggest Melissa and Deborah, much earlier. The class is at the brink of anarchy and I am calling you to account. I’m afraid I must ask you to…” (Am I really going to do this? thought Laura. Yes, it’s what’s required by the governors, and it will be of help to Kirsten later.) “I must ask you to bend over my desk.”<br /><br />“Excuse me?” Kirsten was stunned. “Are you suggesting you’re going to cane me because the students in my class are rowdy?”<br /><br />“You know very well we don’t cane girls at this school. In fact the regulation doesn’t specify “girl” it specifies “female student”, and since you are a female student, albeit a university student in her twenties, you are still under my duty of care. You will be spanked, but I can hardly put you over my knee can I, so I want you to bend over the desk.” Laura had stood up and walked across to the desk as she had been speaking, and Kirsten saw for the first time the space that had been cleared of stationery on the front of the long wooden desk. Laura had the paddle in her hand, a flat wooden object with air holes cut in it which was used to punish the boys under thirteen and the girls older than thirteen. (Older boys were caned, younger girls hand-spanked.)<br /><br />Kirsten considered arguing her case, she was twenty-three years old after all and far to old to be having her bottom smacked by the headmistress, (that hadn’t happened since she was fourteen). But she could see that Laura was not to be deferred from her position. “Of course.”<br /><br />“Right, let’s have that skirt up then. It’s always “on the underwear” when a student comes in here for punishment, let’s not make it any different for you. “Trousers down young man, skirt up young lady, fair is fair.” An odd mix of reluctance and excitement rose in Kirsten’s stomach as she lifted the back of her skirt and bent over the desk. “Good girl, or at least you will be when I have finished with you.”<br /><br />There were twelve spanks in all, each of them very much a discipline spanking, and by the end of it Kirsten was sobbing loudly. She had cried out with the first two, and final four hard smacks.<br /><br />“Right, since you are a teacher I think we should make your punishment a little more severe than that given to the girls. I want you to pull down your tights and knickers for me.” Kirsten was lost in her tears and embarrassment and complied without question or comment, sobbing loudly she pulled down her tights to just above her knees and her knickers to mid thigh; their usual places when spanking at home went to “bare bottom phase”. She bent over the desk again, resting her weight on her forearms. It was a full ten seconds before the first stroke fell. The cane.<br /><br />Laura had been uncertain about using the “boy” instrument, but thought that as Kirsten was a teacher there should be an ultimate sanction. What better than six of the best across a bare, just-spanked bottom? Kirsten cried out in shock, but apart from writhing sideways somewhat she did not lift from the desk. She had never been caned before and was amazed at the stinging it produced. Eight further strokes were applied, the final two cutting across the seven parallel tramlines that were forming welts on Kirsten’s pink bottom. “Thank you Miss Ellison, you may leave now and I shall expect better of 6C come Monday.” Kirsten stood and gingerly replaced her underwear and skirt. “Of course Ma’am,” replied Kirsten, “thank you Laura for taking such a keen interest in my progress.”Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-88548113233695735672010-01-23T07:47:00.002+00:002010-01-23T07:48:38.709+00:00Christmas Shoppings<span style="font-style:italic;">This was the first story I wrote to post on 360. It was written as a gift to my first "friend" who was called Suffolk.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Saturday, December 23 rd 1989.<br />The central shopping district in Australia’s second largest city.</span><br />(Written for Don.)<br /><br />“Are you hanging up your stockings on the wall …”<br /><br />“Actually, no. I only have the one pair of hold-ups and they’re rolled up in the back of my pantyhose drawer.”<br /><br />“What’s that?”<br /><br />“Oh nothing, just that song.”<br /><br />Kirsten and Rachael had been allowed into the city to complete their Christmas shopping and had just entered Buckley’s when Kirsten decided to comment upon the music. They’d met up at the end of Wills Street with Melissa, (who was Kirsten’s best friend, not that she’d told Rachael that), and Jessica (who was called “Jiss” because she’d just arrived from New Zealand and had yet to discover the presence of vowels in Australian English). The ride in on the train from the South-Eastern bay side urban-fringe where the girls lived had been uneventful, and after a lunch of junk and salad they were about to hit the shops big-time.<br /><br />“Do you heave shops like thus in New Zullen?” Rachel was abysmal at accents, but Jessica knew it was all part of the settling in process, so just smiled sweetly.<br /><br />“Only in the big cities.” She pronounced “big” as if it were spelled “bug”.<br /><br />The shops had been packed earlier in the day, and with this now being the last Saturday afternoon before Christmas the girls had been expecting the going in Buckley’s to be solid. Happily most of the shoppers had been more organised than they, and the crowd was actually diminished.<br /><br />“Righto ladies, where are we going?” As the oldest member of the group Rachael decided to take charge. “Kirst wants to buy a scarf for her Nan so we’ll…”<br /><br />“A scarf? In this weather?” Jessica was incredulous. “It’s thirty-sux degrees, she’ll boil alive!”<br /><br />“Her Nan lives in England, it’s cold there.”<br /><br />“Yes, she’s in Suffolk. My mum was born in Ipswich. Oh, and please Rach, it’s Kirsten. My name is Kirsten, not Kirst. I’m not cursed, I’m blessed!” Kirsten was rather sick of having her name turned into an insult; one reason why she now preferred Melissa.<br /><br />“Sorry Lovely. So yes, KirstEN wants a scarf for her Nan, and I want to look at tops for my cousins. Both of those are on Floor Three, with Ms Buckley’s at the front and Accessories on the way there, next to Hosiery and Shoes. The girls had reached the escalators now and stood in pairs, rising towards the first floor<br /><br />“Hosiery? Christmas stockings anyone? Ha, ha, in this weather!” Jessica was trying hard to fit in.<br /><br />“Yes well, what with you being part-Maori I suppose you don’t need to worry about looking tanned,” snapped Kirsten, at the same time pulling at the back of the knee she had raised on the step in front of her, to indicate that she was wearing sheer tights beneath her skirt. Jessica looked around with mounting discomfort, but Kirsten laughed good naturedly and took her hand as they stepped of the escalator and turned to join the ride to the next level. “Relax mate, we like you.”<br /><br />“Actually, I have a pair of my old school tights in my bag – but they’re for pulling over my head in case we run short on cash,” tried Jessica. Kirsten squeezed her hand and gave her a wink.<br /><br />“Attagirl.”<br /><br />“Getting back to the shopping, anything in particular you want to look at Jiss?” Rachael, always wanting to be in charge.<br /><br />“No thank you, I’m just along for the ride.” Kirsten was still holding her hand, which made Jessica feel much more relaxed, but Rachael was starting to feel protective.<br /><br />“Mels?”<br /><br />“Nup for shopping, but I haven’t seen Santa yet so I’d like to do that if poss.”<br /><br />“Right, so we need scarves, tops, and the big red jolly fat man. He’s on this level so let’s go there on the way back down.<br /><br />Melissa was pleased that she’d got away with her desire to see Santa. It wasn’t really a desire to put in a personal appeal for more toys, she was seventeen years old after all and had just completed her final year of secondary school. What Melissa desired was that “Christmas feeling”: hearing the carols and seeing the fake snow and all of that stuff that made the “Season’s Greetings” a little more seasonal in the hot summer. Like Jessica, Melissa had come from overseas to live in Australia, arriving from Ontario when she was eleven. Her accent went unchallenged in the corridors of Elizabeth LaTrobe College where three of the girls had been together for the past five years, (to be joined by Jessica in August ), most of her peers thought she was just “putting on Val-Speak” and trying to be Californian like the rest of them. She liked Australia, but Christmas was still weird without ten feet of snow – the least she could do was visit the cotton wool variety and snow-paint around Santa’s grotto.<br /><br />Floor Three proved a mixed success for the girls. Rachael could not find a top she liked, so bought two she didn’t, but the young male assistant in Accessories was quite handsome.<br /><br />“Can I help you ladies?” Such a smile!<br /><br />“Thank you, I’m looking for a scarf to send across to my Nan in England,” began Kirsten, pretending to be disinterested. “It needs to be warm enough for her winter, but still light enough for me to post there.”<br /><br />“Of course, and you do realise that Buckley’s has a gift sending service where we can handle the wrapping and posting of your parcel, it’s an extra $6, although your Nan won’t be seeing her present for another ten days yet of course.”<br /><br />“That’s fine, Robert,” Kirsten giggled, reading his nametag but then suppressing the smile.<br /><br />“Scarves this way.”<br /><br />Half an hour later the girls arrived back on Floor Two to discover that the line to Santa’s grotto was not as long as they had feared, only six kids, although by the time the girls had arrived at Santa himself a large group of children from an obviously well-to-do childcare facility in the Eastern suburbs had arrived. They were well behaved, but noisy in the way that ten year-olds are, even good ten year olds. Robert had been asked down to help keep them entertained and was quietly chatting to a group of boys about the upcoming cricket season, and the international test match to begin on December 26 th . He was about to begin his final year at Queen Victoria Teachers’ College and had already been offered a job at the school he had attended as a boy: Kirsten was hoping to be accepted to study at QVTC herself, with the intention of teaching History, and was already planning to bump into Robert when studies commenced in the last week in February. Kirsten smiled, he was obviously great with kids.<br /><br />“Yo ho ho little girl. Or should I say, young lady?” Rachael and Jessica had declined a place upon Santa’s knee and Kirsten’s attention was drawn back to the action just as Melissa was sitting down. “Have you been a good girl this year?” Melissa agreed that she had, and in response to the all important question from the-man-who-brings had asked for “snow”, “world peace”, and “a lovely day with my family”. In that order. The same request she’d put in for the previous three years. (She’d only ever received the third one, but she imagined Santa was too busy to help her with the first two.) “For someone as polite as you I shall certainly try my best. Ho ho ho. And what have we here, another big girl to put in her request. Now tell me young lady, have you been a good girl this year?”<br /><br />Kirsten hadn’t intended to sit on Santa’s knee, but standing as she was behind Melissa she had missed her chance to slip across with Jessica and Rachael. So she said “No.”<br /><br />“Did I hear you correctly, young lady? Have you not been good girl? Only a good girl gets presents in her stocking, a bad girl gets sticks in hers to beat her with.” Kirsten saw several of the little girls in the line behind her flinch, and heard one of the carers say “mmhm, that’s true Tiffany.” Robert was smiling, and Kirsten’s three friends all burst a chuckle. Kirsten looked back at Santa and saw behind his outfit that he could not have been much more than thirty years old – the spectacles were rims without lenses and the eyes were free of wrinkle. And cobalt blue: Kirsten’s favourite shade during her Practical Art class for her General Certificate of Education.<br /><br />“I’ve only got one pair of real stockings, hold-ups which my mum bought me to wear to the Formal Leaving Dinner we had a school last week. I looked fabulous by the way.” Kirsten’s eyes were gleaming. “And if you go laddering them by shoving twigs down them tomorrow night you’ll have her and the hairbrush to answer to!” The line of children took one step back, Robert took one step forward, and the three girls laughed again.<br /><br />“Then I guess I’ll have to beat you myself,” replied Santa, returning Kirsten’s gleam. “Girls on the Nice List sit on Santa’s knee, but girls on the Naughty List must bend over it.” He reached up and took Kirsten gently by the wrist. It was obvious to both of them, to Robert, and to Kirsten’s girlfriends, that Santa was not pulling hard enough for Kirsten to be overpowered. If Kirsten was going over Santa’s knee, Kirsten was only going willingly.<br /><br />And willingly did she go.<br /><br />“Bend over young lady. Right, now let’s have that skirt raised then shall we?” Santa gently pulled Kirsten into position across his lap and folded back the flap of heavy cotton/rayon which covered her backside from waist to just above the knee. “You can keep your knickers and your tights in place.” Then, taking a small wooden sign which was laying face down beside him, a round spot featuring an arrow and the words “Santa this way” with a small stake coming out beneath it to attach it to some sort of bench, Santa raised it as a paddle and smacked Kirsten smartly across her upturned bottom.<br /><br />“Ow!” Kirsten squeaked.<br /><br />“Well you should have thought of that earlier,” said a disembodied, teenage female voice, one of her friends but which one? (Probably Rachael, thought Kirsten.) “That’s what you get for chatting up the shopkeeper.” Definitely Rachael, reminding Kirsten that cute Robert was watching this whole thing. Watching seventeen years and almost six months old Kirsten getting an over-the-knee naughty-little-girl spanking, with her skirt up. Three more spanks quickly followed, each one harder than the last, a long way short of being truly painful, but mortifyingly embarrassing. Each smack drew a quick intake of breath from Kirsten.<br /><br />“She must have been really naughty.” One of the little girls speaking this time, her tone somewhat fearful for her own bottom no doubt.<br /><br />“Oh yes, she was,” the voice of Melissa replied, “and she deserves at least two more.”<br /><br />“Very naughty then,” commented Santa. Kirsten was sure she could feel the beginnings of an erection beneath her stomach. “He’ll need to do something about that before Tiffany comes to sit down,” thought Kirsten, giving herself a quick smile as the fifth and hardest spank landed squarely beneath the centre of her bottom, right in the fleshiest part. “A real discipline spank,” thought Kirsten, “that one will sting for a while.” She could feel a tear in her left eye as she winced, but had not heard herself shriek out when she’d been smacked.<br /><br />The sixth and seventh spanks landed directly where the fifth had done, each eliciting a tearful “ouch” from Kirsten and causing the tears to sprout. Then Santa ruffled her hair with his left hand and she could feel her skirt flop back down across the disciplined area. “Let that be a lesson to you, young lady. Next time there will be nine and you’ll be pulling down your knickers first.” He raised and braced his arms helpfully and Kirsten pulled herself back into a standing position. The first face she saw was Robert’s, flushed, and he had his hands in his pockets. “Holding in his chubby, I imagine” she thought, quickly putting it out of her mind with the thought of her mother and the hairbrush. Should mother ever hear Kirsten use such an image as “a chubby” Kirsten knew her knickers would not be involved in the outcome.<br /><br />Kirsten saw Tiffany next, startled and on the point of tears. “That’s what happens when you’re naughty, even when you’re big,” Kirsten warned her, taking in all the children in the line with her glance. “Isn’t that right ladies?” Kirsten’s three friends all agreed that it was. Kirsten took a deep breath before saying “thank you Santa, I hope I will be sitting on top of your knee next year.”<br /><br />“I expect you shall be, Kirsten.”Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-80688742590711936292010-01-23T07:46:00.001+00:002010-01-23T07:46:49.177+00:00Fasten your Seat BeltI won’t make this one long as I’m having trouble sitting down at the moment.<br /><br />I got the strap again last night, Catherine’s one. (If you’ve missed the significance of this, read <span style="font-weight:bold;">Robot in Disguise</span>.)<br /><br />Yesterday, I put my car in for service and “MOT” as it is called here in England, in Australia we called it “Roadworthy”, the annual test to make sure your car is safe both for you and the other users of the highway. No problem there. The problem was, well:<br /><br />Catherine: You’re later that you said; I thought you had today off classes?<br /><br />Kirsten: I did, I had to collect my car from St Albans first so there was a bit of bussing to do.<br /><br />C: Why was your car in St Albans?<br /><br />K: MOT, at the garage.<br /><br />C: So it’s alright then?<br /><br />K: Oh yes, it always was, just needed to get MOT as it’s due on December 1 st . There wasn’t a problem, but I had to drop the car in on the way to school, and then pick it up just now coming home.<br /><br />C: Okay, explain the journey.<br /><br />K: Huh?<br /><br />C: Where did you go that was “bussing”?<br /><br />K: Oh. Umm, I drove to St Albans, put the car in the garage, walked up to St Albans City station to the busses, caught the bus to Hatfield station, and then walked up to school from there.<br /><br />(BTW, Hatfield station is not on the same line as St Albans City, which is why I didn’t use the train, in case you are wondering. They are parallel lines into London.)<br /><br />K: Then home the same way, walked down to Hatfield with some of the children, bus to St Albans, then walked to the garage and drove home. Done and dusted for £149, plus bus, which was £3.30.<br /><br />C: That’s a bit of a palaver Kirstie; couldn’t someone have driven you from St Albans?<br /><br />K: Yeah I suppose so, but I...<br /><br />(Sudden realisation here.)<br /><br />(Catherine nodding.)<br /><br />K:...I didn’t think to ask for help. Oh Catie no, please don’t.<br /><br />C: Let’s just check the facts first, to see if you could have relied on your friends. Who could you have asked?<br /><br />K: Umm, well there’s...[Kirsten names three teachers who live in St Albans]. I suppose I could have asked any of them.<br /><br />C: And who else?<br /><br />K: Umm.<br /><br />C: Where does Hanie live?<br /><br />K: Who?<br /><br />C: Don’t ‘who’ me, young lady. Johanna DeKievert, your mate. Where does she live?<br /><br />(Deeper sudden realisation here: my best friend other than Catherine herself is Hanie, and she lives in St Albans. Hanie teaches at my school.)<br /><br />K: But Catie she lives in the western bit, she’d have had to come back into town and then back past her house to have collected me for school.<br /><br />C: Hmm. And who else?<br /><br />K: No...No, but, but Catie you work in St Albans, you wouldn’t have wanted to take me all the way to Hatfield and then back again.<br /><br />C: All the way is six miles each way Kirsten Louisa, hardly an epic journey. Is it?<br /><br />K: No Catherine.<br /><br />C: So instead of asking me, your best friend, to go out of her way...instead of asking your best colleague at work to go out of her way...instead of asking people you work with and who would have been driving past, or close by, to help you, you took the bus.<br /><br />(I start to sob here, this will not end well for me. But more than that I am entirely ashamed of myself.)<br /><br />C: Go to my room.<br /><br />K: Oh, please Catie.<br /><br />C: Kirsten Louisa?<br /><br />K: Yes, Catherine. I’m very sorry.<br /><br />C: I know darling, and so am I.<br /><br />So then it all went pretty much to form: tights and knickers down, over her knee for about ten minutes of hand spanking to tenderise the meat, then nine vicious lashes of the belt as I bent over the back of the same wooden chair.<br /><br />I really hate it when my friends let me down...but when I let my friends down it kills me.<br /><br />And when I let myself down...Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-92049733842210916882010-01-23T07:44:00.001+00:002010-01-23T07:45:51.661+00:00Kirsten Ellison: Robot in Disguise<span style="font-style:italic;">I wrote this after a time of self-reflection and self-discovery as I planned to retire from writing on Yahoo-360. Again it is a true account.</span><br /><br />I often wonder whether, like Dame Nellie Melba, I will get used to retiring. I have already done it once; back in April 2007 I signed off with “Update: The Story of Miss Ellison” when I was promoted to the position I fill now at school. I am Behaviour Support Teacher, and writer of units for our Humanities Core combined KS3 programme which incorporates Geography, History and Religious Education. I am Head of RE at school. I am also coordinator of assemblies, which task I share with our school’s chaplain.<br /><br />And now here I am again, preparing to say good-bye, but intending to make it permanent this time. I had always hoped in April that I would be back in August; as it was I was back in July, and over-eager to impress you all I ended up with some lovely stories, but a very sore bottom!<br /><br />I suppose “Lap of Honour” has an entirely new connotation when it comes to the final cycle of the moon in one’s own spanking blog, (as indeed does, “cycle of the moon”), but I trust you will allow me a Victory Lap before I head inside my office and take on the business of queening my college.<br /><br />I am a woman of mixed emotions at this time.<br /><br />I am so bubbling pleased to be asked to take on the brand new Assistant Headteacher role at my school, I am replacing two (count them, 1,2) Deputy Headteachers. As I have said to those who have asked this is not so much a promotion, I am already doing about 85% of the work required, it’s more of a recognition that I AM ALREADY doing about 85% of the work required, so it makes more sense to give me a bigger desk and a smaller teaching load so as to facilitate this. And of course it comes with a groovy title for my nametag, and a few more numbers in my cheque. Everyone I talk to, or read from, is so pleased for me, (and pleased with me, so it seems): I feel much loved.<br /><br />However; certain things must go, three steps forward and two steps back it isn’t, but it will be three laborious steps forward if I don’t drop some weight from my shoulders. But I don’t want to. And it’s making me irritable. Not that I’m become bitchy, I’m just “obviously not happy about something”. I don’t WANT to give up teaching in the classroom altogether, (which I will do, working only with senior tutorial groups now, and the occasional day of emergency cover), and I don’t WANT to give up Curtseygirl, (which I will do as she is such a distraction). It’s not that Curtseygirl writes naughty things, (she doesn’t), it’s that she’s constantly inventing stuff which gets in the way of the task at hand...running a school. It’s as it was in April:<br /><br />You’re on the road, but you’ve got no destination,/You’re in the mud, in the maze of her imagination.<br /><br />Baby’s got blue skies up ahead,/But in this I’m a raincloud.<br /><br />I don’t have time, or energy, for her. And it is really getting me down.<br /><br />Or at least it was, until I went cruising 360 on Sunday after church (!!), specifically looking up the collective mates of Julie and Sly, when I found an entry by Sarah W on Transformational Spanking. I read it, read it again, showed it to my friend Catie, who also read it. Then we talked about it, for a long time. I won’t bother offering you a précis of it, go read for yourself, (sorry I’m too much of a girl to give you a hyperlink here , follow her through her comment on my top-page and scroll her blog to Entry for April 30 th 2007 -Transformational Spanking), as I know you’ve read this far for one of two reasons:<br /><br />a) You love and care for our dear Kirsten Louisa and want to know how this all turns out for her.<br /><br />b) You want to get to the spanking part and it must be coming up soon as Curtseygirl’s been rabbiting on for a while now.<br /><br />So then we went for it: bigtime.<br /><br />I don’t get spanked for punishment. Not really. Last year I got the strap, (which is punishment in our house, we don’t use it for fun) four times. Four, for the whole of 2006. This year I have had it once: in February, (see A Bad Day For The Curtseygirl). I have been spanked, and even caned, for things I thought naughty...but I asked for this verbally. No, when I am spanked it is for fun, and for stress release.<br /><br />The article on Transformational Spanking describes how an additional spanking is given to a woman who is not learning from her current level of discipline. She’s getting a sore bottom, but she’s still being naughty: one solution offered is to spank harder, for longer. As a Behaviouralist I’m not sure this is always the best way, if a discipline isn’t working then try a different discipline; but as a woman who likes a few calming smacks herself I wondered whether a transformational session might be what I need to deal with my higher level of stress and anxiety right now. As the article states:<br /><br />Sometimes a woman needs to be given a spanking that has a more pronounced effect than the ones she usually receives... A Transformational Discipline is a discipline that goes beyond a normal spanking and transforms the woman. It is a spanking that creates some kind of quantum leap in her behaviour, her attitude and her understanding. It is a discipline that gives her a total emotional, spiritual and moral makeover. This is a Transformational Discipline.<br /><br />Primarily such spanking will snap a “brat” out of herself, the idea is to make her more submissive, it is to be avoided “at all costs”, it is the sort of spanking a woman does NOT want to receive.<br /><br />But I am not a brat.<br /><br />Sometimes I play like that, my cricket and rugby stories are prime examples of it, and if you ask most of my 360 friends, (particularly the boys) they will tell you how cheeky I can be in text; but for the most part I am respectful and honest and kind and compassionate. I am a good girl, and proud to be so. (I am called curtsey girl after all.)<br /><br />But I am a psychopath.<br /><br />One of my friends offered me a little piece of humour a few days ago, I hope you get the joke. He said to me “Kirstie, have you heard about the new film about New Zealanders on Prozac?” When I told him I had not, he offered, “Yeah it’s great, it’s called Once were Worriers.”) Oh how lovely it would be to be a “once were” and no longer a “worrier”. (And I am a New Zealander after all...or at least I “once were”.)<br /><br />And my current “level of spanking” isn’t sufficient for my current “level of psychopathology”.<br /><br />So, in the model and spirit, if not necessarily the ideal, of Transformational Discipline, I stepped it up a level. Again to the article:<br /><br />Women often complain that their spankings do not last long enough for them to be brought to tears properly....These tears may take longer to start flowing, but once they have begun, they will last much longer because the woman will have been taken to a much deeper state of repentance and submission.<br /><br />I can’t say I’ve often complained that my spankings haven’t been long enough in the past, but I think that what I have lacked is indeed that I have not been brought to tears properly in my maintenance spankings. I have always been in charge, it has been me asking Catie for a few smart smacks across her lap, enough to release the endorphins (and to feel physically close to someone who loves me); but not enough to do anything deeper in my psyche. Short-term action leading to short-term release, but the underlying stress goes untreated.<br /><br />So, in lieu of continuing the explanation of the reasons behind, (apart from additions to text), let me just tell you what happened.<br /><br />(It’s okay category-B, you’ve almost reached the spanking bit now.)<br /><br />What Catie and I agreed to was that she would indeed spank me, and my spanking would be: longer, harder, and better commentated than previous efforts...and that Catie would be in charge.<br /><br />I think it was this last point that really made the Transformation here, it’s that which scared me. It’s not that I don’t trust Catie, but I am not a “Sub”, (I’m submitted, not submissive). Indeed the root of my problem is that I am too independent, I don’t rely on my friends enough, (thank you Dove for your help in this), and I need to learn to allow them to love me. If I trust Catie, then it’s okay to put her in charge.<br /><br />The behaviour that was to be addressed was not any specific form of naughtiness, but rather more one of arrogance. I CANNOT do it all by myself, that isn’t how it is supposed to work, so when I learn to relax and let my friends love me THEN I will bloom in ways I have yet to even dream of. And love task number one was for Catherine Margaret to give Kirsten Louisa Saoirse a jolly good belting.<br /><br />(Here it is, well done category-B!)<br /><br />We started by going into Catie’s bedroom. I am usually spanked in the front room, so this put me squarely in “her” territory. Next she told me to lift up my skirt, again a new thing as we usually start on the skirt and move inwards. Then she told me to pull down my tights, again this stage is usually well into the spanking, (and often we don’t get that far). Then she told me to bend over her bed...something I have NEVER done before. (I’ve been bent over my own bed, and the kitchen table, both for punishment-type events, but never over Catie’s bed). She pulled down my knickers, (I usually pull them down myself), and started slapping me, alternating cheeks and places...she was warming me up. She stopped slapping and started rubbing, really hard, like she was trying to warm her hands: then a few more harder slaps, again moving around.<br /><br />This was all new to me, as I have said before usually I just flop myself across Catie’s knee and she whacks me with my hairbrush on the seat of my skirt, or sometimes my sit-spot through my tights if it’s been a particularly busy day. (I like being spanked on my tights, it seems so girly; it’s specifically female and still demure.)<br /><br />All the time she said basically nothing, which is itself uncommon to us as she often asks me about my day and how I am feeling while she is spanking me. You know the sort of thing, “so who was it today Kirsten?” And “how was Nine Lower then, I know you have been working hard on their Current Event journals?” All the while paddling merrily away, throwing in the occasional hard one to make me wince...or even well up a little bit.<br /><br />Sometimes we role play it, if I am stressed because I have acted in ways that are below my own standards I ask her to discipline me. This is not real punishment, I don’t have to report to her in any way, it’s just a different game for the same ends. So it will be something like “oh, so you shouted at Nine Lower when they go too noisy did you? Excellent teachers don’t ever have to shout do they Miss Ellison?” Again, she just paddling away, punctuating with a hard one every now and then.<br /><br />This time she just slapped me around, with the occasional “ooh” when one went crack! or if she saw/heard me flinch.<br /><br />And then we really got into it. “Right Kirsten, come across my lap.” Not bend over young lady which is what I like to be asked, not even over my knee, but across my lap. This was very unsettling...again not that I was scared, but this was NOT the approved script.<br /><br />She allowed me to keep my clothes on, albeit tucked or pushed out of the way, and she sat on the chair where Paul sits when he punishes her. (Catie is far naughtier than me and gets punished quite a bit. She’s had the strap six times this year, and several bare bottom sessions with her hairbrush which she HATES. Catie has her wooden spoon for fun.) I bent over her lap, and allowed her to adjust me, earning me a “good girl” which made me feel very pleased.<br /><br />Then the spanking began in earnest. She gave me another few rounds of her hand on my bare bottom, to maintain the warm-up, increasing in force each time. Then she started on me with her hairbrush. Now I enjoy being spanked with my hairbrush, but hers is far less pleasant. And again she just got into it, whacking away at a greater rate than usual, but with the same force. It wasn’t very hard, but it was frequent, so it built up; and as I started to sob she just kept going, like she hadn’t even noticed. She started telling me how lovely I am, how proud of me she is, how proud my parents are of me, and all my friends.<br /><br />She read things out of my Book.<br /><br />My Book is the place where I write down all the nice things and the encouragements people have said about me. Inside there are print outs of letters from most of my 360 friends, (including you Kelicious...you didn’t take long did you? Oh, and Joe Mudd thinks I rock...Joe Mudd is correct), as well as excerpts from meeting minutes and newsletters from school, things my parents have sent me, letters and cards that I kept from ex-boyfriends, and stuff from all over. Basically the sorts of encouragement every girl wants to get to make her feel like a princess. I have been keeping this stuff since I was about seven, (which is perhaps why I have such strong self-esteem, but am not a snob, I have all the love I need).<br /><br />So there I am, bare bottom and glowing, across my best friend’s knee, in her private bedroom, having the living daylights spanked out of me with her personal hairbrush, (that she actually brushes her gorgeous hair with), while she reads me stuff from my own diary of how well I am loved, blessed, admired, respected, and honoured.<br /><br />Dear woman, why didn’t she just stick the knife right through now and I’d be done for.<br /><br />Oh man, the tears that were shooting out had nothing to do with my sore bottom: SUCH a resource I have in friends and family, and me so bloody stubborn and self-reliant.<br /><br />(Don’t ask me how she managed to read a book AND spank me at the same time...although the book is rather easy to flop open so she may have had it next to her on the bed.)<br /><br />Then she began whacking with full fury, repeating stuff from my book and getting me to say it after her.<br /><br />“Kirsten Ellison is an asset to our teaching staff”<br /><br />WHACK!<br /><br />“Umm..Kkkirr...”<br /><br />WHACK!<br /><br />“Eeeihh! Kirsten Elliso-aaah!”<br /><br />WHACK!<br /><br />“...is an aaaaa”<br /><br />WHACK!<br /><br />“...aa-haaa-aaa-sset to our teeee-“<br /><br />WHACK!<br /><br />“...eeaching staff-ffff.”<br /><br />WHACK!<br /><br />“...gorgeous Kirsty-girl...”<br /><br />WHACK!<br /><br />And so forth.<br /><br />Once I was crying solidly, but not screaming, (she didn’t get me that far...but she broke me down), she slowed down to a rhythmic whack, getting me to say nice things about myself from memory and then say “and my friends think so too.”<br /><br />The time ended with her rubbing me for a bit, and then getting me to stand up. I stood up very gingerly, and took over the rubbing for myself, still sniffling. I have never been spanked for so long, and with such a variety of strokes. As I say Catie is usually pretty consistent and rhythmic in her calming-me-down sessions: and when I am punished by Paul I get the strap, very hard. I don’t really remember much about my spankings as a child, and my boyfriends who used to spank me, (two at Uni, but not my last boyfriend who I met after graduation), used to do it instead of sex, so it was rough and desperate.<br /><br />Then Catie pulled out the final trick. She gestured to her chest of drawers, and told me to “bend over young lady”. I did so, even flipping up my skirt without thinking, and SNAP, got nine strokes from one of her dressy belts. She’d doubled it up, and she absolutely went for it as hard as she could. “Oww FUCK!” I said. (I did, well for the first one...I just cried for the next eight.)<br /><br />“And that is so you’ll remember it. This is the new regime Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellison. You WILL rely on your friends, you WILL ask for help when you are stressed, and you WILL tell me when you are sick, or scared, or need a cuddle.”<br /><br />There will be no more gentle otk for me, well not for stress release after a busy day anyway. If I need a relaxing smack, I’ll get a nice cup of coff-a-late (black coffee and white chocolate) instead, and will be allowed to lay my HEAD in Catie’s lap while she brushes my hair and strokes my face: any time I want. If I don’t do this, and Catie notices I’m getting edgy, then it’s over her chair for her strap...with an otk warm-up.<br /><br />I don’t want the strap, I don’t like it. I didn’t like it when Paul used to use it to punish me, and I didn’t like it on Sunday.<br /><br />I know Catie loves me, (so does Paul): I know some of you love me, (and most of you seem to like me). I am this planet’s most loved daughter EVER.<br /><br />I have lots of friends who like me; colleagues who respect me; and people whose favour I desire who favour me.<br /><br />I don’t have to do it alone.<br /><br />I will NOT do it alone.<br /><br />THIS is the new regime: and I don’t need Curtseygirl anymore.<br /><br />So again, this is not goodbye yet, I still have a few more stories I want to write as I have promised them and it would be rude to my friends not to write them. I like having friends, and I like doing nice things for them: so this is as much about me as it is you.<br /><br />Thank you for being my friends, thank you for reading this...especially those of you in category-A.<br /><br />And thank you so much, Sarah W, for posting this.<br /><br />I love youse all!<br /><br />Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellison<br /><br />(Kirsten Blessed.)Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-15567458506781909662010-01-23T07:41:00.003+00:002010-01-23T07:43:33.439+00:00Tales of Her Girlhood<span style="font-style:italic;">Hello everyone. This was originally going to be a 101 Interesting Things About Kirsten, in the style of a piece recently completed by Celticgirl, but then I thought since I’m a storyteller I’d give you some short autobiographical episodes instead. These first two are accounts of the last spankings I received as a child, from each of my parents. Obviously since these happened over 20 years ago there’s a certain amount of licence to fill the gaps, but most of the facts are true as they are remembered by me, them, and the witnesses</span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Fuchsia<br /><br />Sunday 26th July 1987.<br />Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens<br />Hobart, Tasmania.</span><br />(Kirsten is 15 years, 0 months, 3 weeks, 3 days old)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">A precise date and location, I remember this occasion well as it was my very last “childhood” spanking, my mother agreeing with me that since I was now fifteen which is the age at which a Tasmanian child may leave school if she wishes, I was old enough to not be smacked any more. Little did she know!<br /><br />The scene is the RBG on Hobart’s Queen’s Domain, and particularly the visit of some of my Irish-New Zealander cousins, my mother’s brother and his two boys. The Ellison girls have taken the McDonagh boys to see the Japanese Garden.<br /></span><br />“Kirsty, can we look in that house?” Martin was nine and had an interest in enclosed spaces. We were walking down from the car park towards the Japanese Gardens and were passing a low maroon coloured wooden shed. We two were walking together in front of the others, Martin holding my hand. (Not bad considering he was nine!)<br /><br />“Mummy?”<br /><br />“Yes Kirsty that’s fine, but make sure you catch us up.”<br /><br />“Thanks mum, c’mon Martin.”<br /><br />“It’s dark in here.”<br /><br />“Yes, this is where they keep the…”<br /><br />“What does that say Kirsty, does that really say what I think it does? Why does it say that?”<br /><br />“That’s what this type of flowers is called.”<br /><br />“Really? Okay, let’s go see the Japanese thing now.”<br /><br />“Aunty Louisa, guess where we went?”<br /><br />“I saw where you went Martin, did you like the flowers in there?”<br /><br />“Yes Aunty Louisa, but they have a very rude name don’t they?”<br /><br />“Do they?”<br /><br />“Yes, they’re called Fuck Seeya. That’s rude words in Taranaki.”<br /><br />“That’s rude words in Hobart too Martin, it’s pronounced few-sha. Kirsten Ellison! That’s more than enough; stop that laughing immediately young lady.”<br /><br />“Sorry mummy.”<br /><br />“I’ll see you in your room when we get home.”<br /><br />“Mummy no!”<br /><br />“Don’t you say no to me!”<br /><br />“Sorry mummy.”<br /><br />“Your room, as soon as we get home.”<br /><br />“Yes mummy.”<br /><br />And so the action shifted, to our home in Kingston and particularly to my bedroom, which was at the back of the house and looked over the deck where dad, uncle, and boys were barbequing in the rain, (recall: July is winter in Tasmania). Aunty was in the kitchen with the girl cousin making salad, the Ellison girls were in my room.<br /><br />“Do you know why you’re here Kirsty?”<br /><br />“Yes mummy, I was laughing at Martin.”<br /><br />“I don’t disagree that what he said was humorous, but you didn’t set a good example. You’re the eldest of the McDonaghs Kirsty...”<br /><br />“I’m an Ellison, mummy.”<br /><br />“…you know what I mean young lady. Is rudeness at this point more likely or less likely to end well for you? Well?”<br /><br />“Less likely mummy, sorry.”<br /><br />“Right. You are fifteen years old, Martin is nine and Karl is six. I expect you to demonstrate maturity in their presence.”<br /><br />“Yes mummy.”<br /><br />“Right, so you know what comes next, how many will it be?”<br /><br />This was my mum’s standard question, the number of smacks depended upon the location. I could have twelve over her knee, or nine over my bed: the understanding being that since she had more swing room if we were standing apart she could hit harder. I had experimented with this quite a bit, it was always better to opt for the lesser number. I could also have six on the bare, over the knee but that was usually imposed rather than a choice. Spanking was usually on the knickers, and always with the black hairbrush.<br /><br />“Nine please mummy.”<br /><br />“Thank you Kirsty, bend over.”<br /><br />I pulled down my trousers and bent over my bed, hands on the mattress, arms straight.<br /><br />Whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack!<br /><br />“Anything to say?”<br /><br />“Ouch! I’m very sorry mummy, for being rude and not setting a proper example for my little cousins.”<br /><br />Whack-whack-whack!<br /><br />“But I’m not the biggest McDonagh mummy, Ciaran is bigger than me.”<br /><br />(Stupid girl, can’t I count? That was nine!)<br /><br />“True Kirsten Ellison…”<br /><br />(Crap, “Kirsten Ellison” is the in-trouble name, mummy doesn’t go with “Kirsten Louisa” since she’s “Louisa”.)<br /><br />“…but Ciaran is not here is he, and you are the eldest grand-daughter. No, no don’t stand up, bend over young lady. If you want to discuss this…”<br /><br />Whack-whack-whack!<br /><br />“…I’m quite happy to chat.”<br /><br />“Sorry mummy.”<br /><br />“Stand up and put your trousers back on, Aunty needs help in the kitchen.”<br /><br />And that was it: I was never ever punished as a child again! Next spanking I was twenty-two and bare bottom over my first University boyfriend’s knee. He spanked me with an egg-flipper. He was a prick.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Kirsten Louisa is a Very Pretty Name.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">September 1984<br />TAA end at Hobart Domestic Airport<br />Hobart, Tasmania<br />(Kirsten is 12 years, 2 months old.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Less precise dating, although I could probably work it out with a calendar. Yet again I am at the wrong end of a conversation with my New Zealander cousins, but these ones are Ellisons under a different name.</span><br /><br />“You look very pretty in your dress Kirsty.”<br /><br />I smiled very broadly; every little girl loves compliments from the man in her life.<br /><br />“Thank you daddy, I’ve got gloves and a hat too.”<br /><br />“I see that, you’re a proper lady today: your cousins will be very pleased to meet such a delightful young lady.”<br /><br />“And pantyhose. Not lumpy tights from school but shiny pantyhose, like mummy has.”<br /><br />(I specifically remember that, these were my first pair of sheer, flesh-coloured tights, rather than the ribbed dark coloured varieties I wore all the way through Primary School.)<br /><br />“I’m very happy to see you looking less lumpy today.”<br /><br />The Hobart Ellisons were very excited. David’s sister and her family were visiting Tasmania for the first time since David had moved to take up an engineering position in 1978, and whilst they’d been back to Auckland to visit this was the first time anyone had come to Tasmania to see them. In celebration of the event Kirsty had indeed been dolled up, with real pantyhose (little ones), a frilly dress, gloves, hat, and even a little bit of mummy’s lipstick.<br /><br />(Kirsty had also had her first “lady time” two weeks earlier, she was nearly a woman now.)<br /><br />I remember feeling very grown up, and I had been practicing my speech because daddy had said that I could be the one to give the official welcome. Even so, I still wasn’t allowed to sit in the front seat on the drive up to Hobart, or even across to the airport after we stopped in the city for cake.<br /><br />“Here they come.”<br /><br />Daddy waved casually, but mummy began bouncing up and down on the spot. “Ellisons! Ellisons, over here!”<br /><br />My uncle pointed to us and waved. There were three of them, Uncle and Aunty, and my cousin Michael, (who was seventeen). I’d seen the adults on our holiday in Auckland, but Michael had been away so I was meeting him for the first time in eight years.<br /><br />“Ready Kirsty?”<br /><br />“Yes daddy.”<br /><br />“Big voice, make us proud!”<br /><br />“Yes daddy!”<br /><br />They came closer.<br /><br />“GOOD AFTERNOON. Welcome to Hobart, I hope you had a nice flight from Melbourne today. I’m Kirsten Louisa!” I very proudly stuck out my hand to Michael.<br /><br />He sneered at me.<br /><br />He scoffed.<br /><br />He said “Cursed and a Loser, what a stupid name!”<br /><br />My little lip quivered.<br /><br />My little nose sniffled.<br /><br />My little hand closed up, I dropped it and swung it.<br /><br />His fat ugly nose exploded.<br /><br />“Aaagh!”<br /><br />Daddy swung his arm down and around my waist, and picked me up in one movement. Before anyone knew what had happened he had carried me over to the seating area, dropped onto a chair with me over his knee, and was into the third very solid smack on my very pretty dress’s very thin cotton backside.<br /><br />I was crying. Very.<br /><br />“Oh daddy, he was so mean, OUCH, daddy!”<br /><br />“Kirsten Louisa SMACK I’m very disa…SMACK…pointed in you; that is SMACK SMACK not ladylike be…SMACK…haviour at all!”<br /><br />“Oh but OUCH oh daddy he was so mean SOB SOB.”<br /><br />He flipped up the back of my dress.<br /><br />SMACK “That’s not the…SMACK…point Kirsten Louisa, we…SMACK…taught you better than…SMACK…that.<br /><br />“OUCH…I’m sorry daddy, I’m…OUCH…very very sorry daddy.”<br /><br />“Will you apologise?”<br /><br />(He’d stopped, but I was still over his knee with my dress up.) “Yes daddy, of course.”<br /><br />SMACK SMACK SMACK “Stand up.”<br /><br />We go back over to the others. Michael has my mum’s hanky covering three quarters of his face, there’s blood seeping through and his fingers are brown. Mum is fretting messily around him; Uncle and Aunty are in stitches of laughter.<br /><br />“Dear God, David, she’s a beauty! What a lovely girl, what a niece! Promise me Kirsty, promise your uncle this, you’ll only ever support the All Blacks.”<br /><br />“Yes. I pwommis.”<br /><br />“Are you crying because you hurt Michael, don’t you dare, he was very rude to you.”<br /><br />“No Aunty, I’m crying because daddy just spanked me.”<br /><br />“He…David? No, you didn’t! Oh David!”<br /><br />Now what do you think? Daddy claims this was Kirsty’s last spanking because “the manner of women was now upon her”. I am becoming more convinced that it was not so much that as the bollocking he got from his big sister.<br /><br />Michael and I are best mates now, he’s turning forty in two weeks’ time and in fact I have his card to post him on the desk beside me. I can’t believe none of them saw me get smacked that day, it was pretty public after all. Michael still teases me about my being spanked in the middle of a busy airport, but then I remind him of the time when he had his nose smashed in by a twelve year old girl in white gloves, a frilly dress, and a hat. That usually shuts him up pretty quickly!Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-5895252166856333732010-01-23T07:41:00.001+00:002010-01-23T07:41:43.465+00:00The Story of Ella ZenMUFTI.<br /><br />Yesterday, Friday July 13th 2007, was mufti day at Rather Convincing but Nonetheless Entirely Fictional Name Secondary College: for those of you not up with the intricacies of British English, the concept of “mufti” is that the pupils (and staff) are able to wear casual clothes to school instead of uniform. Usually British schools allow this sort of thing near the end of the school year, and charge small-coin for the privilege with the money going to a suitable cause.<br /><br /><br />Well, with the date being what it was (Friday 13), it was decided to have an “inverse day”, with pupils dressing as if they were teachers and teachers…well you get the point.<br /><br /><br />I was well pleased with the efforts of my group, they who once were “Miss Ellison’s Home Class” and now belong to Juffrou DeKievert, (but are still called 9EN). Many of the boys came in trendy tracksuits, claiming to be “PE Department”, although one had hired a priest outfit from an outfitter and came as the school chaplain. There were three boys and nine girls in Geneva gowns and mortar boards (which of course we don’t actually wear as teachers, but the concept was good); two of these girls also carried canes and were calling themselves “Ms Alison” and “Ms DeKiwi”. (Hmm, wonder what that was supposed to mean?) The fact that Ms Alison kept calling everyone “mate” and saying “crikey” all the time, (I don’t do that, I don’t, I don’t!), added to the character study: I was touched, but Hanie was a bit annoyed to have been made into a New Zealander. (Well, you would be, wouldn’t you?) Most of the other senior kids were in suits and the like, quite smart they looked too, and even the year sevens (our babies) had made the effort.<br /><br /><br />But you don’t want to hear about them do you, you want to hear about how the teachers dressed up as children. Yes, you do.<br /><br /><br />The seniors insisted upon being addressed by their surnames whilst in character, and that the teachers be addressed as children, i.e. by first names. Most of the teachers agreed to this, but some of the sticks-in-the-mud refused on this point. Enter the three sticks, from Humanities. There’s no way I’m having kids calling me “Kirsten”, after all I’m Behaviour Support Teacher, I need to have some shred of distance, and Daniel and Hanie agreed on the basis that Daniel is a senior teacher in school, (member of Management, and a department head), and that as it’s entirely not-the-done-thing in Zuit Afrika it would actually upset Hanie’s train of thought.<br /><br /><br />(Boo and hiss all you like, we don’t care!)<br /><br /><br />So, so. So we compromised. Daniel Roberts became “Rob”, Johanna DeKievert became “Dixie”, and you should have already worked out what Kirsten Ellison went in as.<br /><br /><br />So there I was, taking up a teaching load today, walking around the school being addressed by everyone as “Ella” and wearing a uniform borrowed off one of the girls in Upper Sixth (year thirteen). Yes, I was actually dressed in the school’s own girls’ uniform, complete with piggy tail hair, “Rob” and “Dixie” had also managed to borrow kit from the children, but none of the other teachers had so they’d had to make do with suit trousers with jumpers or shorter skirts and girlie hair, although three of the youngest women still had (and still fitted) their uniforms from a decade ago. Once again Humanities leads the way…go Humanities!<br /><br /><br />(Yes, okay, all well and good Kirsten, we like the idea of you dressed up as a school girl, but when do we get to the spanking part?)<br /><br /><br />And so it was, that after a lesson with each teacher’s home group, (Hanie and I shared), all of the school met in the assembly hall for a big quiz, with a prize of sweets for the winning class. Two boys, two girls, and one teacher on each team: my class nominated me to the team, (which Hanie was relieved by), and so up we went.<br /><br /><br />And we won. C’MON!! (Insert Lleyton Hewitt style fist pumping here.)<br /><br /><br />A huge victory for 9EN, we beat off 10LN in the Final with Ella absolutely wiping the floor with Sarah (Mrs Lennon) in the “teacher round”, having disposed of lesser teams in our wake during the Round of Eight and the Semi Finals. A small celebration ensued, my two lovely boys doing a little haka for us all, (females don’t haka in Maori culture and I respect that), while Hanie lead the class in a surprise rendition of “Ella, Ella, Ella!, Oi, Oi, Oi!” and Ella had her hands on the big trophy to pass around at playtime.<br /><br /><br />After play we had a whole school assembly, with awards for the week and a short message from our chaplain. School actually ends next Thursday, so this wasn’t the big farewell, but it was nice to have our last Friday assembly with such fun. The Head had remained in “teacher attire”, but was indeed wearing the gown and hat of a traditional educator. As was usual there was a bit of serious stuff at assembly with a list of children who had won merit awards being presented with them, and a warning that some children were getting close to the other end of the spectrum with “red letters” going home to parents. (Next stage is suspension, and yes the letters do actually go home on pink paper.) One child had her name mentioned at this point, (we don’t usually “name” children in this category), the unfortunate girl being the RE prize-winner “Ella Zen”, who was not in correct uniform.<br /><br /><br />Ooops!<br /><br /><br />I was taken by surprise by this, what had I done? Quick scan: nicely polished brown strappy shoes (mine), school approved tights (mine), school issue skirt, school issue blouse, school issue tie, school issue jumper, school issue blazer (all borrowed and all in excellent condition), SRC badge pinned in the place above the crest on the blazer pocket. What’s wrong? I was called out to the front, (also not the done thing, we don’t shame kids here), and put on display. Who can tell me what is wrong with Ella’s outfit? asked the Head. Two things: I was in winter uniform, not summer, and my piggy tails were held in with black elastics rather than the stipulated “own hair colour” (brown), “own house colour” (blue), or “school colours”. Add to this that Ella is a member of SRC, (I am actually), and should therefore be setting a better example for the younger members of the school; what shall be done? Of course all of the kids yelled out “put her on detention”, (rotten little buggers). Sadly that’s not what happened: as this had in fact been set up by Daniel and Hanie, all the teachers yelled out (on the count of three), “give her the slipper!”, to which the children were all delighted to join in.<br /><br /><br />Ella: But sir, corporal punishment has been banned in England for over twenty years.<br /><br />Sir: Yes Ella, but the ban stipulates that no child born after 1976 may be physically punished: I believe you were born before that year? That’s the wording of the law.<br /><br />Ella: But if that’s the wording of the law then it still doesn’t apply as I am not a “child”.<br /><br /><br />The Head asked what the school thought of that argument. Daniel suggested it was “weak” and 9EN in unison chanted “weak, weak, weak” with a certain South African cheer-leader taking great delight in conducting that. (She was in summer uniform and with her hair pinned.)<br /><br /><br />Ella: Betrayed!<br /><br />Sir: Sentenced.<br /><br />Ella: Okay then, but I’m keeping all the lollies from the quiz, no sweets for 9EN!<br /><br /><br />Hanie lead a short chant of “worth it! worth it!” to which the room erupted in laughter, including those on stage. (Including Ella.) The Head motioned for silence, and then unleashed a huge cheer:<br /><br /><br />Sir: Rob and, uh, Dixie is it? Yes, fetch the slipper!<br /><br /><br />Quietly he asked me if this was okay, it’s all part of the fun Kirsten, but I know how you feel about the corporal punishment of children, indeed it’s why I’m so pleased to have you on Leadership as Behaviour Support Teacher. I reminded him, with a wink, that I’m not a child. He smiled and patted my hand.<br /><br /><br />Rob: Excuse me sir, here’s the slipper.<br /><br />Dixie: Ja, the slipper.<br /><br />Sir: Thank you children, and allow me to say you look very smart in your uniforms; now Ella, why can’t you be more like Rob and Dixie?<br /><br />Ella: Because I choose to be kind to my friends sir.<br /><br /><br />A big cheer of “ooh” from the assembly, I see Sarah Lennon clapping madly there.<br /><br /><br />Sir: Right Ella, we’ve not done this here for a while, but I’m sure you know what to do.<br /><br />Ella: Yes sir.<br /><br /><br />I bend forward and put my hands on my knees.<br /><br /><br />Sir: Ah, no Ella.<br /><br /><br />The head sat down on his chair and patted his lap. Surely he could not be serious? But then, was any of this serious? Another huge cheer from the assembly. I stand up and walk across to him, hands behind my back, face down, and looking very contrite.<br /><br /><br />Sir: I thought our Behaviour Support Prefect would know better than that. Bend over, across my knee Ella.<br /><br /><br />So there we were, my Head dressed in black gown and mortar board hat, and me in the uniform of an eighteen year old girl, bent over his knee and about to be slippered. I didn’t bother asking Hanie to take a photo as I knew none of you would be interested in that sort of thing, although Daniel got one on his phone.<br /><br /><br />There were three big smacks, hard enough to look convincing but still obviously staged: but since I was “in position” in front of the whole school most of the point of being spanked was in place for me anyway. Nonetheless I made appropriately gruesome faces and big shrieks, to rapturous applause. It’s amazing, I actually know what sound a big girl makes when she gets spanked. (Amazing.)<br /><br /><br />School ended with a big lunch together in the dining hall and the teachers (that is to say, the pupils in mufti) went home at 1:50, while the children, (adults in uniform) stayed back to tidy up and make plans for the final week of school. We have a sports carnival next week: one day of athletics and another of swimming; along with balls for KS4 and AS Leavers, and a KS3 bloc-party. It’s going to be a fun week.<br /><br /><br />By the way, I did keep all the lollies, but I shared them with Sarah Lennon. But not with Hanie or Daniel. With friends like these, who needs enemas?Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-60492878513987367532010-01-23T07:37:00.003+00:002010-01-23T07:43:49.798+00:00Everything is Good for You<span style="font-style:italic;">I wrote this account in response to an act of rudeness I commited on Yahoo-360. It is a true story.</span><br /><br />“Kirsten Louisa Ellison, how could you?”<br /><br />What on earth was that all about? I was laying on my bed catching up on some enjoyable reading for a change, poetry rather than curriculum, the Songs From The Banjo book actually, (Clancy of the Overflow, a wonderful poem about an accountant swapping places with a stockman), when the shrill voice of Catherine bounded into my room.<br /><br />“I’m sorry Catie, what have I done?”<br /><br />“Don’t you bloody ‘sorry Catie’ me, you stuck-up piece of nastiness.”<br /><br />What on earth?<br /><br />“Catie I…”<br /><br />“…stole Mr Philip’s story?”<br /><br />Man, I thought we’d been through this; it’s been over a week. She came into my room, hands on her hips, (I’m a little sugar-bowl, short and Scot), face like a blaze.<br /><br />I took a deep breath, “Catie I…”<br /><br />“Catherine!”<br /><br />So it’s like that is it? “Catherine. Catherine I did not steal his story, I simply offered to write one in partnership with him since it was about Kirstie and Phil and we’re Kirsten and Philip, but then posted my draft as a complete story rather than sharing it with him first. He’s been ever-so nice about it, as have all my friends. But I promise you, it’s my story, mine alone; that’s the whole point.”<br /><br />“But after the weekend? Didn’t you learn anything in Brighton?”<br /><br />“Cate, Catherine. Catherine it was before Brighton: I threw it up on the Friday afternoon before I went to Ireland. It had already been up for a week when we were in Brighton…but you can be certain I had that in mind on the Pier, I still feel horrible about it.”<br /><br />Catherine deflated. “Oh. Sorry.”<br /><br />“No Catie-matey, you are entirely right. Yes it was before the talking-to and so I have learned my lesson, but it was still very unkind of me.”<br /><br />Catie smiled and came over to hug me, but since I was sitting up on my bed she managed only to engulf my head.<br /><br />“So, no spanking for this one, just asphyxia?”<br /><br />“Some people find that sexy.”<br /><br />“Bugger off you kinky kiltygirl!”<br /><br />“That’s easy for you to say.”<br /><br />The sound of two girls laughing: all is well once more at Chateaux Kirsten and Company.<br /><br /><br />But she got me thinking, perhaps Brighton wasn’t enough: I mean, Philip, for all his being “BottomSpanker4u” and his letter in the character of Recidivist’s wickedly accurate story (in response to my own letter), has a point. I was none-too-keen on the abandoned house halfway up the M6 with us beating a path around an empty set of rooms, but something needed to be done: if only to stop me feeling so maudlin about it all. And following Recidivist’s own dose of percussive repercussion for typos, (Miss Holloway, please come into my office,) perhaps something specific in the real world might not be out of the question. The thought then hit me in the stomach like a kick from a fourth-former on Ritalin; I needed a jolly swift caning, just like the one Philip gave Kirsten in that story. Well, maybe I didn’t need it, but I certainly deserved it. No, I needed it too.<br /><br /><br />But I’ve never been caned before. Not for real. I mean there has been Daniel with the metre-ruler at school, but that’s just fun, and I did get a whack across the bare calves with a stick of wattle when I was eleven, (I nicked some lollies from the Huonville store and the old witch caught me…I felt like Gretel), and Catie has given me a few with a riding crop and a few other things for research sake, but of course they weren’t hard. I wonder, could I really do it?<br /><br /><br />Yes.<br /><br /><br />“Paul?” I put my book down and went to find Paul who was sitting in his room and working on his computer. I explained the situation and asked if he would help. Having checked with me that this was healthy, and involving Catherine in the discussion, it was agreed to suspend the “no more spanking” policy of the house for one night.<br /><br /><br />And so on Thursday night, unlike Kirsten, Paul delivered on his promise. I don’t know where he got it, certainly not Ann Summers because this thing is vicious, but Paul had found a cane: a thick cracky one. It even had the curly end, suitable for purpose. This was not some tomato-stake from B&Q then.<br /><br /><br />“Are you sure.”<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“We’re really going to hit you with this.”<br /><br />Gulp. “Yes.”<br /><br />“Proper hard Kirstie.”<br /><br />Gulp, blink…blink. “Yes.”<br /><br />“Six each, Catherine on your pants, me on your bare.”<br /><br />Unable to speak now I nod.<br /><br />“Are you sure?”<br /><br />I smile as the first tear breaks free of its duct; I bet real Subs don’t have this much trouble getting started.<br /><br />“Please Paul, Catherine.”<br /><br />“You’re crying.”<br /><br />“I’m really disappointed in myself, and a little bit scared.”<br /><br />“Let’s start then, Catherine first.”<br /><br />The ladies nod. Paul hands her the vicious thing, I turn and place my elbows and forearms on the dining table. Catherine folds up my skirt, but it flops back again. I refuse to take it off so I stand up and we fold it up and tuck it into its own waistband all the way around: if I don’t move it will stay in place.<br /><br />(And the chances of me not moving are?) I bend over again.<br /><br />She’s crying: I’m crying: Paul’s not sure whether he’s glum or horny.<br /><br />“I know you already are my darling, but just so you can relax, I’m asking you to bend over young lady.”<br /><br />I use Catherine’s words to drop my shoulders and calm myself, I have no real idea how much this will hurt, I’m sure it will, but I know that I am in control and there is no need for a safety word. I wonder, is this how Charles I felt in his last minutes on the block in 1649? Now the position of the Scottish and the English (am I that?) are reversed.<br /><br />“Count?”<br /><br />Sob. “I’ll try.”<br /><br /><br />The graphemes which compose the sentiment “whoosh-crack!” do not do justice to the sound that vicious thing made as it came towards me and made contact, but that’s the best I can offer. Soon enough they weren’t the loudest sounds in the room anyway as Catherine caught me with her most full-powered hit right on the crease between buttocks and thighs. Again, there aren’t graphemes, phonemes, or even words to describe the sounds I made. Suffice to say they were passionate and ended in a flurry of tears and sobs.<br /><br /><br />Catherine handed Paul the vicious thing, then gently pulled down my tights for me, offering with the best of intention but with unintended gravity, “I wouldn’t want to tear these.” I sobbed at the thought that that might just be possible, not for the prospective loss of functional underwear, but for the torn flesh inside them at the time.<br /><br /><br />Again whoosh-crack-squeal, or sounds in that direction, and a third time, with the blows coming to the centre of my bottom, and, more painfully, across the tops of my bare thighs.<br /><br />“I’m sorry Kirstie I just can’t do this any more.” Catherine handed the vicious thing to Paul, (actually she threw it at him), and ran out.<br /><br /><br />“Are you sure we need to continue Kirsten?”<br /><br />“Please Paul.”<br /><br />“Knickers down then.”<br /><br />There’s that doped-up fourth former again.<br /><br />I stood up, pulled the cotton over the welts, and resumed the position, squirming as raw flesh rubbed itself in the movement.<br /><br />“I’ve no intention of dragging this out Kirsten, hold on tight.”<br /><br />I think I nodded, Paul certainly thought I did as the indescribable sounds were repeated three in quick succession, blows to my buttocks with a force beyond what Catherine could even imagine, let alone muster. He almost knocked me through the wall. The fourth one, hitting across Catherine’s second mark elicited a scream and the action of me jumping vertical.<br /><br />I see that Paul is close to crying. “Kirsten, turn around.”<br /><br />“Oh Paul please, it hurts so. I will go again, but just…”<br /><br />“Kirsten,” he closes his eyes, “I can see your front.”<br /><br />I look down. My skirt, still rucked up ra-ra style, with tights and knickers around my knees, has left my “front” partially uncovered. He’s never seen that before, not mine anyway. Can this get any worse? I turn around but remain standing.<br /><br />“I’m sorry Paul; it’s my back to you now.”<br /><br />“When you’re ready, replace your clothing.”<br /><br />I bob to reach for my knickers, then turn to him, bottom sticking out, “but Paul that’s only four.”<br /><br />“Last two on the hands. Ideal punishment for a lady writer. Besides, you should see your bum.”<br /><br />“It can’t be worse than twenty-four with the strap, surely?”<br /><br />“No, but it’s all lines and it looks freaky.”<br /><br />I decide to pull my knickers and tights off rather than on, but have to sit down to do this. (Girls will understand that tights can be tricky to handle when standing up, especially when you’re shaking and sobbing.) Sitting doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, but it still hurts. I untuck my skirt, take off my shoes and underwear, and stand up on bare feet.<br /><br />“Again Kirsten, without discussion. Hold out your left hand.”<br /><br />I sob, drop my eyes, and obey.<br /><br />“Look up at me please.”<br /><br />As I am lifting my eyes the sound returns: whoosh-crack-squeal. I pull my arm back sharply.<br /><br />“Now, do you want this on your right hand, since you are right-handed, or do you want another on the left?”<br /><br />I don’t have any will power at all to raise my left arm again, but would choose right anyway. I raise my head, and my hand, and look Paul directly in the face.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />When the two locked eyes,<br />And for a moment I was taken.</span><br /><br />I don’t even hear whoosh-crack this time, the squeal is some other sound, and we are finished.<br /><br />Catherine is waiting at the door and takes me down to my bedroom; I go via the toilet and throw up down the bowl: Catherine holding my hair back for me and looking close to sending her own dinner after mine. She helps me lay on my bed, in the “Recovery Position”, (I’m sure International Red Cross never had this in mind when they wrote the CPR manual), and lifts back my skirt. Unladylike words escape from her as she surveys the damage back there as I struggle to lie without burying my face, and yet trying not to use my hands. Since we aren’t a “spanko house” there’s no specific lotion in the place, but we make do with some gentle bottom rubbing and hair stroking. Catherine picks up my hairbrush, (yes, that one), and begins brushing my hair with it: it feels lovely.<br /><br />“Catherine.”<br /><br /><br />And all paths lead to a single conclusion.<br /><br />“Catie, it’s Catie now.”<br /><br />“Catherine, you still owe me three strokes. It was to have been six from each of you.”<br /><br />“Oh Kirstie no, you’ve had enough and so have I. I won’t take up that cane again.”<br /><br />I sob. “These are the consequences of a broken promise Catherine; you don’t want to be that girl too.” I have my head in her lap now as she brushes my hair; I roll forwards and catch myself in a crouch to stand up.<br /><br />“Kirstie no, I won’t do it.”<br /><br />I shake my head, “not that, slide down”, I tap the mattress with a swollen hand. She responds, sitting now in the middle of my bed rather than near my pillow, still uncertain of what I want her to do. I lay myself across her knees, and she lets out a big sob when I flip back my skirt and say, “use the hairbrush.”<br /><br />“Kirstie I…”<br /><br />“Catherine. Please.”<br /><br />A long pause, then “okay.”<br /><br />There is no mistaking that sound, it’s a much more common whack-whack-whack, but my cries have a deeper passion in them than is usual. She hit hard, as I’d hoped.<br /><br />“Kirstie I’m so sorry.” She puts down the brush and rubs me until I stop crying.<br /><br />“Catie,” I sob above a whisper, “thank you.” I lift myself up on my elbows, (hard to do on a mattress), and we shuffle back into my-head-in-her-lap position. She starts brushing me again<br /><br />Catherine tells me she thinks me very brave, I know I feel much happier about myself now. At some point I drift off to sleep in her lap, she still brushing my hair and massaging beneath my eyes. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Everything is good for you<br />If it doesn't kill you<br />Everything is good for you.</span>Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-71452585524339571652010-01-23T07:35:00.001+00:002010-01-23T07:44:08.397+00:00Thirty-Five of The Blest<span style="font-style:italic;">There was movement at the station<br />For the word had passed around<br />That the</span> First Capital Connect apologises for the late running of this service.<br /><br />“All the time that happens.” Kirsten was not happy. She and her house-friend Catherine had planned a daytrip down to Brighton for Kirsten’s birthday, and once again the trains were running late. They were stood on the platform at Harpenden as Hannah DeKievert, (Kirsten’s friend from school), awaited their arrival on the platform at the next station down the line, St Albans City. And there were no trains.<br /><br />“You’d better tell Hannah.”<br /><br />“I just texted her: @hpdn tran L8 cu soon ihop k”<br /><br />“So they don’t teach spelling at your school Miss Ellison?”<br /><br />“Not in the RE department Ms House.”<br /><br />“What’s the book?”<br /><br />“ Songs from the Banjo . It’s a collection of poetry by A.B. Paterson, known as ‘Banjo’. He was the Australia-based correspondent for The Times and wrote for The Bulletin in Sydney, but he also wrote poems. This one is called The Man from Snowy River...”<br /><br />“Like the Kirk Douglas film?”<br /><br />“Uh-huh, although I think Jack Thompson is far sexier in that. The film was based on the poem. Anyway Banjo’s the one responsible for the words to Waltzing Matilda; the tune is English folk-music. The book was a birthday present from my Nana Saoirse in Auckland.”<br /><br />“Cool, oh, train sear.”<br /><br />Kirsten smiled. “Train sear? I’ll make an Aussie out of you yet.”<br /><br />“Just don’t make me sing about jolly swagmen.”<br /><br />“Oy that’s our Miss. Hey, Ciara!”<br /><br />Kirsten was looking absently out of the window at the passing array of Hertfordshire and not listening to the conversations around her. Hannah and Catherine were catching up on all the gossip, ostensibly swapping stories of “what is Kirsten really like at home/school”, things Kirsten wasn’t really interested in hearing.<br /><br />“Ciara! Miss!”<br /><br />Kirsten looked around when the disembodied voice began to come into focus, and to wave in her direction.<br /><br />“Ciara Miss!”<br /><br />“Oh, Michael,” returned Kirsten to one of the boys from Lower Seven, “what are you doing on the train?”<br /><br />“Going to London Miss, with my dad.” Michael indicated the reading figure seated across from him. “We’re going to the Museum of London; I really want to go after what Juffrou DeKievert said about your trip to London a few weeks ago.”<br /><br />Kirsten smiled; Hannah hadn’t mentioned everything about that visit to the nation’s capital.<br /><br />“I hope you will enjoy your day as much as Juffrou and I did. But why are you calling me Ciara?”<br /><br />“I’m not Miss; your name is Kylie isn’t it? Isn’t that the kiwi-way to say hello?”<br /><br />“Ah. No, that’s kia ora. Besides which, I’m Australian. And not every Aussie woman is named Kylie you know, only the short ones.” Hannah looked up at Kirsten, smiled, and turned back to Catherine who had continued speaking. “My name is actually Kirsten.”<br /><br />“Oh, g’day then Miss. Kirst-en: so that’s why Mr Roberts keeps calling you ‘the blessed Miss Ellison’ then. I thought that was just because you are the RE lady and you go to church.”<br /><br />“Does he now? I’ll have to have a word with him. Kirsten Blessed. I might use that. Enjoy your day Michael: thank you for saying hello to me.”<br /><br />“Good on you Miss. Hello Miss DeKievert.”<br /><br />“Goie more Michael.” The train entered a tunnel. “Where are we Kirstie?”<br /><br />“Umm, just after Boring-wood and before Mill Hill Bored-way.”<br /><br />“I like that Miss, Boring-wood.”<br /><br />“Thank you Michael, you may keep it if you wish.”<br /><br />The remainder of the journey to Brighton was uneventful: Catherine and Hannah continued to talk the entire way down, and Kirsten looked out of the window as London, Surrey, and finally Sussex flashed past. She was looking forward to her day out “with the girls”, she and Catherine had not been to Brighton for such a long time and Hannah had never been there. In fact Hannah had never been to the coast of England: it was an amazing statistic that a girl born and raised on Cape Town’s beaches had not seen ocean for almost three months to this point.<br /><br />Catherine took the lead as the party left Brighton station for the downhill stroll into town. They had agreed to a lunch at the pub before going shopping in The Laines, (for Catherine), a visit to Brighton Pavilion, (for Kirsten), and dinner of fish and chips on the East Pier, (for Hannah).<br /><br />“Walkie?” asked Catherine<br /><br />“When in Rome…” began Kirsten<br /><br />“…do as the Antipodeans do,” completed Catherine.<br /><br />“And throw up in the road?” asked Hannah.<br /><br />Catherine laughed as Kirsten punched her South African friend in the shoulder. “Such cheekiness from a Saffa, we shall not allow you in.”<br /><br />The Walkabout Pub is both the saviour and the bane of existence for Australians in Europe. Here are themed pubs with Australian beers on tap, (by which is meant beers that Australians drink at home, which are not the ones English people think they do: remember, ‘fosters’ is an ‘f-word’), and Australian music and sport prominent in the ambience, balanced out by that horrifically nasal way that Strayans have of talking when in groups of their own kind. Still, Kirsten enjoyed these places and hoped that she might meet some of her countrymen inside, especially ones happy to buy “the lonely girl from Hobart” a few birthday drinks.<br /><br />“Woohoo, what a walk!”<br /><br />“At least it’s downhill.”<br /><br />“Yeah, going down to Brighton and the beach, it will be uphill home.”<br /><br />“That’s why they have taxis.”<br /><br />“Ah, here we are: chateaux bushpig. Abandon culture all ye who enter in.”<br /><br />“What’s a bush pig?”<br /><br />“In Australia it’s like a ‘chav’. In South Africa it’s Roast of the Day.”<br /><br />“Rudeness like that, Miss Ellison, deserves a smack!” This from Catherine, Hannah merely smiled, “but we shall let you off with buying the first shout.”<br /><br />“First shout? Who made you talk Strine? And ‘first’, how many drinks are we expected to consume prior to shopping?” Kirsten walked over to the bar.<br /><br />“Hannah, I want to ask you something about Kirstie.”<br /><br />“Ja, go ahead.”<br /><br />“Have you read her stories?”<br /><br />“The Curtseygirl ones, ja I have.”<br /><br />“All of them?”<br /><br />“All of the ones Kirstie has showed to me. There is that one about you at Finisagua and…”<br /><br />“Don’t call it that please, she made that name up.”<br /><br />“It is rather clever though, and it is a nice pub, I’ve been there with her.”<br /><br />“But don’t you think she’s just a bit too clever? I mean, it’s great that she’s found a creative outlet for herself, and I’m happy that the amount of actual ‘maintenance spanking’ has gone down in our house now, but I wonder whether she’s getting just a bit too full of her own importance.”<br /><br />“Ja, she is coming back now.”<br /><br />Kirsten returned with the pints. “I love that I found some girls to drink beer with. Four-ex for the Scotty, a first Snakebite for the Saffa, and Guinness for the Aussie of Irish-Kiwi extraction. Slainte ladies.”<br /><br />“Do you see?”<br /><br />“Hmm.”<br /><br />“Hmm what?” Kirsten looked up.<br /><br />“Nothing.”<br /><br />The Laines in Brighton is a warren of shops and alleys full of all the smelly and pretty stuff that girls will spend hours looking through, before walking away with nothing. Catherine and Kirsten’s friend Paul used to wait in the garden of the Royal Pavilion for the girls to shop without him when the three of them would come down for days out: but Hannah was in her element. Kirsten went across to buy entry tickets to the Pavilion, (she expected a queue), whilst her friends continued to browse and buy.<br /><br />“Don’t get me wrong Hanie, I like Kirstie very much, she’s quite lovely much of the time, but sometimes she can seem so stuck up with cleverness that I just want to slap her face in.”<br /><br />“That surprises me Catie, really.”<br /><br />“No, I mean, well as I say she’s nice and all that, but I wonder whether her stories are turning her away from who she really is.”<br /><br />“No I get that, jislaak I’ve only known her two months and she’s already saying ‘do you like my stories’; I mean that I didn’t think that you’d resort to such violence.”<br /><br />Catie smiled. “Ah em Scottush ye noo it: we be a terrible brootil pipple when necess-ree.”<br /><br />Hannah sighed. “And is it necessary just now?”<br /><br />“She’s thirty-five, unmarried, and homesick. She should know better. Do you know she keeps naming her stories after Crowded House songs? I mean I really liked her goodbye message with the U2 lyrics in it, very apt with ‘in the mud in the maze of her imagination’ and the ‘baby’s got blue skies up ahead but in this I’m a rain cloud’; I mean that’s meaningful and clever, but ‘Te Awamutu’ and ‘Sister Madly’? Who does she think she is? Okay Kirsten, you’re Australian and New Zealander, we get it!”<br /><br />“‘Into Temptation’ is Crowded House as well, so is the line ‘you in your new blue dress, taking away my breath.’ It was playing in the Walkabout before.”<br /><br />“Yeah, that boy from Milton Keynes noted that in her footnotes, but I thought that was a proper-clever story. And Janice liked it.”<br /><br />“True.”<br /><br />“Do you mind Kirstie trying to speak Afrikaans?”<br /><br />“Not at all, I’m rather flattered that she’s trying to be nice to me, I think it’s genuine: but if I were Martin in Watling Street I’d have pulled her across my lap for a few more with her skirt up. Does she try to talk Scots with you?”<br /><br />“Noo, but she kipsa writing me with a foony accent in her stories.”<br /><br />“Ag, shame man, but at least she lets you speak Engels. Jislaak, she’s coming back!”<br /><br />Kirsten was having a lovely day. It was the weekend of her birthday and she was in her favourite place in England; the place she had come to for her first escape from London soon after her arrival in 2001, the place where she had had her first (drunken) kiss from an Englishman. He had asked her where she was from; she had said “Kent”, (which was true since she lived in Gillingham). He had asked her the advantages of living in Kent over London; Kirsten still remembered her reply, “living in Kent means never having to say you’re Surrey.” She’s a clever girl our Miss Ellison.<br /><br />Following an uneventful tour of George IV’s Royal (Brighton) Pavilion, the girls headed out to the pier for some seaside action and a dinner of the national dish of England: fish and chips and ale. (Minus the ale, eugh, warm beer anyone?)<br /><br />“There used to be an amusement park like this near my nana’s house in Auckland. We left New Zealand when I was five, but I still remember my dad taking me on the bumper-cars: my mum nearly killed him when she saw me sitting there in his lap while my uncle tried to knock us into the harbour.” Kirsten was having a homesick moment, to which she felt entirely entitled upon the occasion of her forthcoming birthday. She turned to see that her two friends had wandered on slightly and were settling into two of the deck chairs, chatting to each other. She smiled to them and turned back to look past the amusements and into the English Channel beyond.<br /><br />“My nana’s house in Auckland.”<br /><br />“Well, that is where her nana lives; you can’t blame her for actually being a New Zealander.”<br /><br />“But she isn’t. According to her she’s Australian, Tasmanian even.”<br /><br />“Hmm.”<br /><br />Kirsten walked across to her friends.<br /><br />Dinner was uneventful, although Hannah joined Kirsten in her ongoing amazement at the concept of mushy peas. “How can you English eat that crap, it looks like play-dough?”<br /><br />“Hey, less of the name-calling, I’m not English.” Catherine feigned distress, Hannah feigned contrition. Kirsten just laughed.<br /><br />“And now to the business of the day,” began Catherine, turning to Kirsten. “On Monday our well beloved Miss Ellison, clever beyond words with more degrees than a compass: spinster of Arts and mistress of Teaching…”<br /><br />Kirsten laughed, “that’s the sort of thing I’d say!”<br /><br />“Or put in a story,” added Hannah.<br /><br />“T’is truth.”<br /><br />“…is, is to celebrate her thirty-fifth birthday. So we say happy birthday to you our dearest Kirsten, we wish you love and happiness.” (Since Catherine pronounced this last blessing more like “lerve and a penis” in a dodgy European accent a dirty laugh erupted from Miss E, spraying a small amount of white wine across her own plate.)<br /><br />“God bless our good Kirstie!”<br /><br />“And all who sail in her!”<br /><br />“Hoorah for Kirstie!”<br /><br />“Hoorah!”<br /><br />Kirsten blushed: out of delight rather than embarrassment as a table of Americans looked around and clapped. One of the men yelled across “birthday? I hope she got her spanks.”<br /><br />“Still to come my good man,” called Catherine.<br /><br />“Let us know if you need a hand,” the man replied. Kirsten blushed deeper.<br /><br />“No time like the present,” indicated Hannah with a conspiratorial wink towards Catherine.<br /><br />“Hmm. Oooh,” replied Catherine, connecting to Hannah’s veiled suggestion. “Yes, that might work.” Hannah smiled and nodded.<br /><br />“Kirsten, you heard the man: O-T-K Miss L-S-N!”<br /><br />“But I’m K-L-, oh I see. Clever!”<br /><br />“Something you might have said yourself? Or perhaps written on 360?”<br /><br />Kirsten smiled happily. “Maybe.”<br /><br />“Maybe. Bend over…umm…over Catherine’s knee.” Hannah having made the suggestion took charge of proceedings.<br /><br />“Hannah no, not here in the restaurant. I know in London we…”<br /><br />“Kirsten, bend over. Or shall I ask our American, oh, sorry, ‘Merican’ friends to join us?”<br /><br />“No thank you Hannah.”<br /><br />“Right, then you must do as Auntie Johanna asks and bend over Ms House’s knee.”<br /><br />Kirsten did as she was asked; it was her birthday after all. Spanking was not something usually associated with celebration in Australia…unless it involved the national cricket team, but that was only between consenting friends.<br /><br />“Help me Catie?”<br /><br />“Of course mo cara.”<br /><br />Kirsten was worried, Catie never spoke Gaelic and she knew it was the one thing she herself did that annoyed her Scottish friend. Why this would worry Kirsten was uncertain, but there was more than a suspicion that what was to follow for her would not be as nice as it first may have appeared. Hannah addressed the restaurant, which was really just the three girls and the table of Americans at that point.<br /><br />“Our Miss Ellison, known to her friends as Kirstie, is thirty-five on Monday, and consequently deserves a jolly good seeing to for her past twelve months of naughty. One per year Ms House, you may begin when ready.”<br /><br />Catherine flipped up Kirsten’s skirt and began her task with a single instruction to her horizontal house-mate: “counting aloud please.”<br /><br />SMACK<br /><br />“One. Oh Catie that really hurt.”<br /><br />SMACK<br /><br />“Two. Umm, Catherine, please?”<br /><br />SMACK SMACK<br /><br />“Eek. Three, four.” Kirsten had cottoned on. Why she was actually being punished was still a mystery to her, but that was obviously what was going on as Catherine was hitting very hard. “Whatever it is Cath…”<br /><br />SMACK<br /><br />“Ooh. Catherine I’m…”<br /><br />SMACK SMACK<br /><br />“Kirsten you need to count.”<br /><br />“Oh, that’s seven.”<br /><br />“No, that’s four, you need to count.”<br /><br />SMACK SMACK SMACK<br /><br />“That’s seven.”<br /><br />“Thank you Catherine. I’m so sorry for …”<br /><br />SMACK<br /><br />“Eight, for what I’ve done to deserve…”<br /><br />SMACK SMACK<br /><br />“Ooh, nine ten, whatever I’ve done to deserve this.”<br /><br />“Shut up and count, we’ll discuss this when we get…”<br /><br />SMACK<br /><br />“Eleven”<br /><br />“…home.”<br /><br />“Wow, she’s really blistering that poor girl’s butt.”<br /><br />“Yeah, but she’s still got her pantyhose and panties on so it can’t be too bad.”<br /><br />“I don’t know about that Marvin, those are some pretty hard smacks she’s getting there.”<br /><br />“Nineteen.” Kirsten began sobbing, not from the flame in her hindquarters, (although there was one), but from confusion, embarrassment and shame. What had she done?<br /><br />“Get up.” Catherine had stopped her rain of blows (reign of blows?) upon Kirsten.<br /><br />“That’s only twenty, are we finished?” Kirsten was crying now, and hoping twenty of the best substituted for thirty-five of the fun.<br /><br />“Johanna’s turn.”<br /><br />“Oh.”<br /><br />“Oh look, she’s stopping now. No, it’s just the other girl taking over, the German one. She’s really getting it big-time that young lady there.”<br /><br />“Tights down Kirsten.”<br /><br />“But the men…”<br /><br />“Kirsten.”<br /><br />“Umm. Yes, yes of course Hannah.”<br /><br />“Johanna to you, or Juffrou DeKievert. And you just see what happens if you mutter one word of Afrikaans in the next few minutes.”<br /><br />“Yes Johanna. I’m so sorry.” Kirsten had it figured out now: hadn’t she been told since school she was too clever by half and you have such skill Kirsty but you let everything else get in the way. “I’m so very…”<br /><br />“The tights, Kirsten.”<br /><br />“Yes Johanna.”<br /><br />Kirsten rolled her tights down to mid thigh and looked up at Hannah. Hannah patted her lap.<br /><br />“Bend over; you are still owed fifteen years worth.”<br /><br />“Yes Johanna. A hand please?" Kirsten leant across Hannah and took her hand as she lay herself across the waiting knees.<br /><br />“Counting from twenty.”<br /><br />SMACK<br /><br />“Twenty-one.”<br /><br />SMACK<br /><br />“Twenty-two.”<br /><br />The blows from Hannah were not as hard as they had been from Catherine, but then Catherine had had more experience of hitting Miss Ellison’s backside. Still, Kirsten noted that the hits were sent with feeling, even if not with maximum force. The tears returned almost immediately: these were her two best friends and she had had such a lovely day out with them, was this really how they felt about her?<br /><br />SMACK<br /><br />“Twenty-nine.”<br /><br />And what did they feel about her anyway? Was this about frustration and humiliation, or was it just a warning that she was getting too close to the line that separates cockiness from simply being pleased with one’s own talents? Kirsten didn’t think herself rude or pushy, indeed she was mortified to think that anyone would suspect her of such baseness, but the thumping going on behind her indicated that not everyone shared that opinion.<br /><br />“Oh look, she’s pulled down her pantyhose now; you can see the pink on her thighs real clear from here.”<br /><br />“Poor thing, that’s really mean.”<br /><br />“Maybe that’s just how they do it in England.”<br /><br />“Yeah.”<br /><br />SMACK<br /><br />“Oh hoo hoo. Thirty-five.”<br /><br />“You must stand up now Kirsten and replace your underwear and your dress.”<br /><br />“Oh hoo hoo. Thank you Johanna.”<br /><br />As had been the situation on the journey south, on the train home to Hertfordshire Kirsten sat looking out of the window at the passing landscape while Hannah and Catherine chatted happily to each other. The girls had returned to Brighton town for a drink before travelling home, but not at the Walkabout, and Catherine and Hannah discussed their motives with Kirsten. Kirsten had been very appreciative. Now as the train pulled out of Gatwick Airport and continued towards Croydon and then London Kirsten smiled towards her reflection in the carriage window. She wondered to herself what the other passengers might have thought had they known of the condition of her bottom, how it had come to be that way, and who had been responsible. She dropped her gaze to the hands folded neatly in her lap and burst into a grin and allowed herself a slight chuckle. She raised her head again and returned her gaze to the reflection.<br /><br />“Happy birthday Curtseygirl,” she said to the reflected image and to no-one in particular.Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-27613270689092587842010-01-23T07:34:00.000+00:002010-01-23T07:35:35.056+00:00The Sound of Te Awamutu<span style="font-style:italic;">She came all the way from America,<br />She had a blind date with destiny.</span><br /><br />“I’m not from Merica, Kirstie, I’m South African.”<br /><br />Miss Kirsten Ellison and her new friend from school, Juffrou Hannah DeKievert, were visiting London for Hannah’s first time, and had stopped off in the Australia Shop for necessary supplies from home.<br /><br />“I know that babe, it’s a Crowdies song. They’re touring London soon and were my favourite band when I was at Uni.”<br /><br />“Oh, okay, so are they Strayan then? I’ve never heard of them.”<br /><br />Kirsten smiled, “it depends upon whom you ask. Two Aussies and one Kiwi, but the Kiwi was the leader, so it’s big debate whether they are Strayan or Kiwi or what.”<br /><br />“Much, as indeed, seems the case with Miss Ellison herself.”<br /><br />Kirsten smiled again. “Miss Ellison is Strayan, but is supporting the All Blacks. Have you got what you needed?”<br /><br />“Ja, it was just for looking, I only left home two months ago so I’m not so desperate for Fanta Grape just now.”<br /><br />The Australia (New Zealand, South Africa, Canada) Shop is in Covent Garden, and is home to the sorts of products that young people from those far distant lands like to have for comfort’s sake when they have been in London too long. It’s mostly sweets, (or lollies if you’re from the South Pacific), and biscuits, but there is also music and DVD’s, books, calendars, flags, football scarves, tea-towels with the words to the Haka on them, Aboriginal Art, and all sorts of kitchen utensils for the barbeque. (Or braai if you’re from South Africa.) Kirsten shops there for Violet Crumble and Rooibos at least monthly, but Hannah had not needed to stock up on home comforts just yet.<br /><br />And the sound of Te Awamutu,<br /><br />Had a truly sacred ring.<br /><br />Kirsten and Hannah had met at school, but not as children. They had met as teachers. Miss Ellison had, until the Easter of 2007, been the second Humanities teacher at Rather Convincing But Nonetheless Fictional Name Secondary College in Hatfield, Hertfordshire; and had been replaced in that role by Juffrou DeKievert when Miss Ellison had been promoted to a curriculum management role. Kirsten had promised to bring Hannah into London to show her around the city, but it had taken until June for this to come about.<br /><br />“Where now Juffrou?”<br /><br />“London. I mean The City itself.”<br /><br />“Right, bus on Strand.”<br /><br />Johanna DeKievert, (known as Hannah, rather than Jo), had wanted to visit London since she was small. She was South African, (she still is), and had grown up in Cape Town with the stories of how her paternal great-great grandfathers had fought against each other in some form during the Anglo-Boer Wars. She considered herself to be English, as opposed to Afrikaner, and with a mother born of white parents in Kenya she was proud to be part of a long line of “establishers of Africa”, whatever than meant in the early part of the twenty-first century. Her passion had always been history; now here she was in London, having taken a job as a History and Geography teacher in a British school, and about to see the ancient home of her people. (She wasn’t terribly interested in the “Volk”.) Still, as a concession to Oupa DeKievert she insisted upon being addressed as “Juffrou” rather than “Miss”.<br /><br />“The City.” Kirsten and Hannah stood on the steps in front of St Paul’s Cathedral and Kirsten waved her hand about. “This is the centre of Roman Londinium, was abandoned by the Saxons who built Londenwic over near where we were before, and then was resettled by the Normans who built the Tower of London in the 1070s. It’s now the financial heart of the country and is called…”<br /><br />“The City. I know this bit. Where is something Roman please?”<br /><br />Kirsten smiled and set off down towards Cannon Street, intending to show Hannah the “London Stone” before continuing towards the Tower of London and the roman wall which stands at the entrance to Tower Hill Underground station.<br /><br />“Watling Street. This was once…”<br /><br />“Ja I see it too, it was the main drag in Londinium and then down to the coast ja?”<br /><br />“And up through the centre. It passed through Verulamium as well.”<br /><br />“Through where?”<br /><br />Kirsten smiled. “See, you don’t know everything Juffrou smarty-pants. Verulamium, the place where you now live. Naughty girl, you should have known that one.”<br /><br />“Oh, Roman St Albans. Ja I did know that it was just your accent confusing me.”<br /><br />Kirsten laughed aloud. “Ha. I don’t have an accent, I come from Hertfordshire, this is the way words are supposed to be pronounced.” Of course Kirsten said this in her thickest possible New Zealand accent, (she’s quite good at accents actually, clever girl is our Miss Ellison), so it came out as “Oy don’t hev en ixint”.<br /><br />Hannah laughed. “Thenks Muss Illysen, Oy’m kunvunced. See, I can do Kiwi as well.”<br /><br />“Naughty and cheeky you are. Anyway, this is Watling Street and that steel fellow over there is a cordwainer, like a cobbler.”<br /><br />Hannah looked across to where Kirsten was pointing and saw a bronzed statue of a man sitting down, mending a shoe which was turned sole-up in his lap. He had both his rams raised to horizontal, ostensibly in the act of mending.<br /><br />“He’s quite natural isn’t he? I’ve never seen a statue like that, I mean a seated man in life size and sitting at ground level. Can you get a photo of him for me?” Hannah went over for a closer look, but not until she had handed Kirsten her camera. “If I sit on his knee will you take a picture for me?”<br /><br />“Ha, with your not knowing about Verulamium, and your indeed horrific mocking of the good people of Aotearoa, I should think sitting on his knee is not the best place for you.”<br /><br />Hannah smiled. “Yes thank you Curtseygirl, remember I have read your stories. I thought you’d given that up until the end of the school year.”<br /><br />“I have,” grinned Kirsten, “but then I’m not the one in need of a smacked bottom at this point am I?”<br /><br />“True. Will you take the photo?”<br /><br />“Bend over young lady and I’ll post it on 360.”<br /><br />And she did! (Well, Hannah did. Kirsten didn’t.)<br /><br />“This boot is sticking into my tummy.”<br /><br />“Just hold that there. Right, smile…”<br /><br />“Smile? I’m being spanked by a tradesman.”<br /><br />“Well cry then, I don’t bloody care, just get ready for the photo. One, two, three…”<br /><br />CLICK<br /><br />“Done.”<br /><br />“I’m stuck.”<br /><br />“Wriggle down a bit.”<br /><br />“Can I help you ladies?” Kirsten turned to see a young man in a business suit standing next to her. She’d not seen him walk up, but now he was right there. “Your friend appears to be in some bother.”<br /><br />Kirsten looked back towards Hannah, who had managed to extricate herself from the cordwainer’s grasp. “No, she appears to be free now.”<br /><br />“I meant that she was in position for spanking in the first place. What had she done?”<br /><br />“I’m a history teacher,” contributed Hannah as she walked up, “and did not know the roman name for St Albans.”<br /><br />“Not a crime requiring public flogging?”<br /><br />“Ah, but I live in St Albans you see, and this young lady is my boss.”<br /><br />The man smiled. “But you are not from here. From where in South Africa are you?”<br /><br />“Kaapstadt.”<br /><br />“Ag, praat su Afrikaans?”<br /><br />“Not if I can avoid it.”<br /><br />“Ag shame. I am Martin, from Bloemfontein; I have been in London three years now. And you Miss, North island or South?”<br /><br />“South island” replied Kirsten with a grin.<br /><br />“Canterbury?”<br /><br />“Hobart.”<br /><br />“Is that near Christchurch?”<br /><br />“No it’s near Hobart; I’m Tasmanian, not New Zealander.”<br /><br />“Mean girl!” laughed Hannah. “She is from Auckland, but grew up in Australia.”<br /><br />“It seems you are both in need of spanking then,” laughed Martin good naturedly, “one for forgetting her history and the other for forgetting her geography.”<br /><br />“I think Kirsten deserves two smacks, she forgot her manners as well,” laughed Hannah.<br /><br />“Kirsten, a South African name for a Kiwi-Aussie lady. No wonder she is confused. So what do you say Kirsten?”<br /><br />“Kirsten says her name is Danish, and what you South Africans get up to in your own time is none of her concern. But she is sorry if she appeared rude.”<br /><br />“Agreed. Will you join me for coffee ladies?” Martin pointed towards a café on the opposite side of Watling Street.<br /><br />Following coffee and a long discussion about the virtues of living in London, in which both Kirsten and Martin discussed the various outlets for Antipodean/African passion among the English, Hannah asked if she and her friend might be excused to continue their journey towards the Tower. Martin agreed, as he had appointments in the opposite direction, but reminded the women that they were both owed a spanking first.<br /><br />“But I got mine,” protested Hannah, “from the cordwainer.”<br /><br />“Over the knee doesn’t count unless there are smacks involved Juffrou. Horizontal posture is not punishment, horizontal marks are.”<br /><br />“True. But Kirstie won’t…”<br /><br />“Kirstie won’t mind going second,” finished Kirsten. Hannah looked at her quizzically, but Kirsten only smiled back.<br /><br />“Agreed then. Juffrou? Bend over the table.” Martin stood up and assisted Hannah to her feet by pulling back her chair. Hannah stood and, with a final look of concern at Kirsten, put her hands on the table.<br /><br />“Miss Ellison, what is the roman name for St Albans?”<br /><br />“Ask Juffrou DeKievert, she should know know.”<br /><br />“It’s Verulamium.”<br /><br />“Verulamium,” repeated Martin. “Five syllables. Good. Lean forward Juffrou.”<br /><br />WHACK<br /><br />WHACK<br /><br />WHACK<br /><br />WHACK<br /><br />WHACK<br /><br />Hannah gasped at the blows rained down from Martin’s open palm to the flat of her skirt. “Ve-ru-la-mi-um,” added Martin with effect, after the spanks had been delivered. “Understand?”<br /><br />“Yes sir,” replied Hannah.<br /><br />WHACK<br /><br />“Umm, ja meneer. Dankie meneer.”<br /><br />“Better. Upright.”<br /><br />Hannah stood up, and rubbed her bottom.<br /><br />“Miss Ellison?” Martin turned towards her.<br /><br />“Kirstie you know you don’t have to…” began Hannah.<br /><br />“It’s okay mate, it's a bit of fun.”<br /><br />“Miss Ellison, bend over please.”<br /><br />Kirsten bent over the table, placing her hands upon it.<br /><br />“Now I’m sure you understand the geography of the Antipodes Miss Ellison, so I can only assume it was out of cheekiness that you responded to me the way you did. Good natured,” he paused and looked up to see Kirsten nodding, “but cheekiness none-the-less. Six for cheek.”<br /><br />“Six for each cheek I think,” laughed Hannah.<br /><br />“Do you wish to return to the table Juffrou? No? Then quiet.”<br /><br />“Asseblief meneer,” nodded Kirsten.<br /><br />“Asseblief? Then only four for you.”<br /><br />WHACK<br /><br />WHACK<br /><br />“Ag, jislaak!” called Kirsten. “You hit hard man!”<br /><br />“Two more for insolence, it’s six again.”<br /><br />“Ag!”<br /><br />WHACK<br /><br />WHACK<br /><br />WHACK<br /><br />WHACK<br /><br />“Ooh. Dankie meneer.” Kirsten was rubbing the back of her dress even as she stood up.<br /><br />“Ja well, cheekiness has its penalties Juffrou Ellison.”<br /><br />“Ja. Baie dankie.”<br /><br />“Are you taking the piss?”<br /><br />Kirsten smiled. “No, I’m trying to be polite.”<br /><br />“All right then. I must be away as well, business to attend to. Thank you ladies for a lovely coffee and your delicious company.”<br /><br />Hannah nodded, Kirsten curtsied, both said “totsiens,” then all laughed at each other as Martin turned to walk off.<br /><br />“Thank you for doing that Kirstie, I think I like London.”<br /><br />“Me too mate, me too.”Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-84512347468155923692010-01-23T07:33:00.001+00:002010-01-23T07:33:50.566+00:00The Rose in BloomKirsten was somewhere between pleased and frightened. Why she had been invited to speak at the Sixteenth International Biennial Convocation on Discipline in Schools at Wrest Point Casino was beyond her understanding, but that she had been asked to speak on the subject “Christian Scriptural Understandings upon the Use of Physical Means of Sanction” had left her stunned. She allowed herself a brief scan of the platform: sitting two seats down from her was a Catholic Monsignor from Rome: surely he’d have been a better option on the topic, since whilst Kirsten was most certainly Christian, and of the Biblical mindset, she did not believe that flogging was the answer to very much at all. This, after all, was the twenty-first century; the age of Samuel Marsden, “The Flogging Parson”, had passed, even in Van Dieman’s Land. Sitting between her and his grace was Sir Stephen Aldwych, former Secretary of State for Education in HM (British) Government, and former head master of Kirsten’s own girlhood school. Indeed it was Sir Stephen who had served Kirsten with her only experience of corporal punishment whilst she had been a pupil. It seemed odd to her that both she and he had been invited to return to Hobart to speak at the convocation, perhaps there was to be some sort of specific Tasmanian flavour to proceedings, and the calling in of the Diaspora was but one facet of this.<br /><br />Thank you your Excellency, Madam Premier, ladies and gentlemen. Our next speaker is a daughter of this very city, raised in Kingston and educated at…<br /><br />Kirsten looked shyly across at Sir Stephen. He smiled back at her, took her hand and squeezed it encouragingly.<br /><br />… College and then the University of Tasmania where she completed a Bachelors degree with first class Honours in Arts, and a Masters degree in Teaching. She is currently serving as Director of Behaviour Support Studies at the University of Hertfordshire in the United Kingdom, and as senior adviser to the Hertfordshire Local Education Authority on behaviour management. She has published three books on the subject of both the alternatives to corporal punishment within social and educational settings in schools and care homes, and upon its uses therein. Her most recent book addresses this subject from a Christian Biblical understanding and it is to that end that we have invited her to address the gathering. It gives me great pleasure to introduce Miss Kirsten Ellison CBE, AC…<br /><br />“Sick ‘em Kirstie!” winked Sir Stephen. Kirsten smiled, her nerves evaporating at the sound of the uncharacteristically ocker encouragement from her mentor. She stood to the applause and walked across to the microphone.<br /><br />“Good morning your Excellency, Madam Premier, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your welcome: it is indeed a great privilege to be home, and to be speaking to you on a topic so close to my heart. I must admit to a bout of nerves at this point, speaking not only in the presence of both the Governor of Tasmania and the Premier, but also of Sir Stephen, my former head-master. When last we shared a desk in the same room I was bent across it…<br /><br />Laugher<br /><br />“…I trust the same shall not be required of me today.”<br /><br />“The Christian faith composes, I believe, an incredibly diverse and deep-seated international community. Before accepting my post with Hertfordshire I was Behaviour Support Teacher at a local secondary school and teacher of Humanities where I wrote units of work integrating History and Geography with Religions Education. As such I was able to integrate the study of ethics and religion with my daily duties as classroom and key-stage teacher. It became apparent to me that the two are, and shall always be, intrinsically connected.”<br /><br />Kirsten looked up: the sea of faces disappeared after two rows and that was fine with her as she had never enjoyed speaking in front of large crowds. The people she could see seemed relaxed and attentive, she’d not said anything contentious yet. Yet.<br /><br />“And so it is that I speak to you from perhaps three fronts. As disciplinarian, for want of a better term; as moralist and ethicist, a teacher of Religion within the context of Humanities; and as holder of specific religious beliefs of my own. I speak with three tongues; be they the tongues of men and angels I pray they be also tongues of love. I speak with the three simultaneously.”<br /><br />Kirsten heard the Monsignor chuckle at her quote from First Corinthians. She turned slightly but could not see him, was it an approving chuckle or a derisive one? Sick ‘em Kirstie she reminded herself.<br /><br />“The instruction of scripture to punish children bodily is found most notably in the Proverbs, of the twenty-third chapter and the fourteenth verse. It is, however, the thirteenth verse that is of interest to me: do not withhold discipline from a child. I agree, and am the first to do so, that a knee-jerk reaction away from discipline…”<br /><br />Kirsten paused to stress the importance of her word,<br /><br />“…as a response to the flagrant and unmerited physical abuses of children in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, is not a valid response. Scripture states that if you punish him with a rod he shall not die, well we all know that in the past that has not always been the case. Should we, however, withhold all discipline?”<br /><br />Kirsten looked up. Still nothing too threatening for the crowd, but again she could only see the first two rows, where the respectable people sat. Kirsten knew had she been a delegate to this session she’d have been further toward the back: it was the people sitting there she really hoped to impress.<br /><br />“I stand before you as one born in nineteen seventy-two. Sadly I was not born here; I am an immigrant from the mainland…”<br /><br />Kirsten paused meaningfully; she knew how Tasmanians hated reference to “the mainland” as such,<br /><br />“…that of course being the North Island of New Zealand…”<br /><br />Laughter<br /><br />“…before settling in Kingborough at the age of five when my father began work as an engineer with the Hydro. I attended a local primary school, studied under our own dear Sir Stephen’s directing hand here in Hobart itself, and then continued on through Tasmania University until the late 1990s. I am one of those known collectively as Generation-X, but unlike most of my contemporaries I have in fact read Douglas Coupland’s book. I know who Kurt Cobain is, and Pearl Jam, but I also remember when popcorn used to be made on the stove and not in the microwave.”<br /><br />Laughter.<br /><br />Kirsten looked up, they were with her now.<br /><br />“I am a child of the children of the sixties. My parents are Baby Boomers, my mother a ten-pound-Pom, although she’s actually from Northern Ireland. I was raised in a home where there was strong discipline, it was often physical, it was occasionally unmerited, sometimes it was even cruel, but it was the action of loving parents who were themselves quite young at the outset. I am an only child, my parents never had the opportunity to get it right before they had me, and they never had the opportunity to get it right afterwards: I was a solitary guinea pig reared on the banks of the D’Entrecasteaux Channel.”<br /><br />Laughter.<br /><br />Kirsten allowed herself a smile; they’d asked her back to Tasmania and it was Tasmania she would give them. This city was more, indeed, than just the end point of a Sydney yacht-race and an Old Bailey pick-pocket hearing. It was home, and she was bloody proud of it.<br /><br />“And so, as a child of this even Greater Southland of the Holy Spirit…”<br /><br />Laughter<br /><br />“…than the big one to our near north; of a land referred to by a man no less infamous for his famous last words than a certain Ned Kelly himself, as that island of bondage and tyranny…”<br /><br />Laughter.<br /><br />Kirsten saw her former History professor in the crowd, and returned his nod,<br /><br />“…and a child also of a Christian heritage I am delighted to be able to speak with you this morning.”<br /><br />Applause.<br /><br />“I am of the opinion that punishment need not occur where discipline is solid. Rather than sparing and spoiling from the Proverbs, let us look at the thirty-first chapter of Solomon’s great work, and of the twenty-eighth verse.”<br /><br />Kirsten wondered where the Anglicanisation of her language was coming from, her church back home in London was anything-but, however she resigned herself to sounding religious. She thought it might be expected of her.<br /><br />“The Wife of Noble Character: a passage very dear to my heart as a young, very single and stunningly attractive Christian woman…”<br /><br />Laughter<br /><br />“…incidentally I shall be passing out application forms and accepting CVs from eligible bachelors, or mothers of same, at the end of this session…”<br /><br />Laughter and cheering from the back<br /><br />“…seems to me a better place to consider the scriptural basis for raising children. This passage speaks of the woman of virtue who is rewarded by the blessing, honour and praise of her children. Blessing in this context is best translated as happy and to be envied; wouldn’t we all like that ladies? Scripture, far from countenancing the thrashing of minors, places physical punishment within the confines of a loving, God-honouring family where wife and husband serve side-by-side in their God-ordained places of service and leadership, both as servants, both as leaders, setting an example of appropriate forms of Christianity as to allow children to be raised up in a manner of godliness from which they shall not depart.”<br /><br />“Listen my sons to your father’s instruction, pay attention and gain understanding… When I was a child in my mother’s house she taught me, saying ‘lay hold of my words with all your heart, and keep my commandments, and you will live’. This is the wisdom of Solomon at the commencement to his fourth chapter of said Proverbs. The Christian gospel is one of grace; not obedience to legal codes but of loving relationship with the one Christ made accessible as our dear, Abba Father.”<br /><br />Kirsten heard the Monsignor call her good.<br /><br />“When I was little, in a home of church-attending parents, I was spanked with open hand or hairbrush as necessary, and sometimes more than necessary. My father relinquished all of this to my mother’s capable hand when I began to menstruate, and she ceased when I reached the age at which I might legally leave school. I chose to stay at school, but was no longer required as a fifteen year old to bend over young lady. And may the Lord make me truly thankful.”<br /><br />Laughter<br /><br />“I was caned only the once at school, in my final year, and by mistake.”<br /><br />Laughter<br /><br />“Yes, it’s true. A mix up in names and I was sent to the triangle for the crimes of another pupil. For the most part I was kept good at school not by the threat of the cane, or by its application, but by the support of the teachers and the community of grace, not in forgetting misbehaviour but in encouraging the girl who fell into error of many sorts…”<br /><br />Laughter<br /><br />“…except of those sorts…”<br /><br />More laughter<br /><br />“…to stand up again and walk on in secure confidence of her place in both the school community and in the world beyond the walls of the college. I thank Sir Stephen, Mister Old Witch…”<br /><br />Laughter<br /><br />“…for establishing such a culture in his tenure as leader of our community of excellence, and for allowing me that priceless opportunity to feel the bite of discipline upon my own dear seat of learning in the name of research.”<br /><br />Kirsten turned and extended her hand to Sir Stephen. He rose, bowed formally, and shook her hand. Kirsten executed a neat curtsey and turned back to the lectern: all to thunderous applause and laughter which Kirsten acknowledged with a casual wave. Sick ‘em Kirstie! she reminded herself.<br /><br />“It is said of many men that they can be so longwinded upon their homecoming that they should be called ‘Gusts of Honour’…”<br /><br />Laughter<br /><br />“…and of others that when they say ‘lastly’ they last. Allow me then to say ‘in conclusion’ and conclude…”<br /><br />Laughter<br /><br />“… by going on to say…”<br /><br />Laughter<br /><br />“…that in my opinion as all of Christian, Behaviour Support Specialist, Humanities Teacher, and indeed woman of this time and age, but mainly as Christian, that the Biblical answer to the question ‘to beat or not to beat’ is found not in examining the repeated and rapid implementation of the rod; but rather in considering the benefice in the sustained and significant building of a culture of love and support within a committed community, at best the extended family, as was the manner in which our own dear Lord was himself raised to the place where at thirty years of age he could embark upon a mission, within a community of mates, to bring about the salvation of the age. By his stripes we are healed, by his church we are discipled, and in his steps we are raised to be the people we were created in the image of God to become: solid, secure, stable members of a generous society, where everyone uses inside voices and keeps his or her elbows off the table at meal-times.”<br /><br />Laughter and applause.<br /><br />“God bless you, each and all, in and with gracious abundance.”Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-83900494484491316742010-01-23T07:32:00.001+00:002010-01-23T07:32:59.819+00:00A Rose By...“Excuse me Sir, the Headmaster has asked to see Kirsten Ellison.” Any interruption was welcome in 6A at this time of the day. A quarter to three, on Thursday afternoon and even the HSC Maths A (top) class were flagging. Kirsten didn’t particularly like Maths, but she knew it was required if she was to get into her chosen university (and escape Hobart forever).<br /><br />“Kirsten? Go please.”<br /><br />“Thank you sir.”<br /><br /><br />Kirsten straightened her tie, gathered her pencil case and book, and left the room quietly. She wanted to be a teacher, and hoped to get into Rusden College in Melbourne to do it, (and escape Hobart forever), and so thought it worthwhile being polite and considerate to her teachers now. She wondered what the Head wanted to see her about though; she knew she was getting close to earning her 250th merit card for good behaviour and academic effort, but such certificates were awarded on Friday afternoon at school assembly.<br /><br /><br />Kirsten paused at her locker to put her books and pencils in it. She knew that a call to the Head’s office usually involved some waiting which is why she’d chosen to pack her things, (and Mr Abel, the maths teacher had not intervened), rather than leaving them on her desk for later. It would be time to go home when she was out of the office.<br /><br />“Belinda, do you know why I’ve been summoned?” Belinda had been the messenger, and was passing Kirsten just as she turned away from her locker.<br /><br />“Sorry Kirsty I don’t. I know he’s got some of the fag-hags with him now, and two bogans, but they’re hardly your sort of company. Sorry mate I need to dash, he also wants to see Vanessa Carlon.” Belinda kept walking.<br /><br /><br />Now the puzzle deepened. Vanessa Carlon was known as a bully and a rebel, she’d been caught extorting money from the new-girls. The fag-hags were girls who were known to be smokers, and the bogans were the scruffy types who were always in detention for wearing laddered tights under rolled-up skirts, or untucked blouses and crooked ties. The school crime-lord, scruffs and smokers, hardly the company Kirsten ever kept. Maybe she was being asked to go as an example of what good girls are like. She could just imagine the Head saying, “now ladies, and I use that term loosely, why can’t you be more like Kirsten Ellison here.” Kirsten really hoped not.<br /><br /><br />Outside the office was a line of three girls. The bogans and Vanessa. (Vanessa’s classroom was next to the office so she’d got there quicker than Kirsten had.) Just as Kirsten reached the line, flashing what she hoped was a friendly smile at Vanessa, the door opened and four girls walked out.<br /><br />“Joanna!” It was Vanessa’s voice. “Jo-mate, what de’do?”<br /><br />Joanna looked up at Vanessa, tears filling her eyes; she just nodded and kept walking.<br /><br />“Jo-mate? Oh. Hey Caroline, Cazza? Cazza!” Caroline Vass similarly looked at Vanessa without saying anything, but her tear-stained cheeks and her nod of assent told Vanessa what she needed to know.<br /><br />“Fuck!”<br /><br />Kirsten jumped. She’d never heard anyone use that word in school before, certainly not outside the Headmaster’s office, and not with the door still open.<br /><br />“What’s the matter Vanessa?”<br /><br />“Fuck! It’s the thirtieth today isn’t it?”<br /><br />“Yes Vanessa it is.”<br /><br />“Last afternoon of the month.”<br /><br />Kirsten still didn’t understand the significance of the date, but agreed that tomorrow, Friday, would indeed be the first of next month. Samantha Walsh, who was just leaving the Head’s office turned to Vanessa and said “Yes mate.”<br /><br />“It’s punishment arvo. Not that you’d know Miss Priss, but the last afternoon of the month is when all the girls who have earned it during the month have to come up here for corporal punishment.”<br /><br />“I’m sorry Vanessa; I still don’t get what you’re saying.”<br /><br />Samantha turned around, “He’s caning us, you idiot! Each of us just got three across the arse with the stick.”<br /><br />“Walsh! Unless you’d like to come back for a few more I suggest you get to class immediately.” The Head’s secretary was at the door, helping Amanda Barrowman who was sobbing uncontrollably. Kirsten stepped out of line and took Amanda’s hand, helping her past the line of girls.<br /><br />“Oh Kirsty, I got five; and I’ve never been caned before. It really hurts.” Amanda was in the same class as Vanessa so Kirsten walked her down to the door.<br /><br />“Sorry Miss,” said Samantha.<br /><br />“Right, who have we here?” The secretary checked her list. “Vanessa Carlon, right. Two Dober sisters Victoria and Laura, right. Kristen-Elisa deWitt, o-kay she’s with Amanda now. Kristen-Elisa, hurry up!”<br /><br />“Of course Ma’am, sorry.”<br /><br />“In you go girls.”<br /><br /><br />Kirsten had been to the Head’s office on two occasions previously. Once with her parents when she was accepted into the Upper tier for HSC, (a special “gifted and talented” programme for clever girls), and once when she had had an asthma attack whilst playing touch-rugby for the school team in an after-hours tournament, and the sick-bay was out of action. On both occasions she’d been seen by the Assistant Head, Ms Penstock. She and Vanessa were shown to seats beside a low table whilst Victoria and Lauren Dober were taken straight in to see the Head.<br /><br /><br />“Kirsten Ellison, why are you here?” Vanessa seemed quite pleasant at this point, and seemed genuinely interested. What Kirsten did not know was that Vanessa had heard the roll call, and knew that there had been a mistake. By calling her “Kirsten Ellison” rather than “Kirsty” as all the other girls did, she was hoping to cement the idea in the secretary’s head that this girl was in fact Kristen-Elisa.<br /><br />“I really don’t know Vanessa. Certainly not the reason why those other girls were here I imagine!” Kirsten laughed pleasantly. “Not that I wish them any malice of course, it must be horrible being caned.”<br /><br />“So you’ve never been caned before?”<br /><br />“No. I mean, my parents used to spank me when I was a girl, but no I’ve never been in so much trouble at school.”<br /><br />“I can’t imagine you being spanked Kirsten Ellison.”<br /><br />Kirsten smiled. “Well I don’t recommend it, but I suppose I learned from it. My mum still threatens me with the hairbrush when she thinks I’m getting bolshie, but I’ve not felt its fury since I was fifteen.”<br /><br />“How old are you now?”<br /><br />“I’ve just turned eighteen, like you. My birthday was in the July holidays”<br /><br />Vanessa winced. Krissy deWitt was only sixteen, what if the secretary had heard? Then again, Krissy was blonde and Kirsten was coppery so they’d obviously not paid too much attention. Vanessa allowed herself a smile, which Kirsten returned. “You’d not be smiling if you knew what I know,” Vanessa thought to herself. “It’s so much more satisfying when the hitting part of a bully’s work is done for her.” Not that Vanessa considered herself a bully of course; it was more “estate management”.<br /><br />“Are you going to get the cane Vanessa?” Kirsten was embarrassed to ask, but it seemed like the next obvious question in the conversation.<br /><br />“Oh I expect so. What is it, September now? So that’s March, April, June; this is the fourth time this year I’m here for it.”<br /><br />“Oh Vanessa! I’m so sorry.”<br /><br />“Well Kirsten Ellison, when you break the rules you need to pay the consequences.”<br /><br />“Does it…I mean…umm…does…”<br /><br />“Yes. It hurts a lot. Didn’t you see the fag-hags?”<br /><br />“Amanda was quite distressed, she said she got five.”<br /><br />“Ooh. Usually it’s three. I imagine I’ll get five today, since it’s the fourth visit this year.”<br /><br /><br />The unmistakeable sound came through the wall behind them. Whoosh, crack, wah-HAaa!<br /><br />Kirsten gulped. “Oh poor Lauren.”<br /><br />“That’s Vicky actually. Lauren doesn’t cry, so they always cane Vicky first in the hope that Lauren might crack: seeing her twin sister arse-up over the desk.”<br /><br />Whoosh, crack!<br /><br />“They’ve been here before then?”<br /><br />Ooh! Hoo-hoo.<br /><br />“Yeah, they were here with me in March and June at least.”<br /><br />“Oh.” Kirsten felt a tear well in her eye, and sat back in her seat. Vanessa allowed herself a smile and sat back as well. Both girls sat in silence as Victoria received her final stroke, and then Lauren had her three. Vanessa was right, Lauren’s voice was not heard in the way her sister’s had been.<br /><br /><br />“Stand up!”<br /><br />“Huh?” Kirsten had been lost in thought and was startled by Vanessa’s instruction.<br /><br />“The Dobers are coming out. It’s the code; any girl waiting here always stands when any girl leaving there comes out. Solidarity sister, on your feet!”<br /><br />Kirsten stood up and turned towards the door. Lauren was stone-faced as she exited the room, holding Victoria’s hand and leading her towards the outer door. She winked at Kirsten and Vanessa, Victoria was too busy crying to acknowledge the ovation. “Poor things,” muttered Kirsten.<br /><br /><br />“Kristen-Elisa, come in here please.” The Head’s voice.<br /><br />“Those poor girls,” Kirsten’s attention was on the retreating Dober sisters as she absently answered the Head’s command to enter his office. She presumed that since Vanessa was probably going to receive quite a firm punishment he’d called Kirsten in first, (since she was to receive no punishment), and allow her on her way. She saw it was now almost twenty-past-three, bell in ten minutes!<br /><br />“Kristen-Elisa!”<br /><br />“Sir, coming.”<br /><br /><br />The Head’s office was as she’d remembered it, although it was of course not Ms Penstock standing behind the big desk. Mr Aldwych, (known by all the girls, even the good girls, as “mister old-witch”), walked around the desk and shook Kirsten’s hand as she approached. “Take a seat Kristen. Is it fine if I just call you Kristen?”<br /><br />Kirsten thought she’d misheard, but thought it better not to comment. After all, he’d shaken her hand so he obviously knew who she was: and it was better that being called “Kirsten Ellison” the whole time.<br /><br />“That’s fine sir, thank you for seeing me sir.”<br /><br />Mr Aldwych smiled, he’d not heard that before, but then this was to be young Miss deWitt’s first caning so he could imagine her being over-polite<br /><br />“Now, Kristen, do you know why you are here.”<br /><br />“No sir, I’m afraid I don’t.”<br /><br />“It’s about your behaviour Kristen.”<br /><br />“Of course sir.” Kirsten was sure he’d said “Kristen” that time, but again thought it of little consequence: as long as they had the spelling right on her certificate and he didn’t call her “Kirst”, which she hated, she didn’t mind.<br /><br />“At this college we have a long tradition of educating ladies, such as you, to function in the world beyond our doors. One hundred years ago we were educating, the daughters of our colonial masters, and of the land-owners. Now any girl in Hobart, indeed any girl in Tasmania, may attend. And not just to raise a company of demure ladies to manage their husbands’ estates, but to equip young women, such as you, for the last decade of the twentieth century and indeed into the twenty-first.”<br /><br />“Thank you sir.”<br /><br />“Consequently, we have very strong ideas on behaviour and discipline. We have the name of our school to protect, but more importantly we want our graduating women to be well adjusted and ready for what comes next in life. What do you hope to do next, Kristen?”<br /><br />“I want to go to Rusden sir, and it’s Kirsten actually.”<br /><br />“Ah Rusden. Yes I was at Rusden, it’s a good school. And, more importantly, not in Tasmania.”<br /><br />Kirsten smiled.<br /><br />“Yes, you’ll be able to escape Hobart forever. Making it even more important, since you’ll be representing your State, that you have learned how to perform appropriately. I mean this both academically and with regard to conduct. We are a ladies college Kristen, we may not have ladies come in but we sure as eggs have ladies go out.”<br /><br />“Of course sir, I hope I shall make you proud of me.”<br /><br />“You must know then what this college makes of your conduct.”<br /><br />“You mean how I’m behaving now sir? Yes sir, I think I know.”<br /><br />“And you are aware of the rewards and sanctions policy of this school?”<br /><br />“Yes sir, I was on the SRC in 1988 and 1989 when it was drawn up.”<br /><br />“SRC?”<br /><br />“Oh, Student Representative Council sir. It’s now called Pupil Forum.”<br /><br />“Yes, so you know where this is leading then, this conversation. Kristen?”<br /><br /><br />Kirsten did know where this conversation was leading: she was to be called up in front of the assembly tomorrow to receive her Merit Award for 250 earned merits.<br /><br /><br />“Do we need to engage in further conversation Kristen-Elisa?”<br /><br />“No, sir, I understand that you are a busy man and that you still need to talk to Vanessa Carlon. I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me first.”<br /><br />“Good girl. Now I realise you’ve not been here before so I’ll take you through the procedure.”<br /><br />“Thank you sir.” Kirsten had indeed been “here” before, not in this office but she had been publicly presented with her Merit Award for 100 earned merits, but she thought it best to allow the Head to finish his piece.<br /><br />“Good girl, approach the desk.”<br /><br /><br />Kirsten stood up and walked across to the front of the large wooden desk.<br /><br />“Lean forward, and place your hands flat on my blotter.”<br /><br />Kirsten did so, imagining that this was some sort of processional rite. She was glad that she had taken up Mr Aldwych’s offer to walk her through the process; obviously there was to be some sort of desk on stage tomorrow and girls would be required to take their certificates from someone sitting behind it. Kirsten saw the green leather blotter where Mr Aldwych would have sat to write, and leaned across to place her hands upon it.<br /><br />“Are you ready Kristen?”<br /><br />A strange instruction, but as she was in place after the last instruction Kirsten replied “yes.”<br /><br /><br />Whoosh crack!<br /><br /><br />“Kristen-Elisa deWitt. Under guidance from this school’s 1989 Discipline and Behaviour policy I… BEND OVER!”<br /><br />Kirsten had jumped when the cane had struck her, and had stood up with a startled squeal.<br /><br />“Kristen-Elisa bend over the desk NOW, young lady, or do you want another stroke?”<br /><br />Unsure of what was happening, Kirsten bent over the desk again, placing her hands on the blotter.<br /><br />“Good girl. Now, under the policy I hereby deliver to you three strokes of the cane upon your covered buttocks for continued disregard of school rules, leading to you gaining three Red Card Warnings. Have you anything to say?”<br /><br />“Sir, it’s not me that …<br /><br /><br />Whoosh crack!<br /><br /><br />“…ah-HA-a-ouch … oh sir it’s not me you want.”<br /><br />“Disobedience brings its own rewards Miss deWitt.”<br /><br />“But please sir, I’m not …”<br /><br /><br />Whoosh crack!<br /><br />Whoosh crack!<br /><br /><br />“…ooh-hoo-hoo. Ha-aah-oow. Sir, I’m not her.”<br /><br />“Foolish! You surprise me Kristen-Elisa.”<br /><br /><br />Whoosh crack!<br /><br /><br />“OW! Oh please sir, I’m Kirsten Ellison. Kirsten Louisa Ellison, from 6A. Kristen-Elisa deWitt is a different girl, she’s in 4C and she’s probably at the swimming meeting in Launceston.” Kirsten broke into tears. “Please sir, I’m a different girl.”<br /><br /><br />Mr Aldwych stood back. He turned and looked at the file on the desk beside the sobbing girl. “Birthdate?”<br /><br />“Oh, mine sir, July two sir.”<br /><br />Kristen-Elisa DeWitt was born in March.<br /><br />“Class?”<br /><br />“Six A sir, I was with Mr Abel when you called.” The tears were running down Kirsten’s face and her voice had a sighing quality, but she’d stopped crying.<br /><br />“Well girl, stand up, what did you think you were doing here then?”<br /><br />Kirsten stood up slowly. “I think I have 246 merits sir, I thought you were going to present me with my certificate tomorrow.”<br /><br />“Miss …”<br /><br />“Ellison sir. Kirsten.”<br /><br />“Take a seat Kirsten.”<br /><br />“Please sir I’d …” Kirsten was rubbing her bottom, unaware of “the code” that a caned girl waits until she can get into the toilets before doing so.<br /><br />“You’d rather stand. Well, let’s leave this for later then. You go clean yourself up and I’ll see you back here tomorrow okay?” Mr Aldwych put his hand on Kirsten’s arm. “I cannot tell you how terribly sorry I am. Good afternoon Kirsten Ellison; oh what a silly error!”<br /><br />“Thank you sir, good afternoon sir.”<br /><br /><br />Kirsten turned and walked out of the office. As she did so she saw Vanessa standing, awaiting her turn. “Nice meeting with the Head was it Kristen-Elisa deWitt?”<br /><br />“Carlon?” Mr Aldwych was at the door. “You could have saved this unfortunate young lady a great deal of trouble. You’ll have your five, plus the five I gave her.”<br /><br />Vanessa smiled, “Kirsten Ellison got five! Winner!”<br /><br />“Vanessa Carlon, that is cruel and unthinking. I think I’ll ask you to raise your skirt on this occasion if I can find a female chaperone. Kirsten, would you agree to be Vanessa’s chaperone?”<br /><br />“Please sir, let her just have the punishment she came for.” Kirsten smiled at Vanessa, and walked out.<br /><br />“Now Vanessa, why can’t you be more like Kirsten Ellison? In you come.”Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-1392262114499689922010-01-23T07:31:00.000+00:002010-01-23T07:32:07.126+00:00Bea Isfor<span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-style:italic;">This is a story I wrote in Hobart in April 1996, so I would have been 23 then: it is one of the first spanking stories I wrote. It is entirely made up, names and the club itself are all imagined, but the external geography of Hobart is accurate as is the name of Tasmania University (it’s where I was studying at the time). This was one of four stories I wrote in what I had hoped to be a series of twenty-six, one for each letter of the alphabet. This is Belinda, another two were Jessica, (a girl at a boarding school who is woken up in the middle of the night to be caned in front of the entire sixth form), and Deborah, (a young woman in her first job who is taken by a sexual predator as she walks home from work, but is spanked rather than raped). Rachael, (a young babysitter spanked by the parents of her charge for allowing him to break something), was re-used recently in Drought. I began stories called Anna (a nineteenth century maid caned for sloppiness, and named after Madam Karenina) and Natalia (a sixteenth century woman artist beaten by her father for being better than her brother, based on Artemisia Gentileschi), but never finished them.</span><br /><br />I hope you like Belinda, I was very pleased to find her hidden in an old file of holographs, she was my favourite of the girls, although Jessica’s was the best story. (Sadly I have not got copies of the other stories only Belinda’s.)<br /><br />This is a recent typing up of the original handwritten copy: I am very pleased to tell you that my handwriting has improved in the past eleven years, as has my grammar. I hope my storytelling has too, I like this story but I think it a bit stiff in form.<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">B is for Belinda</span><br /><br />Belinda pulls her right shoe out of the box beneath her bed and pulls it on with a grimace. The toes are tight, she needs new ones, but then she needs money for so many things that shoes for Birdbar are low on her to-buy list. She stands up, clenches her toes, and steps off towards the kitchen.<br /><br />Belinda Messenger is twenty-two years old and in her second year of a B.FA at Hunter Campus of Tasmania University, focussing on the History of Art and completing a practical course in photography. She loves that the college sits on the old wharf of Hobarttown; she imagines the convicts and screws who used to walk the very cobbles she daily walks between her flat in Wapping, her work in Salamanca Place, and the college on Hunter Island. She had been delighted to read in the Saturday Tasmanian that one of the bars local to her was recruiting hostesses, so whilst her classmates waitress tables or work in childcare, “Bella Mess” is paid to drink and talk to nice men.<br /><br />Birdbar is located in a cellar beneath The Salamanca Tavern, and continues Salamanca Place’s long tradition of providing an ancillary service industry to the maritime communities of the Southern Ocean, and now of Antarctica. The Australian and French exploration vessels Aurora Australis and L’Astrolabe are both wintering in port, although the Russian one is not in this year. Belinda enjoys the company of the sailors, it is only officers who are allowed into Birdbar by Michal, the big Czechoslovakian at the door, but there are plenty of other houses of ill-repute for the lower cast of sailor to release his seamen. She enjoys the Australians and the Russians, but the French are her favourite. “Bonsoir, je’mappelle Belle, je suis tres jolie” she will often say to great applause.<br /><br />Belinda’s shoes make click-clack as she traverses Murray Street and crosses into the gardens in front of Parliament House. The greenies are still encamped there, re-enacting Sunbury and extravagantly puffing mary-jane in protest at the draconian (Van Diemonian) restrictions on the use of said relaxant. She passes them without speaking to anyone, they are all too far out of it to see her anyway. She turns out of the gardens, walks along past the furniture shop and in the front door of Birdbar.<br />“Dobre vecer Beleenda”<br />“Ahoj Michal.”<br />Michal smiles, Belinda is the only one of the girls who has bothered to learn the Czech word for “hello”, in fact she is the only one who really speaks with him. Belinda briefly touches Michal’s hand as she enters, believing it is always a good idea to be friendly with the biggest boy in the room.<br /><br />“You’re late Ms Messenger.” It is team coordinator Gretchen, known by the girls as Hausfrau.<br />“I’m sorry ma’am.”<br />“Two extra for you tonight.”<br />“Of course ma’am.”<br />Gretchen is herself only twenty-nine, but she is old. She has a mouth like a cat’s arse, both in appearance and output: with wiry hair and shoulders like a man. She is living evidence that the Berlin Wall was only downed seven years ago, Gretchen is everything everyone ever said about the women of the GDR.<br />“Room Seven.”<br />“Thank you ma’am.”<br />“And don’t forget the two, I shall ask.”<br />“Of course ma’am, thank you.”<br />Gretchen walks off, Belinda mutters “slag.”<br />“Four!” Gretchen doesn’t turn, but she has heard.<br />“Sorry ma’am.”<br />“Extra, mean is now six.”<br />“Understood ma’am.”<br />“In centre.”<br /><br />Spanks. That’s what the two extra four mean is now six refers to. Belinda’s job is to chat to men, and occasionally women, fetch them drinks, share drinking with them, (but no alcohol for her), and allow herself to be spanked by them when deemed necessary. Sometimes the girls would also put on a “show” where several of them would be called up to go over a knee in the centre of the room for public displays of correction. This is what Gretchen had meant by “centre”, Belinda is going to receive six smacks during the evening show.<br /><br />Belinda enters Room Seven and sees three men seated in a cloud of tobacco. Her friend Felicity is already present, sitting between two of the men and drinking Fanta through a curly straw. The men have bourbons on ice. Felicity looks up at the new arrival.<br />“Gentlemen, may I present Ms Belinda Messenger: aka Bella Mess.”<br />Belinda executes a neat bow.<br />“Who is, oh look, seven minutes late. Hausfrau?”<br />“Two,” replies Belinda, looking around the room to find who might look least likely to hurt her. Sometimes it is a gamble, drunken men can hit very inaccurately, or very very hard: you never know which.<br />“Come here then.” Felicity raises her arm and smiles. Belinda shoots her a look of gratitude. “Excuse me for a moment good sirs, Bella needs a belting. Turn around Bella.”<br />Belinda turns where she is in the room, and puts her hands on her knees. Felicity steps around behind her, and puts a hand on her back. With a single word, lateness, she brings the other one down in two smart slaps to Belinda’s tightened bum.<br />“Sorry Flicker.”<br /><br />Bella and Flicker enjoy the company of the men, drinking Fanta politely through curly straws as the sailors sink deeper into a second bottle of Sam Cougar, but soon enough comes eleven o’clock and the closing of the siderooms. State licensing laws allow Birdbar to remain open only until midnight, so the last hour is always spent in the Central Room so as to make sure everyone is accounted for at closing time. Two of the sailors return to their ships at this point, but one continues in to the Central Room, walking surprisingly steadily with a girl in each hand. Save Belinda’s entry there have been no more corporal punishments in Room Seven tonight.<br /><br />The trio arrive to find that they are last ones in, although that is to be understood as Room Seven is the furthest from the Central Room. Gretchen is standing on the raised circle in the middle of the room along with Mr Darwin, who is both the licensee and the manager, and some of the party from Room Four. Gretchen is speaking into the microphone.<br />“I see Ms Bella and Ms Flicker have joined us, so now our party is complete and the fun is able to begin. Mister Darwin has some things to tell us now.”<br />Mr Darwin takes the microphone and proceeds to explain that there are two sets of punishments due this evening, before the men can ask for some “free smacks” upon the girls. Two girls have been late, and one girl has spilled a drink on her client: indeed the clumsy girl has also been one of the late ones. These offences have been dealt with in the rooms, but will be addressed publicly as well. The girl from Room Four looks down, she knows she is owed six smacks for the spill and two for the lateness, indeed she has already received eight spanks in Room Four, but because she is going to be smacked for two transgressions then an implement will be used in the Central Room.<br />“Ms Rosie?” The girl, Belinda’s classmate Rosanna Bain, lifts her head.<br />“Yes sir it is true.”<br />The man from Room Four sits down, and pats his lap, Rosie bends over it and is paddled eight times: it appears as though the man is quite sober as the paddling is both direct and well measured. Rosie squints and grunts.<br /><br />“Ms Bella? And your companion as well please?”<br />Belinda knew this was coming, she has been the other late girl and although she has already been smacked by Flicker she knew that there was always a Centre Room smack for that as well. Then there were the four for insulting Gretchen, but since these are separate incidents Bella will not receive the paddle.<br />Rooms Four and Seven trade places on the stage, and Belinda receives two very hard swats from the man, bent across his knees. Gretchen then sends the man back to the booth with Flicker, tells Belinda to bend over the stool, and delivers four hard smacks of her own. As Belinda is standing up, the man calls out “she’s nicked my wallet!”<br />An investigation follows, which over the course of twenty minutes scours the man’s pockets, Belinda’s pockets, Room Seven, and the booth in Central Room. The wallet cannot be found, the man all the time insists that Belinda had taken it. Belinda protests her innocence, but Mr Darwin decrees that until the wallet be found, both she and Felicity will be held accountable: which both girls know means more spanks for them.<br />And so back to the Central Room. Belinda goes up first, still protesting her innocence but knowing that all will be sorted out in terms of the theft. She feels able to deal with another smack, knowing that she will not have to handle Police and so forth.<br /><br />The man pulls Belinda over his knees and Mr Darwin leans across and folds up her skirt. Gretchen hands the man the paddle and gives him a single worded instruction: “twenty”. The man smiles, and began the smacking. Belinda continues to protest her innocence, between gasps, but the smacks kept coming. At twenty he pushes Belinda off his lap so that she falls heavily to the floor, and then calls out that he has been only joking, but now bring the other one. Felicity protests, Belinda stands up and begins to straighten her clothes. Mr Darwin asks what the man means and he says that it is all just part of the game, he’s now smacked the blonde one and it is the red-head’s turn now.<br /><br />The wallet had never been stolen, it is locked in the cloakroom safe.<br /><br />Mr Darwin informs the man that since he has made a false accusation against Belinda he has two options: either accept a spanking from Belinda, or be banned from Birdbar. The man accepts the ban, saying he is not sorry for what he has done as it has all been worth the experience of “spanking a pretty blonde’s bare arse in front of my mates”. Mr Darwin has Michal evict the man, to great cheering from the other men in the bar who give three cheers to “patient Bella, a good sort.” Bella smiles shyly and presses down the front of her skirt.<br />“I was not bare arse,” she tells the men before stepping off the stage and heading to the Ladies to fix her face up. Felicity assures her that since the uniform for the girls involves black pantihose, which were obviously not the colour of bare flesh, and had remained in place upon Bella’s lower half, the men had been aware of her legs being covered all along. “Good,” replies Belinda, I wouldn’t want them to think I’m a slag.”Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-47134048717206731882010-01-23T07:27:00.002+00:002010-01-23T07:30:44.890+00:00Spare the Rod<span style="font-style:italic;">This story was written for my lovely friend Julie Chastised, who I'm sure will be an amazing mother when the time comes. She first had the idea for a Supernanny story, so kudos to her and all respect to Jo Frost who I think is an incredibly talented woman with brilliant ideas. Ms Frost is also very very similar in appearance to me, when she takes her hair down and her glasses off: I was stunned how much like me she looks when she first appeared on television, so now you know what Kirsten looks like. Sort of. Enjoy Kayley's adventures in Surrey!</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Tuesday Morning:</span><br />Kayley locked the door to her flat and put the key into her bag. She enjoyed her job as host of UKBC’s Spare The Rod, a child-raising advice show which had just entered its eleventh year on British television and was now being shown on Ireland’s RTE-3, but she was never happy about having to return to London to film there. Kayley had spent seven years as a secondary school teacher in the Home Counties and had been delighted to be offered the chance to leave London when UKBC approached her about taking on the show last year after the original host, Dr Rodney Fessey, had retired to his property in Umbria (or was it Cumbria?) with Donna his second, French wife.<br /><br /><br />Kayley was running late, her usual short hop across the Irish Sea from Belfast to Stansted had been curtailed by UK Terror warnings, and so, oddly enough, she was now required to leave the United Kingdom by road, drive herself to Dublin, and then fly across to Gatwick and re-enter the United Kingdom before taking a UKBC film crew across to Esher for the filming. She hated Surrey, believing it to be full of snobs, and of course the children of snobs: brats. I suppose that’s why their landmass is called Great Brattan she said to herself for the one hundredth time. At least the drive from airport to location would be that much shorter, Stansted was miles away from anything.<br /><br /><br />The drive down was, in the end, quite pleasant: A32, N87, N3, M50, M1; and UKBC’s driver was quite a pleasant chap who spoke only when spoken to and then offered to carry Kayley’s bag for her. Check-in also went smoothly, except for the inevitable mix up with her name: it happened almost every time.<br /><br /><br />Aer Lingus girl: Good morning Kayley, I love your show.<br />Kayley: Thank you; may I have an aisle seat?<br />Aer Lingus girl: Of course. Hey, your passport says your name is…<br />Kayley: Yes, that is what my name is. Kayley is actually my initials.<br />Aer Lingus girl: Oh yes, hey my middle name is also L…<br />Kayley: Thank you Allison, are we done now?<br /><br />At least they were letting her fly Aer Lingus rather than BA.<br /><br />Kayley was pleased to find that the studio had been organised enough to put her car at Gatwick for her, and the film crew were waiting to film her as she came through Immigration. Similar to other programs of the sort on American television, Kayley would always be seen arriving at the new house for her four day stay in the same car, in her case a bright yellow Vauxhall Monaro VXR. If Jo Frost can have a London cab in America the least Britain can do for me is give me an Australian car Kayley had insisted at the interview, and UKBC had agreed. Rod had had only an old Morris Mentor.<br /><br /><br />The house in Esher was exactly how Kayley had expected it to be: having lived in one of the wealthier areas of Southern England for several years she knew how “the other half lived”. Indeed she’d been teaching their progeny until August 2007 when the ban on Antipodean teachers without British “QTS” or “Qualified Teacher Status” had forced her out of Education entirely. Six bedrooms, double garage which opened onto a driveway holding a boat and a Mercedes McLaren sports car: at least they were petrol-headed snobs this time; Kayley knew her dad back in the shack in Cygnet would be pleased. Kayley pulled the Monaro to a stop around the corner from the house so as to be able to be filmed “arriving”, then went across to the UKBC van and sat in the back reading over the notes on her laptop. She knew Jo Frost used to do this in the back of her taxi, but since Kayley’s style was to drive herself, you as the adult must always be in the driving seat, she needed to stop to read her case-studies. She was surprised at Jo Frost’s being in America, weren’t there enough bratty kids in England? But then that’s how it was, English girls go overseas to Au Pair whilst Antipodeans and Polish girls were asked to serve “the bottle of Britain”. It was time to go.<br /><br /><br />“Good afternoon and welcome to Spare The Rod, the programme where we hope to help parents at the end of their tether to deal with the misbehaviours of their children without the need to resort to physical, emotional, or verbal violence. I’m Kayley and today I’m in Esher, Surrey, with the MacDonnell family. Jeff MacDonnell is dad and he works for a finance company organising ISAs: his new wife Julie is full time step-mum to Jeff’s two children and is also studying part-time at The University of Guildford. The two little tackers are seven year old Marissa and two year old Fry: let’s go say hello.” The camera drew back to a shot of Kayley walking up to the Monaro, and then cut away.<br /><br /><br />Marissa and Fry? No wonder the poor little buggers have issues thought Kayley as she turned the key and kicked the 5.0 V8 into action. She loved her car, big golden spear that it was, with black leather seats. The Monaro was the only Australian car available to purchase new in Europe, and was named for both an aboriginal word meaning “High Place” (Kayley preferred to think “high road”), and for the local area around Canberra, Australia’s capital city. She’d named the car “Brindabella”, also a local word to the Yuin-Monaro people.<br /><br /><br />“Heya Kayley, did you get those kids’ names? Ten quid says you can’t tame the beast this time, who names their kid Fry?” Kayley’s kiwi camera-man Bill was always up for a bet.<br /><br />Kayley smiled, “ten quid nothin’ Billy boy; if I can’t get Fry calmed down and Marissa eating her veggies without a fuss by Friday then I’ll let Jeff MacDonnell spank me himself.”<br /><br />“Ka mate!”<br /><br />“Ka ora!”<br /><br /><br />Wednesday Morning:<span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /></span>After her first night in the house Kayley was up early and ready for her full day of observation. She’d taken a long morning bath in the lovely guest bathroom and had made use of all three big fluffy towels that Julie ad set out for her, before reading her Bible study and then her crib-sheet on Jeff, Julie, and the children. Jeff had been widowed only weeks after Fry’s birth, and he had met Julie only seven months ago. Julie was a lovely girl, Kayley felt herself warming instantly to her, but she was struggling to keep up with her studies and the need to look after her step-children and her always busy husband. This was no family of the “just scream louder” chav-types Kayley was used to working with, but a truly lovely family who had gone through a great deal of grief, turmoil, and change for no fault of their own. The kids were not “brats” by any means, Kayley wondered if this story was to be more of a “not all kids are arseholes” piece than one of the usual breed of “the madder the better” episodes. Jeff and Julie were keen to try anything, even Marissa seemed to be up for new ways to make “daddy and Oolie-boolie” happier. Kayley smiled and wished she’d taken Bill’s tenner bet, it would have been money in the bank.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Friday Morning:</span><br />“Too often it seems as though parents are to blame for the poor behaviour of their children, indeed I think that however a child behaves it is primarily the effect of a parental cause, both for good and for bad forms of behaviour. Nevertheless it will always be my opinion that there is no such thing as a bad child, only a child who exhibits unacceptable behaviours in certain contexts. Raise a child in the way that she should go and when she is older she shall not depart from it it says in the Christian Bible. How ever a child is raised, that’s how the adult will act in later years, be it positive and social, or negative and antisocial.” Kayley often did a piece to camera along these lines, but in this episode she felt it ever so strongly: Jeff and Julie were lovely people with lovely kids, but the kids were confused and stressed. Marissa had just that morning thrown her porridge at Jeff, just as he was leaving for work, and he had had to go and change his suit. Ordinarily Julie would have spanked Marissa for that, but this morning Marissa had been sent to “the thinking place,” (a stool in the kitchen), while Julie and Kayley talked about alternatives to smacking.<br /><br /><br />“I just don’t understand it Kayley, Fry has settled so well with you here and I am extremely confident in the ideas you gave me for him. Jeff just loves being allowed to cuddle his son, the fact that you told him that dads should be affectionate with their boys is just the encouragement they both needed. It’s so lovely, Jeff was almost crying last night as we were drifting off to sleep, he’s so in love with that boy it’s amazing. And speaking of amazing, you should have heard the sex we…”<br /><br />Kayley smiled.<br /><br />“Oh God no, really?”<br /><br />Kayley bit her lip, still smiling. “Good for you.”<br /><br />“I’m so embarrassed.”<br /><br />“Don’t be, the best thing you can do for his kids…”<br /><br />“…our kids, Kayley…”<br /><br />Kayley smiled, “…for your kids Julie, the best thing is to love their dad. If you love Jeff, and they see you loving Jeff, that’s the best thing. That they are not only his kids is also a big help. But you were saying you don’t understand something?”<br /><br />“Yes, it’s Marissa. She’s even worse.”<br /><br /><br />Kayley was confused as well. Marissa had been so welcoming when she’d arrived, proudly telling everyone, including the rolling camera, that “Kelly from the Telly” was staying in their downstairs room. The observation day, (it was school holidays so Marissa was home), had highlighted a few points of interest, and Marissa had looked positively worried when Julie had told her that the wooden spoon was going to be retired from active service as Kayley had some new ideas on behaviour management. Marissa had taken well to “the thinking place”, professed a genuine interest in the sticker chart programme, and had chosen her own reward for a sheet full of stickers as a princess picnic party for six of her friends in the gardens of Hampton Court, to which she had specifically asked Julie if it was okay to also invite Kayley in addition to the six friends. What, then, had happened on Wednesday night that had sent Marissa spare on Thursday and Friday?<br /><br /><br />“And I’m afraid I have a confession to make Kayley.” Julie looked up. “We were having such fun last night that I promised Jeff he could spank me the next time Marissa did something naughty. Not that I’m adverse to such things, but it worries me that Marissa is still being naughty.”<br /><br />Kayley burst out laughing, only then remembering the bet she had made with Bill. “I have a similar bet: with Bill the sound man.”<br /><br />“The Maori fellow?”<br /><br />“He’s not Maori, he’s Pakeha, but yes that’s the one. Kayley gets it over Jeff’s knee if Marissa doesn’t eat nicely by Friday.”<br /><br />“I take it that would displease you?”<br /><br />“Apart from the fact that he’s your husband, it would displease me only as much as it would you. I’m not sure I want the viewing public of Great Britain and Ireland to see me skirt-to-the-sky, but I must admit I’m not dreading the adrenalin rush a good smack brings. No, like you, it’s more that Marissa’s a lovely wee girl and shouldn’t be responding like this, I have missed something I’m sure. When a kid goes crazy like she did it’s because she’s acting out of need: but with you and Jeff loving her as you do and she so willing beforehand to help out it seems something is upsetting her. It concerns me that I can’t see it.”<br /><br /><br />“Man how are you doing this? Kayley’s done all the usual stuff and this kid was Goldie-locks in a box to start with.” Bill was sitting outside the UKBC van having a smoke with Rick, the second camera operator, and had just mentioned his bet with the star of the show.<br /><br />“Yeah glucose eh.”<br /><br />“You what now?”<br /><br />“It’s glucose. I’ve been spiking the little girl’s juice with it so she’s hyperactive. Not enough to give her actual hyperglycaemia, but a big enough hit hidden in her drink to make her edgy.”<br /><br />“Bill that’s bastard behaviour; whatever it earns you with Kayley that’s screwing up the kid more so.”<br /><br />“Yeah, but anyway I finished now. The bet was by Friday, well it is Friday and the kid sent Oaties Comet across the table this morning so the decision is made. Kayley shouldn’t have any issue now, not with the girl anyway. Shit, time to get back in there.”<br /><br /><br />“Ooh Julie, I need a quick wee and then we need to film some more of Marissa playing outside. Can you give her a big shot of filter water from the jug I asked you to put on the bench, let’s try her without the juice today, and then I’ll meet you in the garden.” Kayley unfolded her legs from beneath her and stood up from the sofa. Rather than trudging back to her own en suite she went across the hallway and into the bathroom used by the children during the day; Marissa was just coming out. “Your mummy, I mean, Julie, wants you in the garden now Marissa.”<br /><br />“Thank you Kelly, I’m very sorry about the porridge.”<br /><br />“So am I Marissa.”<br /><br />“I’m sorry I’m not in the thinking place, I needed to twink: and I think Oolie-boolie is my mum now anyway.”<br /><br />Kayley smiled and went into the bathroom, where she was surprised to see that the toilet bowl had a bright yellow tinge to it. Marissa had forgotten to flush, and she was obviously sending out a rather concentrated by-product. Kayley nodded to herself as she recalled her last instruction to Julie to put Marissa on water.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Friday Evening:</span><br />Filming went well and Julie and Marissa had had a most enjoyable afternoon playing together whilst Fry had taken an afternoon rest. Kayley had sat in the corner with a clipboard and a film crew; she’d been very pleased with what she’d seen. Over dinner with Jeff the family discussed their progress, Marissa apologised to Jeff over the porridge throwing, and Julie was able to tell him that Marissa had been as good as gold for the remainder of the day following a short spell in the thinking place and two big glasses of water. Filming ended with several combinations of kiss-cuddle around the table, the final one showing Kayley in the midst of a group-hug. The crew then took their cameras out to their van and drove back to UKBC for the night while Kayley put the children to bed and allowed Jeff and Julie time to catch up. Bill remained with a hand-held camera in the guise of “Kayley-Vision” to film any last-minute comments from the children, he would then take the Monaro back to UKBC leaving Kayley with the family for one last night.<br /><br /><br />“They’re beautiful kids Kayley; you’ve done us proud this time.” Bill put his arm around Kayley’s shoulder and squeezed her arm. Kayley lay her head into his neck and put her arm around his waist.<br /><br />“Thanks mate, but it was a struggle; we got there in the afternoon at last with Marissa but the morning and Thursday were a struggle.”<br /><br />“So you remember the wager then.”<br /><br />Kayley smiled and raised her head, “of course Billy boy, it’s only the children we don’t smack on this show.”<br /><br /><br />“Julie you are amazing, you’ve given me my children back: their mother would be so proud of them right now.” Jeff was lying on the couch with his head in Julie’s lap; she was stroking his hair absently.<br /><br />“As you should be, did you know Marissa told Kayley that I’m her mummy now?”<br /><br />Jeff sat up as Kayley and Bill arrived back in the room and kissed Julie deeply on the mouth. “That’s so wonderful my darling.”<br /><br />“You both look very happy there,” commented Kayley, “it’s good to see. More of that and your kids will be even more amazing than they are now.”<br /><br />“More kissing Julie, less smacking Marissa and Fry, more kissing Marissa and Fry. What a lovely instruction.” Jeff kissed Julie’s cheek and stood up, offering a hand and a kiss to Kayley, who accepted both.<br /><br />“Ah Jeff, but what about smacking Julie? More or less of that? She told me about your little wager. Oh man of little faith to have ever doubted me!” Kayley laughed at Jeff’s obvious embarrassment, and then smiled as he smiled back.<br /><br />“I believe you had a similar arrangement with this gentleman here? My wife is no less reliable at keeping your secrets than mine. What say we tally up the score-sheet now?”<br /><br />“Ah, but I got Marissa to behave on Friday, so I‘m immune,” responded Kayley, “but it was a close run thing.”<br /><br />“Yes Kayley, but our bet was by Friday. She was still killing cereal on Friday morning, the deadline was exceeded.” Bill turned to Julie and Jeff. “Eh?”<br /><br />“Well if I have to, she has to!” pouted Julie.<br /><br />Kayley smiled. “Put the camera down Bill; Jeff, hand this man a chair.”<br /><br /><br />All agreed to Kayley’s un-stated but understood shift in the betting, she’d be spanked by Bill rather than Jeff. “Right Kayley, I won’t use your full name as I know you don’t like that, but you must accept the consequence of your actions. Marissa threw her breakfast this morning and that is unnerseptable.” She laughed at Bill’s use of Jo Frost’s pronunciation. “Spare the Rodney, Spoil the Kayley. Bend over missy!”<br /><br /><br />Kayley lay herself across Bill’s wide knees and felt her dress being flipped up before whack-whack-whack-whack as one of the wooden spoons made a brief comeback from retirement: Jeff had fetched them from the bureau for use in his games with Julie and had passed one across. Bill continued to smack as he sounded out his warning in punctuated phrases. “Kayley-must-take-more-care-in-her-work. Kayley-must-take-better-care-in-her-observations.” Whack-whack-whack-whack.<br /><br />Kayley was amazed at the feelings rising up in her as she felt her bottom begin to burn. Her modesty was protected by a pair of thick cotton knickers, but she still felt the acute embarrassment of a girl having her bottom smacked for naughtiness. It felt wonderful, and she sighed when the dress was flipped down and Bill raised his left knee as an indication for her to rise. She’d not been spanked in such a long time; it had been far less fun when she was twelve. She stood up and gave herself a good rubbing.<br /><br />“Syrup BP was it?” Kayley whispered so as to avoid Marissa’s parents hearing, not that they were paying much attention any more.<br /><br />“Glucose. How did you know?”<br /><br />“She pissed gold at lunch; you owe me a tenner, and Julie an apology.”<br /><br />Kayley and Bill looked across as Jeff expertly pulled down his wife’s tights and knickers with his thumbs, and then continued his percussive reinforcement of house standards of behaviour upon a giggling Julie.<br /><br />“Oh I don’t know, I don’t think she minds that much.”<br /><br />Kayley smiled as Julie told Jeff “I’ve been much naughtier than that, you spank like a girl!”<br /><br />“What say we finish an evening early, William, and leave these remarkable parents to work on their skills together?”<br /><br />Bill sighed and smiled, “yes indeed, indeed. I believe your work here is done, congratulations; Kirsten Louisa.”<br /><br />“Shh!”Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-74304288517966299492010-01-23T07:27:00.001+00:002010-01-23T07:27:46.681+00:00Always the Bride's mates, Never St Bride<span style="font-style:italic;">Dia dhuit! I am on holiday with some of my Irish family this month, staying with them in their various homes around County Fermanagh. My mother has two brothers who live in Ireland, and I have three sets of cousin-and-spouse, and two spinster cousins to play with as well.<br /><br />This story was written as a challenge set by the spinsters after we attended the wedding of a woman from one cousin’s work. It is complete fiction, but I think you’ll still enjoy it as it’s all my own work this time. Thanks (go raibh maith agut) to my lovely cousins Siobhan and Niamh McDonagh, who with me constitute the three unmarried granddaughters of the legendary Nana Saoirse, kindred spirits of Curtseygirl, the bride’s mates.<br /><br />It is a bit laboured with Irishness, and in-jokes, but that was the challenge. I’ve deliberately left it all in for posting upon Curtseygirl’s Blog: I was allowed to post this for you only if I agreed not to change it: I hope you’ll approve of my agreeing to post this as is.</span><br /><br />“So what do you think about September then Christine?”<br /><br />“September?”<br /><br />“Rugby.”<br /><br />“Oh, us of course.”<br /><br />Kirsten was out with her cousins, “upon the tear” as Ciaran had called it, although a few quiet drinks in the Duck and Bucket hardly constituted a weekend in Ibiza: that amount of fun was to wait until the Hen Night, no boys allowed. She was enjoying the time with her family, but wondered whether Ciaran’s dopey mate Padraig was just being dopey, or was he trying to be funny.<br /><br />“And it’s not Christine, it’s Kirsten.”<br /><br />“Pardon. Kirsten. So you say us of course, but is that to imply us to mean we ourselves Ireland, or you yourselves Australia?”<br /><br />Kirsten merely smiled: truth be told she was getting rather fed up with all the talk of sport, the burden of being an Aussie abroad is that sport seems the only conversation the locals of Europe are prepared to offer; sport and the weather, and of course the inevitable so why the fook would you want to live over here then?<br /><br />“Tell me Padraig, do you know why it is that wallabies drink out of billabongs?”<br /><br />“No, I do not.”<br /><br />“And why it is that springboks drink out of water-holes?”<br /><br />“Again, I do not.”<br /><br />“Wallabies must drink out of billabongs, and springboks from waterholes, because The All Blacks have all the cups! Us of course, of course, is New Zealand.”<br /><br />Kirsten winced at her joke, funny as she thought it was, (and she was delighted to see all her cousins laughing), she realised what a mess of words she’d made of it. Kirsten was sober, she’d agreed to drive for Clan McDonagh, but someone had neglected to inform her brain of this. Sober, but lysdexic, poor Kirsten.<br /><br />Kirsten sat back in her seat and allowed the laughter to flow over her. After a few lonely months in London, and three years away from Hobart and her parents, it felt good for her to be back amongst family. She winked at Padraig, he wasn’t such a bad sort after all, but she wished he’d go away and leave her alone with her cousins. There was Ciaran, eldest of the clan, married for four years and with the first McDonagh great-grandson promoting his legendary grandmother to the status of Supernana Saoirse, and his wife Rose. The baby was at home with Ciaran’s parents, allowing “the bairns” some time for liquid fellowship; Kirsten loved having Irish uncles and aunts, even though at thirty-five she wondered how long she’d be a “bairn”. (Ciaran was forty-one, and a father in his own right, so there was at least that long.) Younger by nine years were the twins, Siobhan and Niamh. The twins had been invited to act as bridesmaids for the wedding of their workmate Patricia, and had been able to sneak an invitation for Kirsten while she was on holidays in Ulster. Patricia was due to join the party soon, but the Clan McDonagh plan for an early-girlie drink and some cousins-catch-up had been sabotaged by the arrival of the jovial Padraig.<br /><br />“And so Kirsten, what star-sign are you?” Niamh groaned.<br /><br />“Paddy, she’s our cousin.”<br /><br />“I know it mo cara, but despite that she’s very pretty. And so, Kirsten?”<br /><br />“Pirex. I was a test-tube baby.”<br /><br />Ciaran stood up and tapped his friend’s shoulder. “Come lad, there’s talking to be done here and it’s the women who must do it.”<br /><br />“But the craic is the man’s business!”<br /><br />“But not the gossip, now move yer bleeden self and get yer fooken hands off my sisters.”<br /><br />Padraig looked around surprised, he was actually sitting next to Kirsten and away from the twins, but seeing the smile on Ciaran’s face he recalled a joke from earlier in the evening where that had been the punchline.<br /><br />“Ah, the Corrs, the beautiful Corrs. Right yer man is ladies, it’s time we were off to do what manly men must, and leave the talking to yourselves. Good night princesses of Ireland.”<br /><br />“Oiche mhaith, slan!” replied Kirsten.<br /><br />“Fook me Ciaran, for a Kiwi she’s a quick one, has she the Gael?”<br /><br />And so it was that the McDonagh girls, (for once Miss Ellison allowed herself to be that), drank and sang into the night: joined later by Patricia who invited Kirsten to attend “the night before” at her home where bride and maids would sleep in the same room and then go on to the church. Did Kirsten have a dress? (And was the pope a German? Of course Kirsten had a dress!)<br /><br />And then it was that the McDonagh girls, (Miss Ellison in the mood for etymological condescension), drank and sang into the night three nights later: joined the entire time by Patricia and a gaggle (or was it a giggle) of women “upon the tear”. And then it was evening, and then it was morning: the big day.<br /><br />Breakfast, together in a café in the town. Hair and make-up, also together, Kirsten invited to join the tour (but having to paint and style her own self). Dresses and shoes. One hour and forty-five minutes before aisle-altar-hymn, (when I’ll alter him), is when Patricia’s dad heard about the night before.<br /><br />Ever since she’d turned sixteen Patricia had had specific instructions as to how she was to behave when out with her friends. She was now twenty-nine, but still living at home, and the rules, (if not the sanctions) had remained on the books. And last night those rules had been broken. Patricia had drunk more than she’d been allowed, and had been quite loud in the street: she’d let the side down, and as her father was wont to tell her, when the side is let down, so is the underpant.<br /><br />One hour and thirty to church, and the bride was being offered the choices for a teenage girl: submit to spanking or be grounded for three nights. Now one hour and twenty-nine to church.<br /><br />“Patricia Maria Bridget O’Connell you know the rules.”<br /><br />“Daddy yes, but it’s my wedding day: you can’t seriously ground me.”<br /><br />“Then I must seriously spank you.”<br /><br />“But I’ll cry, you’ll mess up my hair and make-up, and displace all my clothes.”<br /><br />“You shamed me girl.”<br /><br />“My wedding day!”<br /><br />“Punishment is owed.”<br /><br />And so it was that a compromise was reached, and so it was. A spanking would indeed be offered for the gross misconduct of unladylike behaviour in a public place; but in true handmaidens-to-the-mistress style it would be delivered upon the whipping girls. Bend over the bridesmaids.<br /><br />Doctor O’Connell called in the women to deliver his findings. “Patricia is owed nine hard smacks of the hairbrush, but in respect to her being the centre of attention today I thank you girls for agreeing to accept what is rightfully hers. Two of you, that’s five smacks for the one and four for the other.”<br /><br />“Or three each for the three of us.” Kirsten turned to see who had made the offer, but was surprised to see all faces turned towards her.”<br /><br />“And so it is Miss McDonagh: I see you’ve only just met our Patricia but you’re already kin to her in such a way, so you are.”<br /><br />Kirsten was still looking around the room.<br /><br />“She’s our cousin,” began Niamh, “but she’s called Miss Ellison. Oh Kirsten that’s ever so kind of you!”<br /><br />How it was that Kirsten spoke what was plainly on her mind, (she was exceedingly proud of her cousins’ offer), but without recognising that she’d actually spoken was a mystery to her, but there it was. (So it was.) Kirsten saw the look of gratitude on the faces of the other three women in the room. “Thank you Doctor, she’s a lovely young woman, you should be proud of her. I see why it is Siobhan and Niamh love her so much.”<br /><br />“Right, and less than an hour it is as well: let’s get on with it then.”<br /><br />The women were pointed towards Patricia’s bedroom, where they had all slept the previous night, and told to wait in there “for father”. Siobhan and Niamh walked down the corridor holding hands, they’d done that in preparation of spanking for as long as they could remember, although unlike their Antipodean cousin neither had been smacked since the age of sixteen. Kirsten and Patricia walked behind the twin sisters, also holding hands.<br /><br />Patricia offered guidance for what was expected, the girls were to be “in place” when the doctor arrived: as instructed the three women each drew tights and knickers to knees, and bent over the bed with hands on the mattress and dresses still in place.<br /><br />Doctor O’Connell arrived and dispensed expeditiously with the formalities. Skirts were raised on the satin bridesmaids dresses and colour was raised on the naked bridesmaids’ bottoms. Three smacks each, with the hairbrush.<br /><br />“Lean forward Niamh”: WHACK-WHACK-WHACK! “Stay there.”<br /><br />“Lean forward Siobhan”: WHACK-WHACK-WHACK! “Stay there.”<br /><br />Kirsten winced as she heard each smack of the hairbrush, and the ensuing sobs of her cousins. Since she was also bending over the bed awaiting her own set of whacks the sounds had an ominous character.<br /><br />“Lean forward Miss Ellison”: WHACK! Kirsten winced silently, the smack had hurt but she’d had much worse, but the hairbrush seemed rather narrow. WHACK! Kirsten winced again and let out an “oow”, but her attention was focussed on the implement. WHACK! “Stay there.” Kirsten remained where she was, it seemed as though the hairbrush was only small; Patricia had had it easy compared to the McDonagh cousins as a child. Doctor O’Connell was into his post-spanking lecture, Kirsten could hear her cousins sobbing quietly.<br /><br />“This is not the behaviour I expect from Patricia, and it is on her behalf that you have received this: but I shouldn’t wonder whether your own father shouldn’t have whipped you himself. Shameful!”<br /><br />CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!<br /><br />CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!<br /><br />CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!<br /><br />The three McDonagh girls squealed as they received a second set of three, these from the doctor’s belt. The Ulsterwomen collapsed into tears, the Australian into sobs and moans.<br /><br />“And so that is for you. Stand yourselves up and wash your faces, my daughter is getting married in thirty-four minutes.”<br /><br />It took the women some time to replace their undergarments, straighten their dresses and eyelashes, and be ready for display once more. Patricia was all kisses and sobs, hugs and apologies: she also cleared up the mystery of Kirsten’s smacks.<br /><br />“He specially went and fetched it from his desk, he’s had it since he was in Sydney with the Naval Auxiliary in 1964.”<br /><br />“Fetched what?”<br /><br />“The boomerang; my dad spanked you with a boomerang.”<br /><br />The wedding went off with a hitch, (as weddings are supposed to, hitching being the entire point), and the McDonagh sisters were universally praised for their rosy cheeks, they’d obviously enjoyed their day, although they had walked a little stiffly up the aisle at the start of the service. But why had the bride been so late?<br /><br />Despite tradition Patricia had promised her fiancée she’d be on time for her wedding; she knew someone was going to get a smacked bottom for that in the honeymoon suite later that night. She had told him she thought it really quite rude the way some brides were late to their own weddings; something really must be done about it.<br /><br />(Or is that why they’re late in the first place?)<br /><br />I blame the bride’s mates. So I do.Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-17218794315214718672010-01-23T07:25:00.002+00:002010-01-23T07:26:34.975+00:00Trouble in America I<span style="font-style:italic;">Roses are yellow,<br />Violets are lavender.<br />If it wasn’t for the FRENCH (naval blockade of Yorktown in 1781),<br />You’d all live in Canada.</span><br /><br />Professor Clay could not believe what he was reading, had she really written such a thing? And in Thanksgiving Week?<br /><br />Kirsten Louisa, (sobbing quietly under the name Kirsty-Lou), was in her final few weeks of school exchange at Essendon High School in Hartford, Connecticut, and looking forward to getting on the road. She was going home to Antrim for Christmas, and then would be back in the USA for a few months of travelling with various friends before heading for Australia for the second of her two “gap years”.<br /><br />Since the resumption of the school term Kirsten had been somewhat of a novelty, the “English girl”, (she was actually Irish), who was on a two-year world tour between secondary and tertiary education, and had chosen to return to High School in America for the first part of it. What a strange thing to do. Still, she rather enjoyed the stateliness of Essendon, a college in the English tradition, for girls and boys. She had chosen it both for its assonant name, (similar in sound to her own surname), and for the fact that upon her return to studies she’d be living in England in Essendon, and studying in nearby Hatfield at the University of Hertfordshire, of which Hertford was the county town. The correctly spelled county town she insisted upon telling the good people of Connecticut; if this was New England, why could these people not spell in plain written English? And much as she hated being called Kirsty-Lou, it was way better than being called Kristin.<br /><br />Professor Clay flipped to the front of the book and read the name from the white sticker. “Ah, I should have thought she would know better.” Clay leaned back in his chair and smiled.<br /><br />Joseph Clay was also visiting Essendon, from Melbourne, Australia. He was quite fond of the young girl from Britain and was in two minds about what to do with her blatant disregard for the station of “guest in our country.” On the one hand he couldn’t fault her grasp of history, or poetry for that matter. On the other it was rather cheeky of her, rude even. Perhaps as a visitor for just the one term, and a high school graduate already, she thought herself too old even for the senior girls’ paddle. Even if her well meaning hosts were constant in mispronouncing her name, and her nationality, (it’s spelled I-R-I-S-H but it’s pronounced “English”), she must have known this ditty would cause a ruckus. It was a dilemma.<br /><br />Kirsten loved History, it had always been her favourite subject at school, and she had been delighted to have been accepted into Professor Clay’s special reading class on Thursday nights. It was he who had encouraged his students to enter the English Composition competition, this year the theme had been “America The Brave”, with a 1500 word limit and a $500 prize. She worked very hard on her assignment, careful not to engage in the politics she knew several of the girls in “The Clay Mine” (as they called their little gathering) were intending to do in regard to the presence of troops in Afghanistan, but neither was she going to write a “sucky piece” like some of the boys had spoken of.<br /><br />Kirsten’s essay then was a discussion of America’s bravery as a nation which welcomed visitors from all across the globe; a nation which had done so for over four hundred years. America’s bravery lays not in the weapons of her soldiers in Kabul, but in her shopkeepers and publicans right here in Essendon. Patrick, fourth generation barkeeper of Cobh ancestry, his wife Meabh born herself in Baile Atha an Ri, both decedents of victims of the Great Famine in different ways. Rivkeh and Aryeh, known to all in Essendon, the horrors of their story beyond retelling, and “Old Lady Aldwych” who may or may not be Swedish, but who lost her husband on 9/1/1973 and came suddenly to our small village soon after, penniless and afraid, but bold and determined all at once. America is only America because of the other nations which built it: Great Britain, France, Spain at the outset, and the citizens of almost every tribe, tongue, and religion since then. She felt proud of it, Clay would have justified her in that pride, (although it was by no means the best essay in the competition, not even in the group); but the witty beginning was not as clever as perhaps Kirsten thought. With a heavy heart the Australian teacher turned his Irish student over to the American judges.<br /><br />Sylvester Marks chuckled. It was a rather mediocre essay, all the more ordinary considering the girl who wrote it had already achieved a “B” in her final History exam in Antrim; but the poem did make him smile. A somewhat clever beginning to a disappointing account: the girl had a point, but she didn’t have the writing skills as an essayist to drive it home. Sadly he knew the outcome: it had been required of him by the association. The young “calin” was to be paddled, and as Principal it was his job to administer the board of education to the seat of learning as and when required. The girl was sent for.<br /><br />As soon as the call came, Kirsten knew what it was for. Quietly she’d been hopeful of such an outcome, putting herself at the receiving end of an American paddle was something she’d always dreamed of, (all those lovely Sorority Hazings...do they really happen?), but would probably not experience at an English university. She hadn’t been spanked much as a child, and even that had stopped when she was about eleven, so this would be special. Kirsten smoothed her skirt, wiping her sweaty palms dry, before knocking at the door.<br /><br />- Ah Kirsty, thank you for coming. I think you know why you are here: it’s about this essay you wrote for “America The Brave”.<br /><br />- You don’t like my essay?<br /><br />- It’s not a question of like, although as a matter of fact I had been lead to believe you were capable of much more. You seem to have invested a lot of your thinking in the showy rhetoric of your introduction, and you have left the essay itself undeveloped. You made some excellent points, but then did nothing with them. But that is all beside the point. The point is that your little “poem”, might cause offence. In fact it did cause offence. I have been asked to remove your essay from the competition entries.<br /><br />- I’m sorry to hear that Sir, both that you are disappointed in my writing, and that I have so offended my hosts. So I am. I accept your decision.<br /><br />Kirsten turned to go, disappointed that she’d not been spanked, but more so that her writing had fallen short of the mark. It did matter to her, after all, that her work be respected.<br /><br />- I’m afraid that isn’t all Kirsty. You see, we have set standards of behaviour here; and with all respect to free speech and the freedom of expression, you were still rude. Or some may think so. I am one of the some. As punishment for your rudeness I am going to give you the paddle. However, we do not allow girls to be paddled on their skirts here, so I must ask you to return to this office tomorrow, wearing trousers, that the punishment may take place.<br /><br />-But Sir, I don’t like trousers. And please don’t make me wait a whole night, that’s not fair.<br /><br />Kirsten wanted the paddle, she’d built herself up for it, but wearing a skirt during the spanking was part of the deal. What’s the point of being a girl if you are going to be paddled dressed like a boy?<br /><br />- We do not paddle girls on their skirts.<br /><br />- What if I lift my skirt up, then?<br /><br />Sylvester Marks decided he liked this girl, she was feisty. He knew the standard expected the girl to take four swats on the seat of her trousers, but this one was clever.<br /><br />- It will be four spanks with the girls’ paddle, you bending over my desk to receive them.<br /><br />- I accept that Sir.<br /><br />- Bend over the desk; you may leave the skirt in place.<br /><br />Kirsten obeyed immediately: and was rewarded with the fulfilment of her dream.<br /><br />WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!<br /><br />- One paddle for each line of your poem.<br /><br />- Thank you sir.<br /><br />Kirsten felt tears in her eyes, but wasn’t entirely certain of their meaning: it certainly had little to do with the throbbing in her buttocks, throbbing that they were.<br /><br />- I must say Kirsty, I found your poem clever. Certainly it was unwise, but it took some thought to write it...just not as much thought as to where to write it.<br /><br />Kirsty smiled, gave her bottom a good rub, and went out to the bathroom to show her friends her prize.Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-15938841349423733462010-01-23T07:25:00.001+00:002010-01-23T07:25:43.809+00:00Trouble in America II“And lend your voices, only, to sounds of freedom...”<br /><br />Kirsten wasn’t sure what to make of “The South”: there were too many conflicting opinions, and questions of cheekiness in her imagination to fully take in the view from the window of her tandem-wheeled Greyhound aquarium. (Do you know when The Civil War ended? WRONG! It was in 1649, or perhaps 1921, and in both cases the northern armies were comprehensively routed.) Subjects best avoided in the state capital of Georgia.<br /><br />Kirsten had hoped to visit Savannah, as a Methodist of sorts she had long desired to visit the place where the Wesley brothers had come as missionaries, where they had mixed with the Moravians, and where they had been set on the road to transformation: but it was first to Atlanta that the bus from Connecticut had come, and it was here she had chosen to stay with a friend from home: so now here she stood in a street lined with peach trees, little bottoms everywhere, as far as the eye could see, waiting for her friend’s arrival. Kirsten looked around, in every possible direction, then offered a quick and quiet, “oh I do declare!” in her best Belle accent; and was still giggling when Julie arrived.<br /><br />Julie Malham and her American half-sister, (they have the same “mommie”), shared a small apartment just down the road from Georgia Tech, although neither girl studied there. Kirsten’s attention was drawn to the school as they drove past it on the right side of the road, (which is, of course, the wrong side of the road); remembering with equal parts pride and shame the 1996 Olympic Games and the victories, then disgrace for being found as drugs cheat, of Michelle De Bruin. Not that Kirsten really cared that much, (Antrim is in Northern Ireland, the UK, so she had been supporting the oddly named “Great Britain” team), but as a swimmer herself she hoped she may be able to get a few laps in; and asked Julie if that might be possible.<br /><br />“Oh, I’m sure I could find you a few laps; if you’re interested. Here we are.”<br /><br />“My hands are small I know/But they’re not yours...”<br /><br />Kirsten was ushered in to a guest room the likes of which she had never known. In Antrim her friends had all had rooms filled with duvets and pillows and curtains, it was a fight to find a place to lay without disappearing princess and the pea style into a mound of linen. At the house Julie shared with Sly, all was simple and functional. And very welcome. Kirsten collapsed across the bed and dozed off while Julie went to fetch her sister.<br /><br />“We have some special visitors tonight ma’am, apart from yourself, I hope you don’t mind but it’s a regular appointment. We’ll be quite active.” Kirsten immediately decided she liked Sly. Sly was beautiful in so many ways, (to be honest Kirsten had been quite scared, by the things Julie had told her Kirsten wasn’t sure what she’d find), and Kirsten found herself giggling every time Sly called her ma’am, it seemed so polite and respectful that for a moment Kirsten forgot that Sly was actually older than her.<br /><br />“No, that’s fine. I’ve had a good sleep now, and to be honest I quite enjoyed the long bus ride anyway. To be honest I don’t feel like sitting down for quite a while yet.”<br /><br />Sly grinned wickedly. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy this then.”<br /><br />The special visitors turned out to be Sly and Julie’s “accountability group”. Kirsten had heard of these, something similar had been mentioned to her by her friend Katie, (who also lived in Atlanta), and she knew they were popular in both California and British Columbia. The basic pattern was that once a month the group would meet for dinner at the house of one of the members, for “fellowship”, and then each would list targets for the next month before giving an account for how well met the targets of the current month had been. Sanctions, both positive and negative, would then be offered by the group, or by chosen representatives. That was the idea.<br /><br />In simple terms it meant that once a month Sly and Julie received a good spanking from the couple upstairs, in the company of four other couples, (two married, one de-facto, one “rainbow”), and three co-ed students from the college where Julie was studying “to be a troglodyte” as Sly put it.<br /><br />“Here are those laps I promised you,” whispered Julie as Kirsten helped her to remove the pudding dishes from the table. Kirsten smiled; she had hoped to see such a group in action. The discussion passed quickly, because it was so interesting: again Kirsten was amazed by the things she heard. Far from being a group for spankos, (although undoubtedly these people were that), this was a place where ordinary people felt able to share their hopes and dreams with likeminded people, seek comfort, reassurance, and a pooled bravery to ascend to the next level.<br /><br />Methodist Girls’ Fellowship had nothing on this!<br /><br />And then the accountability started: as hostesses Julie and Sly were required, by convention, to wait until last. Both were involved in the hugging and the praising aspects, and even Kirsten had been asked to offer words of support to one of the co-eds who was about to embark on a six month visit to England, her first trip away from the safety of home; but the negative reinforcement had been left up to the group males and the oldest of the wives. Finally it was the turn of the sisters, and their little Irish buddy.<br /><br />Kirsten found that she was able to speak freely of herself, of her excitement at soon travelling on across the USA and then up to Canada, before flying from Vancouver to Sydney and on to a year of travelling across the Wide Brown Land. She was enjoying being away from home, and being out from under the thumb of her firm-but-fair parents, happy to have to show responsibility for herself but somehow missing the structure of a disciplined household. She was a good girl finding her way, ever more curious (and curiouser), eyes wide shut. The group all offered her encouraging sounds and a small round of applause when she sat down again. Julie and Sly both offered goals and shortcomings to the group, each effectively promising the other to be more polite to her half-sister, (to load groans of “no” from the group: the light-hearted banter between the girls being the highlight of the company), and admitting the need for a jolly good seeing to as Sly offered in her best British accent.<br /><br />All three girls, it was decided, would receive a spanking.<br /><br />Julie went first. As had all of the other young women in the group, (the three co-eds, the youngest wife, and both “rainbows”: who had done so face-to-face from opposite sides of the dining table), Julie turned her chair so its back was to the table, whereupon she knelt on its cushion and lay herself on the table, forming a neat “Z” shape. Sly giggled, “it serves you right for calling me an egg, nice zee there Julie!”<br /><br />Kirsten offered, just a bit too loudly, that the final letter of the alphabet was actually called “zet”: and immediately regretted it as she knew her own spanking was to come for her confession of being “bossy about other people’s grammar and spelling.” It seemed to her every eyebrow in the room was raised at that point, just as Julie’s panties were being lowered.<br /><br />CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!<br /><br />CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!<br /><br />Julie gasped as twelve solid strokes of the cane cut her naked buttocks into neat yet unequal segments. Tears and welts were both forthcoming before the end, although to her credit Julie herself did little more than gasp.<br /><br />Kirsten was next, and, anxious to please, she was quickly into position. “You’ll not get far in America if you take a British attitude to grammar and spelling Kirsty-Lou,” offered the voice behind her, the same man who had just finished caning Julie. Kirsten admitted that this was true, as she slid her own knickers down and leant forward across the back of her chair.<br /><br />CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!<br /><br />CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!<br /><br />Twelve solid smacks of a wide-backed hairbrush came as confirmation that Kirsten was indeed getting a little too “big for her britches”, and it was enough to bring her to real tears of embarrassment.<br /><br />Sly, as chief hostess for the evening, was last. Kirsten wasn’t sure why it was that Sly had been recognised as “chief hostess”, since it was Julie who had done all of the cooking, perhaps it was the recognition that as the American in the home it was she who was most settled. Still, it seemed as though the whole evening had been building to this point: Kirsten wondered whether something even worse would be coming Sly’s way than had come her own.<br /><br />Sly stood and turned her chair around, and knelt in the way the other women had done, having first unlocked her belt and lowered her trousers. (Kirsten still laughed when she heard Americans refer to trousers as “pants”, as a British girl she knew that Sly’s pants were still up at this point.) Sly slid her knickers down wordlessly, (but somewhat impatiently it seemed), and bent herself across the table with something between a sigh and a moan. For her at least the night truly had been building up to this point.<br /><br />Kirsten was surprised to see that the gentleman who had spanked her and Julie had sat down, and had been replaced by his wife. Julie whispered to her that Sly had asked, at the inception of the group, that in return for agreeing to eighteen spanks rather than twelve she would be spanked only by women. Kirsten nodded as the woman stepped forward and raised a thick leather belt behind her friend’s naked bottom.<br /><br />CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!<br /><br />CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!<br /><br />CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!<br /><br />Sly alternated her gasps with moans and squeals, she almost seemed to be enjoying her punishment, (more than “almost”), and appeared disappointed when it ceased at eighteen; indeed she remained in her position, bent over the table, bare bottom on display while the gentleman made some closing remarks and sent the group on their way, standing only to bid them all a safe journey home.Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031413816759639270.post-50446461658093549402010-01-23T07:24:00.001+00:002010-01-23T07:24:50.774+00:00Kirsten's Final StoryWhen you wake up with me,<br /><br />I’ll be your glass of water.<br /><br />(Paul Hester, Italian Plastic, Copyright Control, 1991).<br /><br />Kirsten raised herself onto one elbow and looked across the bed, watching as Martin stood into his slippers and onto his feet in the one fluid movement. Her bottom, still red from the night before, flared into life to remind her that she had indeed done things she shouldn’t have done. The consequences had been severe.<br /><br />“Good morning gorgeous,” Martin had come around to her side of the bed to kiss Kirsten’s forehead: a chaste kiss, almost brotherly. “How are things down under?”<br /><br />“I’ve not spoken to them yet.”<br /><br />“Not your parents Kirsten, I meant your...”<br /><br />“Oh, tee hee, still sore.”<br /><br />“I’m not surprised.”<br /><br />Martin deliberately stroked Kirsten’s hair, beginning from her forehead and continuing across the top of her head he then grabbed a handful of loose ponytail as the hair left her neck to fall loosely past her shoulder-blades. Of all the things Martin did to her, Kirsten enjoyed it most when he played with her hair. Martin gave a short tug, pulling Kirsten’s head back so that she was looking up and into his face, she grinned broadly at him and was rewarded with a kiss that enveloped the grin. She threw both arms around his neck and pulled him down on top of her.<br /><br />“Kirstie, sweetheart, I don’t have time for this.”<br /><br />“Don’t be silly darling, I shan’t keep you long.”<br /><br />“Not today, well not this morning, perhaps later.”<br /><br />Martin stood up, kissing Kirsten’s forehead a second time as he did so. He winked, and left the room.<br /><br />And that was the last she ever saw of him. No one is entirely certain how it happened, “it just went out from under him” they said...” whoever the hell “they” are.<br /><br />But she would remember that final kiss forever, not for its passion, or even for its taste, but for its being his: “the last time Martin...”<br /><br />Still, she was glad of one thing, the soreness of her bottom fading back in to remind her as they pulled the tray out from the locker in the morgue, at least she wouldn’t have to eat the rest of that damn casserole.<br /><br />Bloody thing had had her up all night with diarrhoea...Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08644761003887551931noreply@blogger.com0