Good afternoon girls and boys. (Good afterNOON Miss E-LIS-ern).
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.
(As you do.)
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.)
The Story of K
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.
(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.
“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.”)
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.
(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.)
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?
(“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.)
“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?
(“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.)
“ “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.
(The belt again. Usually when sent “to table” the weapon of masculine employ was some sort of cane.)
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.
(“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.)
“ “ 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 …””
(“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!”)
“ “ 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.
(“You think I should what? I want to give her a spanking, not a concussion!”)
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!
(“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!)
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 …
(Thrash, thrash, thrash.)
… 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.
(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”.)
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.
(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.)
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.
Showing posts with label m/f. Show all posts
Showing posts with label m/f. Show all posts
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Christmas Shoppings
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.
Saturday, December 23 rd 1989.
The central shopping district in Australia’s second largest city.
(Written for Don.)
“Are you hanging up your stockings on the wall …”
“Actually, no. I only have the one pair of hold-ups and they’re rolled up in the back of my pantyhose drawer.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh nothing, just that song.”
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.
“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.
“Only in the big cities.” She pronounced “big” as if it were spelled “bug”.
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.
“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…”
“A scarf? In this weather?” Jessica was incredulous. “It’s thirty-sux degrees, she’ll boil alive!”
“Her Nan lives in England, it’s cold there.”
“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.
“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
“Hosiery? Christmas stockings anyone? Ha, ha, in this weather!” Jessica was trying hard to fit in.
“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.”
“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.
“Attagirl.”
“Getting back to the shopping, anything in particular you want to look at Jiss?” Rachael, always wanting to be in charge.
“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.
“Mels?”
“Nup for shopping, but I haven’t seen Santa yet so I’d like to do that if poss.”
“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.
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.
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.
“Can I help you ladies?” Such a smile!
“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.”
“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.”
“That’s fine, Robert,” Kirsten giggled, reading his nametag but then suppressing the smile.
“Scarves this way.”
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.
“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?”
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.”
“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.
“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.
“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.
And willingly did she go.
“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.
“Ow!” Kirsten squeaked.
“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.
“She must have been really naughty.” One of the little girls speaking this time, her tone somewhat fearful for her own bottom no doubt.
“Oh yes, she was,” the voice of Melissa replied, “and she deserves at least two more.”
“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.
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.
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.”
“I expect you shall be, Kirsten.”
Saturday, December 23 rd 1989.
The central shopping district in Australia’s second largest city.
(Written for Don.)
“Are you hanging up your stockings on the wall …”
“Actually, no. I only have the one pair of hold-ups and they’re rolled up in the back of my pantyhose drawer.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh nothing, just that song.”
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.
“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.
“Only in the big cities.” She pronounced “big” as if it were spelled “bug”.
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.
“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…”
“A scarf? In this weather?” Jessica was incredulous. “It’s thirty-sux degrees, she’ll boil alive!”
“Her Nan lives in England, it’s cold there.”
“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.
“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
“Hosiery? Christmas stockings anyone? Ha, ha, in this weather!” Jessica was trying hard to fit in.
“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.”
“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.
“Attagirl.”
“Getting back to the shopping, anything in particular you want to look at Jiss?” Rachael, always wanting to be in charge.
“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.
“Mels?”
“Nup for shopping, but I haven’t seen Santa yet so I’d like to do that if poss.”
“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.
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.
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.
“Can I help you ladies?” Such a smile!
“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.”
“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.”
“That’s fine, Robert,” Kirsten giggled, reading his nametag but then suppressing the smile.
“Scarves this way.”
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.
“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?”
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.”
“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.
“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.
“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.
And willingly did she go.
“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.
“Ow!” Kirsten squeaked.
“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.
“She must have been really naughty.” One of the little girls speaking this time, her tone somewhat fearful for her own bottom no doubt.
“Oh yes, she was,” the voice of Melissa replied, “and she deserves at least two more.”
“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.
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.
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.”
“I expect you shall be, Kirsten.”
Tales of Her Girlhood
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
Fuchsia
Sunday 26th July 1987.
Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens
Hobart, Tasmania.
(Kirsten is 15 years, 0 months, 3 weeks, 3 days old)
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!
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.
“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!)
“Mummy?”
“Yes Kirsty that’s fine, but make sure you catch us up.”
“Thanks mum, c’mon Martin.”
“It’s dark in here.”
“Yes, this is where they keep the…”
“What does that say Kirsty, does that really say what I think it does? Why does it say that?”
“That’s what this type of flowers is called.”
“Really? Okay, let’s go see the Japanese thing now.”
“Aunty Louisa, guess where we went?”
“I saw where you went Martin, did you like the flowers in there?”
“Yes Aunty Louisa, but they have a very rude name don’t they?”
“Do they?”
“Yes, they’re called Fuck Seeya. That’s rude words in Taranaki.”
“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.”
“Sorry mummy.”
“I’ll see you in your room when we get home.”
“Mummy no!”
“Don’t you say no to me!”
“Sorry mummy.”
“Your room, as soon as we get home.”
“Yes mummy.”
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.
“Do you know why you’re here Kirsty?”
“Yes mummy, I was laughing at Martin.”
“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...”
“I’m an Ellison, mummy.”
“…you know what I mean young lady. Is rudeness at this point more likely or less likely to end well for you? Well?”
“Less likely mummy, sorry.”
“Right. You are fifteen years old, Martin is nine and Karl is six. I expect you to demonstrate maturity in their presence.”
“Yes mummy.”
“Right, so you know what comes next, how many will it be?”
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.
“Nine please mummy.”
“Thank you Kirsty, bend over.”
I pulled down my trousers and bent over my bed, hands on the mattress, arms straight.
Whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack!
“Anything to say?”
“Ouch! I’m very sorry mummy, for being rude and not setting a proper example for my little cousins.”
Whack-whack-whack!
“But I’m not the biggest McDonagh mummy, Ciaran is bigger than me.”
(Stupid girl, can’t I count? That was nine!)
“True Kirsten Ellison…”
(Crap, “Kirsten Ellison” is the in-trouble name, mummy doesn’t go with “Kirsten Louisa” since she’s “Louisa”.)
“…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…”
Whack-whack-whack!
“…I’m quite happy to chat.”
“Sorry mummy.”
“Stand up and put your trousers back on, Aunty needs help in the kitchen.”
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.
Kirsten Louisa is a Very Pretty Name.
September 1984
TAA end at Hobart Domestic Airport
Hobart, Tasmania
(Kirsten is 12 years, 2 months old.)
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.
“You look very pretty in your dress Kirsty.”
I smiled very broadly; every little girl loves compliments from the man in her life.
“Thank you daddy, I’ve got gloves and a hat too.”
“I see that, you’re a proper lady today: your cousins will be very pleased to meet such a delightful young lady.”
“And pantyhose. Not lumpy tights from school but shiny pantyhose, like mummy has.”
(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.)
“I’m very happy to see you looking less lumpy today.”
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.
(Kirsty had also had her first “lady time” two weeks earlier, she was nearly a woman now.)
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.
“Here they come.”
Daddy waved casually, but mummy began bouncing up and down on the spot. “Ellisons! Ellisons, over here!”
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.
“Ready Kirsty?”
“Yes daddy.”
“Big voice, make us proud!”
“Yes daddy!”
They came closer.
“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.
He sneered at me.
He scoffed.
He said “Cursed and a Loser, what a stupid name!”
My little lip quivered.
My little nose sniffled.
My little hand closed up, I dropped it and swung it.
His fat ugly nose exploded.
“Aaagh!”
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.
I was crying. Very.
“Oh daddy, he was so mean, OUCH, daddy!”
“Kirsten Louisa SMACK I’m very disa…SMACK…pointed in you; that is SMACK SMACK not ladylike be…SMACK…haviour at all!”
“Oh but OUCH oh daddy he was so mean SOB SOB.”
He flipped up the back of my dress.
SMACK “That’s not the…SMACK…point Kirsten Louisa, we…SMACK…taught you better than…SMACK…that.
“OUCH…I’m sorry daddy, I’m…OUCH…very very sorry daddy.”
“Will you apologise?”
(He’d stopped, but I was still over his knee with my dress up.) “Yes daddy, of course.”
SMACK SMACK SMACK “Stand up.”
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.
“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.”
“Yes. I pwommis.”
“Are you crying because you hurt Michael, don’t you dare, he was very rude to you.”
“No Aunty, I’m crying because daddy just spanked me.”
“He…David? No, you didn’t! Oh David!”
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.
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!
Fuchsia
Sunday 26th July 1987.
Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens
Hobart, Tasmania.
(Kirsten is 15 years, 0 months, 3 weeks, 3 days old)
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!
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.
“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!)
“Mummy?”
“Yes Kirsty that’s fine, but make sure you catch us up.”
“Thanks mum, c’mon Martin.”
“It’s dark in here.”
“Yes, this is where they keep the…”
“What does that say Kirsty, does that really say what I think it does? Why does it say that?”
“That’s what this type of flowers is called.”
“Really? Okay, let’s go see the Japanese thing now.”
“Aunty Louisa, guess where we went?”
“I saw where you went Martin, did you like the flowers in there?”
“Yes Aunty Louisa, but they have a very rude name don’t they?”
“Do they?”
“Yes, they’re called Fuck Seeya. That’s rude words in Taranaki.”
“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.”
“Sorry mummy.”
“I’ll see you in your room when we get home.”
“Mummy no!”
“Don’t you say no to me!”
“Sorry mummy.”
“Your room, as soon as we get home.”
“Yes mummy.”
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.
“Do you know why you’re here Kirsty?”
“Yes mummy, I was laughing at Martin.”
“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...”
“I’m an Ellison, mummy.”
“…you know what I mean young lady. Is rudeness at this point more likely or less likely to end well for you? Well?”
“Less likely mummy, sorry.”
“Right. You are fifteen years old, Martin is nine and Karl is six. I expect you to demonstrate maturity in their presence.”
“Yes mummy.”
“Right, so you know what comes next, how many will it be?”
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.
“Nine please mummy.”
“Thank you Kirsty, bend over.”
I pulled down my trousers and bent over my bed, hands on the mattress, arms straight.
Whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack!
“Anything to say?”
“Ouch! I’m very sorry mummy, for being rude and not setting a proper example for my little cousins.”
Whack-whack-whack!
“But I’m not the biggest McDonagh mummy, Ciaran is bigger than me.”
(Stupid girl, can’t I count? That was nine!)
“True Kirsten Ellison…”
(Crap, “Kirsten Ellison” is the in-trouble name, mummy doesn’t go with “Kirsten Louisa” since she’s “Louisa”.)
“…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…”
Whack-whack-whack!
“…I’m quite happy to chat.”
“Sorry mummy.”
“Stand up and put your trousers back on, Aunty needs help in the kitchen.”
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.
Kirsten Louisa is a Very Pretty Name.
September 1984
TAA end at Hobart Domestic Airport
Hobart, Tasmania
(Kirsten is 12 years, 2 months old.)
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.
“You look very pretty in your dress Kirsty.”
I smiled very broadly; every little girl loves compliments from the man in her life.
“Thank you daddy, I’ve got gloves and a hat too.”
“I see that, you’re a proper lady today: your cousins will be very pleased to meet such a delightful young lady.”
“And pantyhose. Not lumpy tights from school but shiny pantyhose, like mummy has.”
(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.)
“I’m very happy to see you looking less lumpy today.”
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.
(Kirsty had also had her first “lady time” two weeks earlier, she was nearly a woman now.)
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.
“Here they come.”
Daddy waved casually, but mummy began bouncing up and down on the spot. “Ellisons! Ellisons, over here!”
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.
“Ready Kirsty?”
“Yes daddy.”
“Big voice, make us proud!”
“Yes daddy!”
They came closer.
“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.
He sneered at me.
He scoffed.
He said “Cursed and a Loser, what a stupid name!”
My little lip quivered.
My little nose sniffled.
My little hand closed up, I dropped it and swung it.
His fat ugly nose exploded.
“Aaagh!”
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.
I was crying. Very.
“Oh daddy, he was so mean, OUCH, daddy!”
“Kirsten Louisa SMACK I’m very disa…SMACK…pointed in you; that is SMACK SMACK not ladylike be…SMACK…haviour at all!”
“Oh but OUCH oh daddy he was so mean SOB SOB.”
He flipped up the back of my dress.
SMACK “That’s not the…SMACK…point Kirsten Louisa, we…SMACK…taught you better than…SMACK…that.
“OUCH…I’m sorry daddy, I’m…OUCH…very very sorry daddy.”
“Will you apologise?”
(He’d stopped, but I was still over his knee with my dress up.) “Yes daddy, of course.”
SMACK SMACK SMACK “Stand up.”
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.
“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.”
“Yes. I pwommis.”
“Are you crying because you hurt Michael, don’t you dare, he was very rude to you.”
“No Aunty, I’m crying because daddy just spanked me.”
“He…David? No, you didn’t! Oh David!”
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.
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!
The Story of Ella Zen
MUFTI.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
(Boo and hiss all you like, we don’t care!)
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.
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!
(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?)
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.
And we won. C’MON!! (Insert Lleyton Hewitt style fist pumping here.)
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.
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.
Ooops!
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.
Ella: But sir, corporal punishment has been banned in England for over twenty years.
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.
Ella: But if that’s the wording of the law then it still doesn’t apply as I am not a “child”.
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.)
Ella: Betrayed!
Sir: Sentenced.
Ella: Okay then, but I’m keeping all the lollies from the quiz, no sweets for 9EN!
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:
Sir: Rob and, uh, Dixie is it? Yes, fetch the slipper!
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.
Rob: Excuse me sir, here’s the slipper.
Dixie: Ja, the slipper.
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?
Ella: Because I choose to be kind to my friends sir.
A big cheer of “ooh” from the assembly, I see Sarah Lennon clapping madly there.
Sir: Right Ella, we’ve not done this here for a while, but I’m sure you know what to do.
Ella: Yes sir.
I bend forward and put my hands on my knees.
Sir: Ah, no Ella.
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.
Sir: I thought our Behaviour Support Prefect would know better than that. Bend over, across my knee Ella.
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.
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.)
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
(Boo and hiss all you like, we don’t care!)
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.
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!
(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?)
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.
And we won. C’MON!! (Insert Lleyton Hewitt style fist pumping here.)
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.
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.
Ooops!
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.
Ella: But sir, corporal punishment has been banned in England for over twenty years.
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.
Ella: But if that’s the wording of the law then it still doesn’t apply as I am not a “child”.
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.)
Ella: Betrayed!
Sir: Sentenced.
Ella: Okay then, but I’m keeping all the lollies from the quiz, no sweets for 9EN!
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:
Sir: Rob and, uh, Dixie is it? Yes, fetch the slipper!
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.
Rob: Excuse me sir, here’s the slipper.
Dixie: Ja, the slipper.
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?
Ella: Because I choose to be kind to my friends sir.
A big cheer of “ooh” from the assembly, I see Sarah Lennon clapping madly there.
Sir: Right Ella, we’ve not done this here for a while, but I’m sure you know what to do.
Ella: Yes sir.
I bend forward and put my hands on my knees.
Sir: Ah, no Ella.
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.
Sir: I thought our Behaviour Support Prefect would know better than that. Bend over, across my knee Ella.
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.
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.)
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.
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?
Everything is Good for You
I wrote this account in response to an act of rudeness I commited on Yahoo-360. It is a true story.
“Kirsten Louisa Ellison, how could you?”
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.
“I’m sorry Catie, what have I done?”
“Don’t you bloody ‘sorry Catie’ me, you stuck-up piece of nastiness.”
What on earth?
“Catie I…”
“…stole Mr Philip’s story?”
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.
I took a deep breath, “Catie I…”
“Catherine!”
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.”
“But after the weekend? Didn’t you learn anything in Brighton?”
“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.”
Catherine deflated. “Oh. Sorry.”
“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.”
Catie smiled and came over to hug me, but since I was sitting up on my bed she managed only to engulf my head.
“So, no spanking for this one, just asphyxia?”
“Some people find that sexy.”
“Bugger off you kinky kiltygirl!”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
The sound of two girls laughing: all is well once more at Chateaux Kirsten and Company.
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.
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?
Yes.
“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.
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.
“Are you sure.”
“Yes.”
“We’re really going to hit you with this.”
Gulp. “Yes.”
“Proper hard Kirstie.”
Gulp, blink…blink. “Yes.”
“Six each, Catherine on your pants, me on your bare.”
Unable to speak now I nod.
“Are you sure?”
I smile as the first tear breaks free of its duct; I bet real Subs don’t have this much trouble getting started.
“Please Paul, Catherine.”
“You’re crying.”
“I’m really disappointed in myself, and a little bit scared.”
“Let’s start then, Catherine first.”
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.
(And the chances of me not moving are?) I bend over again.
She’s crying: I’m crying: Paul’s not sure whether he’s glum or horny.
“I know you already are my darling, but just so you can relax, I’m asking you to bend over young lady.”
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.
“Count?”
Sob. “I’ll try.”
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.
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.
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.
“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.
“Are you sure we need to continue Kirsten?”
“Please Paul.”
“Knickers down then.”
There’s that doped-up fourth former again.
I stood up, pulled the cotton over the welts, and resumed the position, squirming as raw flesh rubbed itself in the movement.
“I’ve no intention of dragging this out Kirsten, hold on tight.”
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.
I see that Paul is close to crying. “Kirsten, turn around.”
“Oh Paul please, it hurts so. I will go again, but just…”
“Kirsten,” he closes his eyes, “I can see your front.”
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.
“I’m sorry Paul; it’s my back to you now.”
“When you’re ready, replace your clothing.”
I bob to reach for my knickers, then turn to him, bottom sticking out, “but Paul that’s only four.”
“Last two on the hands. Ideal punishment for a lady writer. Besides, you should see your bum.”
“It can’t be worse than twenty-four with the strap, surely?”
“No, but it’s all lines and it looks freaky.”
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.
“Again Kirsten, without discussion. Hold out your left hand.”
I sob, drop my eyes, and obey.
“Look up at me please.”
As I am lifting my eyes the sound returns: whoosh-crack-squeal. I pull my arm back sharply.
“Now, do you want this on your right hand, since you are right-handed, or do you want another on the left?”
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.
When the two locked eyes,
And for a moment I was taken.
I don’t even hear whoosh-crack this time, the squeal is some other sound, and we are finished.
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.
“Catherine.”
And all paths lead to a single conclusion.
“Catie, it’s Catie now.”
“Catherine, you still owe me three strokes. It was to have been six from each of you.”
“Oh Kirstie no, you’ve had enough and so have I. I won’t take up that cane again.”
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.
“Kirstie no, I won’t do it.”
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.”
“Kirstie I…”
“Catherine. Please.”
A long pause, then “okay.”
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.
“Kirstie I’m so sorry.” She puts down the brush and rubs me until I stop crying.
“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
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.
Everything is good for you
If it doesn't kill you
Everything is good for you.
“Kirsten Louisa Ellison, how could you?”
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.
“I’m sorry Catie, what have I done?”
“Don’t you bloody ‘sorry Catie’ me, you stuck-up piece of nastiness.”
What on earth?
“Catie I…”
“…stole Mr Philip’s story?”
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.
I took a deep breath, “Catie I…”
“Catherine!”
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.”
“But after the weekend? Didn’t you learn anything in Brighton?”
“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.”
Catherine deflated. “Oh. Sorry.”
“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.”
Catie smiled and came over to hug me, but since I was sitting up on my bed she managed only to engulf my head.
“So, no spanking for this one, just asphyxia?”
“Some people find that sexy.”
“Bugger off you kinky kiltygirl!”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
The sound of two girls laughing: all is well once more at Chateaux Kirsten and Company.
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.
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?
Yes.
“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.
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.
“Are you sure.”
“Yes.”
“We’re really going to hit you with this.”
Gulp. “Yes.”
“Proper hard Kirstie.”
Gulp, blink…blink. “Yes.”
“Six each, Catherine on your pants, me on your bare.”
Unable to speak now I nod.
“Are you sure?”
I smile as the first tear breaks free of its duct; I bet real Subs don’t have this much trouble getting started.
“Please Paul, Catherine.”
“You’re crying.”
“I’m really disappointed in myself, and a little bit scared.”
“Let’s start then, Catherine first.”
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.
(And the chances of me not moving are?) I bend over again.
She’s crying: I’m crying: Paul’s not sure whether he’s glum or horny.
“I know you already are my darling, but just so you can relax, I’m asking you to bend over young lady.”
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.
“Count?”
Sob. “I’ll try.”
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.
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.
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.
“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.
“Are you sure we need to continue Kirsten?”
“Please Paul.”
“Knickers down then.”
There’s that doped-up fourth former again.
I stood up, pulled the cotton over the welts, and resumed the position, squirming as raw flesh rubbed itself in the movement.
“I’ve no intention of dragging this out Kirsten, hold on tight.”
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.
I see that Paul is close to crying. “Kirsten, turn around.”
“Oh Paul please, it hurts so. I will go again, but just…”
“Kirsten,” he closes his eyes, “I can see your front.”
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.
“I’m sorry Paul; it’s my back to you now.”
“When you’re ready, replace your clothing.”
I bob to reach for my knickers, then turn to him, bottom sticking out, “but Paul that’s only four.”
“Last two on the hands. Ideal punishment for a lady writer. Besides, you should see your bum.”
“It can’t be worse than twenty-four with the strap, surely?”
“No, but it’s all lines and it looks freaky.”
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.
“Again Kirsten, without discussion. Hold out your left hand.”
I sob, drop my eyes, and obey.
“Look up at me please.”
As I am lifting my eyes the sound returns: whoosh-crack-squeal. I pull my arm back sharply.
“Now, do you want this on your right hand, since you are right-handed, or do you want another on the left?”
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.
When the two locked eyes,
And for a moment I was taken.
I don’t even hear whoosh-crack this time, the squeal is some other sound, and we are finished.
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.
“Catherine.”
And all paths lead to a single conclusion.
“Catie, it’s Catie now.”
“Catherine, you still owe me three strokes. It was to have been six from each of you.”
“Oh Kirstie no, you’ve had enough and so have I. I won’t take up that cane again.”
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.
“Kirstie no, I won’t do it.”
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.”
“Kirstie I…”
“Catherine. Please.”
A long pause, then “okay.”
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.
“Kirstie I’m so sorry.” She puts down the brush and rubs me until I stop crying.
“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
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.
Everything is good for you
If it doesn't kill you
Everything is good for you.
The Sound of Te Awamutu
She came all the way from America,
She had a blind date with destiny.
“I’m not from Merica, Kirstie, I’m South African.”
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.
“I know that babe, it’s a Crowdies song. They’re touring London soon and were my favourite band when I was at Uni.”
“Oh, okay, so are they Strayan then? I’ve never heard of them.”
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.”
“Much, as indeed, seems the case with Miss Ellison herself.”
Kirsten smiled again. “Miss Ellison is Strayan, but is supporting the All Blacks. Have you got what you needed?”
“Ja, it was just for looking, I only left home two months ago so I’m not so desperate for Fanta Grape just now.”
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.
And the sound of Te Awamutu,
Had a truly sacred ring.
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.
“Where now Juffrou?”
“London. I mean The City itself.”
“Right, bus on Strand.”
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”.
“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…”
“The City. I know this bit. Where is something Roman please?”
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.
“Watling Street. This was once…”
“Ja I see it too, it was the main drag in Londinium and then down to the coast ja?”
“And up through the centre. It passed through Verulamium as well.”
“Through where?”
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.”
“Oh, Roman St Albans. Ja I did know that it was just your accent confusing me.”
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”.
Hannah laughed. “Thenks Muss Illysen, Oy’m kunvunced. See, I can do Kiwi as well.”
“Naughty and cheeky you are. Anyway, this is Watling Street and that steel fellow over there is a cordwainer, like a cobbler.”
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.
“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?”
“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.”
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.”
“I have,” grinned Kirsten, “but then I’m not the one in need of a smacked bottom at this point am I?”
“True. Will you take the photo?”
“Bend over young lady and I’ll post it on 360.”
And she did! (Well, Hannah did. Kirsten didn’t.)
“This boot is sticking into my tummy.”
“Just hold that there. Right, smile…”
“Smile? I’m being spanked by a tradesman.”
“Well cry then, I don’t bloody care, just get ready for the photo. One, two, three…”
CLICK
“Done.”
“I’m stuck.”
“Wriggle down a bit.”
“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.”
Kirsten looked back towards Hannah, who had managed to extricate herself from the cordwainer’s grasp. “No, she appears to be free now.”
“I meant that she was in position for spanking in the first place. What had she done?”
“I’m a history teacher,” contributed Hannah as she walked up, “and did not know the roman name for St Albans.”
“Not a crime requiring public flogging?”
“Ah, but I live in St Albans you see, and this young lady is my boss.”
The man smiled. “But you are not from here. From where in South Africa are you?”
“Kaapstadt.”
“Ag, praat su Afrikaans?”
“Not if I can avoid it.”
“Ag shame. I am Martin, from Bloemfontein; I have been in London three years now. And you Miss, North island or South?”
“South island” replied Kirsten with a grin.
“Canterbury?”
“Hobart.”
“Is that near Christchurch?”
“No it’s near Hobart; I’m Tasmanian, not New Zealander.”
“Mean girl!” laughed Hannah. “She is from Auckland, but grew up in Australia.”
“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.”
“I think Kirsten deserves two smacks, she forgot her manners as well,” laughed Hannah.
“Kirsten, a South African name for a Kiwi-Aussie lady. No wonder she is confused. So what do you say Kirsten?”
“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.”
“Agreed. Will you join me for coffee ladies?” Martin pointed towards a café on the opposite side of Watling Street.
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.
“But I got mine,” protested Hannah, “from the cordwainer.”
“Over the knee doesn’t count unless there are smacks involved Juffrou. Horizontal posture is not punishment, horizontal marks are.”
“True. But Kirstie won’t…”
“Kirstie won’t mind going second,” finished Kirsten. Hannah looked at her quizzically, but Kirsten only smiled back.
“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.
“Miss Ellison, what is the roman name for St Albans?”
“Ask Juffrou DeKievert, she should know know.”
“It’s Verulamium.”
“Verulamium,” repeated Martin. “Five syllables. Good. Lean forward Juffrou.”
WHACK
WHACK
WHACK
WHACK
WHACK
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?”
“Yes sir,” replied Hannah.
WHACK
“Umm, ja meneer. Dankie meneer.”
“Better. Upright.”
Hannah stood up, and rubbed her bottom.
“Miss Ellison?” Martin turned towards her.
“Kirstie you know you don’t have to…” began Hannah.
“It’s okay mate, it's a bit of fun.”
“Miss Ellison, bend over please.”
Kirsten bent over the table, placing her hands upon it.
“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.”
“Six for each cheek I think,” laughed Hannah.
“Do you wish to return to the table Juffrou? No? Then quiet.”
“Asseblief meneer,” nodded Kirsten.
“Asseblief? Then only four for you.”
WHACK
WHACK
“Ag, jislaak!” called Kirsten. “You hit hard man!”
“Two more for insolence, it’s six again.”
“Ag!”
WHACK
WHACK
WHACK
WHACK
“Ooh. Dankie meneer.” Kirsten was rubbing the back of her dress even as she stood up.
“Ja well, cheekiness has its penalties Juffrou Ellison.”
“Ja. Baie dankie.”
“Are you taking the piss?”
Kirsten smiled. “No, I’m trying to be polite.”
“All right then. I must be away as well, business to attend to. Thank you ladies for a lovely coffee and your delicious company.”
Hannah nodded, Kirsten curtsied, both said “totsiens,” then all laughed at each other as Martin turned to walk off.
“Thank you for doing that Kirstie, I think I like London.”
“Me too mate, me too.”
She had a blind date with destiny.
“I’m not from Merica, Kirstie, I’m South African.”
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.
“I know that babe, it’s a Crowdies song. They’re touring London soon and were my favourite band when I was at Uni.”
“Oh, okay, so are they Strayan then? I’ve never heard of them.”
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.”
“Much, as indeed, seems the case with Miss Ellison herself.”
Kirsten smiled again. “Miss Ellison is Strayan, but is supporting the All Blacks. Have you got what you needed?”
“Ja, it was just for looking, I only left home two months ago so I’m not so desperate for Fanta Grape just now.”
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.
And the sound of Te Awamutu,
Had a truly sacred ring.
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.
“Where now Juffrou?”
“London. I mean The City itself.”
“Right, bus on Strand.”
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”.
“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…”
“The City. I know this bit. Where is something Roman please?”
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.
“Watling Street. This was once…”
“Ja I see it too, it was the main drag in Londinium and then down to the coast ja?”
“And up through the centre. It passed through Verulamium as well.”
“Through where?”
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.”
“Oh, Roman St Albans. Ja I did know that it was just your accent confusing me.”
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”.
Hannah laughed. “Thenks Muss Illysen, Oy’m kunvunced. See, I can do Kiwi as well.”
“Naughty and cheeky you are. Anyway, this is Watling Street and that steel fellow over there is a cordwainer, like a cobbler.”
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.
“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?”
“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.”
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.”
“I have,” grinned Kirsten, “but then I’m not the one in need of a smacked bottom at this point am I?”
“True. Will you take the photo?”
“Bend over young lady and I’ll post it on 360.”
And she did! (Well, Hannah did. Kirsten didn’t.)
“This boot is sticking into my tummy.”
“Just hold that there. Right, smile…”
“Smile? I’m being spanked by a tradesman.”
“Well cry then, I don’t bloody care, just get ready for the photo. One, two, three…”
CLICK
“Done.”
“I’m stuck.”
“Wriggle down a bit.”
“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.”
Kirsten looked back towards Hannah, who had managed to extricate herself from the cordwainer’s grasp. “No, she appears to be free now.”
“I meant that she was in position for spanking in the first place. What had she done?”
“I’m a history teacher,” contributed Hannah as she walked up, “and did not know the roman name for St Albans.”
“Not a crime requiring public flogging?”
“Ah, but I live in St Albans you see, and this young lady is my boss.”
The man smiled. “But you are not from here. From where in South Africa are you?”
“Kaapstadt.”
“Ag, praat su Afrikaans?”
“Not if I can avoid it.”
“Ag shame. I am Martin, from Bloemfontein; I have been in London three years now. And you Miss, North island or South?”
“South island” replied Kirsten with a grin.
“Canterbury?”
“Hobart.”
“Is that near Christchurch?”
“No it’s near Hobart; I’m Tasmanian, not New Zealander.”
“Mean girl!” laughed Hannah. “She is from Auckland, but grew up in Australia.”
“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.”
“I think Kirsten deserves two smacks, she forgot her manners as well,” laughed Hannah.
“Kirsten, a South African name for a Kiwi-Aussie lady. No wonder she is confused. So what do you say Kirsten?”
“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.”
“Agreed. Will you join me for coffee ladies?” Martin pointed towards a café on the opposite side of Watling Street.
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.
“But I got mine,” protested Hannah, “from the cordwainer.”
“Over the knee doesn’t count unless there are smacks involved Juffrou. Horizontal posture is not punishment, horizontal marks are.”
“True. But Kirstie won’t…”
“Kirstie won’t mind going second,” finished Kirsten. Hannah looked at her quizzically, but Kirsten only smiled back.
“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.
“Miss Ellison, what is the roman name for St Albans?”
“Ask Juffrou DeKievert, she should know know.”
“It’s Verulamium.”
“Verulamium,” repeated Martin. “Five syllables. Good. Lean forward Juffrou.”
WHACK
WHACK
WHACK
WHACK
WHACK
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?”
“Yes sir,” replied Hannah.
WHACK
“Umm, ja meneer. Dankie meneer.”
“Better. Upright.”
Hannah stood up, and rubbed her bottom.
“Miss Ellison?” Martin turned towards her.
“Kirstie you know you don’t have to…” began Hannah.
“It’s okay mate, it's a bit of fun.”
“Miss Ellison, bend over please.”
Kirsten bent over the table, placing her hands upon it.
“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.”
“Six for each cheek I think,” laughed Hannah.
“Do you wish to return to the table Juffrou? No? Then quiet.”
“Asseblief meneer,” nodded Kirsten.
“Asseblief? Then only four for you.”
WHACK
WHACK
“Ag, jislaak!” called Kirsten. “You hit hard man!”
“Two more for insolence, it’s six again.”
“Ag!”
WHACK
WHACK
WHACK
WHACK
“Ooh. Dankie meneer.” Kirsten was rubbing the back of her dress even as she stood up.
“Ja well, cheekiness has its penalties Juffrou Ellison.”
“Ja. Baie dankie.”
“Are you taking the piss?”
Kirsten smiled. “No, I’m trying to be polite.”
“All right then. I must be away as well, business to attend to. Thank you ladies for a lovely coffee and your delicious company.”
Hannah nodded, Kirsten curtsied, both said “totsiens,” then all laughed at each other as Martin turned to walk off.
“Thank you for doing that Kirstie, I think I like London.”
“Me too mate, me too.”
Bea Isfor
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.
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.)
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.
B is for Belinda
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.
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.
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.
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.
“Dobre vecer Beleenda”
“Ahoj Michal.”
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.
“You’re late Ms Messenger.” It is team coordinator Gretchen, known by the girls as Hausfrau.
“I’m sorry ma’am.”
“Two extra for you tonight.”
“Of course ma’am.”
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.
“Room Seven.”
“Thank you ma’am.”
“And don’t forget the two, I shall ask.”
“Of course ma’am, thank you.”
Gretchen walks off, Belinda mutters “slag.”
“Four!” Gretchen doesn’t turn, but she has heard.
“Sorry ma’am.”
“Extra, mean is now six.”
“Understood ma’am.”
“In centre.”
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.
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.
“Gentlemen, may I present Ms Belinda Messenger: aka Bella Mess.”
Belinda executes a neat bow.
“Who is, oh look, seven minutes late. Hausfrau?”
“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.
“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.”
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.
“Sorry Flicker.”
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
“Ms Rosie?” The girl, Belinda’s classmate Rosanna Bain, lifts her head.
“Yes sir it is true.”
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.
“Ms Bella? And your companion as well please?”
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.
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!”
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.
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.
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.
The wallet had never been stolen, it is locked in the cloakroom safe.
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.
“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.”
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.)
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.
B is for Belinda
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.
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.
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.
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.
“Dobre vecer Beleenda”
“Ahoj Michal.”
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.
“You’re late Ms Messenger.” It is team coordinator Gretchen, known by the girls as Hausfrau.
“I’m sorry ma’am.”
“Two extra for you tonight.”
“Of course ma’am.”
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.
“Room Seven.”
“Thank you ma’am.”
“And don’t forget the two, I shall ask.”
“Of course ma’am, thank you.”
Gretchen walks off, Belinda mutters “slag.”
“Four!” Gretchen doesn’t turn, but she has heard.
“Sorry ma’am.”
“Extra, mean is now six.”
“Understood ma’am.”
“In centre.”
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.
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.
“Gentlemen, may I present Ms Belinda Messenger: aka Bella Mess.”
Belinda executes a neat bow.
“Who is, oh look, seven minutes late. Hausfrau?”
“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.
“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.”
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.
“Sorry Flicker.”
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
“Ms Rosie?” The girl, Belinda’s classmate Rosanna Bain, lifts her head.
“Yes sir it is true.”
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.
“Ms Bella? And your companion as well please?”
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.
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!”
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.
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.
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.
The wallet had never been stolen, it is locked in the cloakroom safe.
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.
“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.”
Spare the Rod
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!
Tuesday Morning:
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.
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.
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.
Aer Lingus girl: Good morning Kayley, I love your show.
Kayley: Thank you; may I have an aisle seat?
Aer Lingus girl: Of course. Hey, your passport says your name is…
Kayley: Yes, that is what my name is. Kayley is actually my initials.
Aer Lingus girl: Oh yes, hey my middle name is also L…
Kayley: Thank you Allison, are we done now?
At least they were letting her fly Aer Lingus rather than BA.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
“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.
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.”
“Ka mate!”
“Ka ora!”
Wednesday Morning:
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.
Friday Morning:
“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.
“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…”
Kayley smiled.
“Oh God no, really?”
Kayley bit her lip, still smiling. “Good for you.”
“I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be, the best thing you can do for his kids…”
“…our kids, Kayley…”
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?”
“Yes, it’s Marissa. She’s even worse.”
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?
“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.”
Kayley burst out laughing, only then remembering the bet she had made with Bill. “I have a similar bet: with Bill the sound man.”
“The Maori fellow?”
“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.”
“I take it that would displease you?”
“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.”
“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.
“Yeah glucose eh.”
“You what now?”
“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.”
“Bill that’s bastard behaviour; whatever it earns you with Kayley that’s screwing up the kid more so.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Thank you Kelly, I’m very sorry about the porridge.”
“So am I Marissa.”
“I’m sorry I’m not in the thinking place, I needed to twink: and I think Oolie-boolie is my mum now anyway.”
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.
Friday Evening:
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.
“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.
“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.”
“So you remember the wager then.”
Kayley smiled and raised her head, “of course Billy boy, it’s only the children we don’t smack on this show.”
“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.
“As you should be, did you know Marissa told Kayley that I’m her mummy now?”
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.”
“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.”
“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.
“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.
“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?”
“Ah, but I got Marissa to behave on Friday, so I‘m immune,” responded Kayley, “but it was a close run thing.”
“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?”
“Well if I have to, she has to!” pouted Julie.
Kayley smiled. “Put the camera down Bill; Jeff, hand this man a chair.”
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!”
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.
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.
“Syrup BP was it?” Kayley whispered so as to avoid Marissa’s parents hearing, not that they were paying much attention any more.
“Glucose. How did you know?”
“She pissed gold at lunch; you owe me a tenner, and Julie an apology.”
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.
“Oh I don’t know, I don’t think she minds that much.”
Kayley smiled as Julie told Jeff “I’ve been much naughtier than that, you spank like a girl!”
“What say we finish an evening early, William, and leave these remarkable parents to work on their skills together?”
Bill sighed and smiled, “yes indeed, indeed. I believe your work here is done, congratulations; Kirsten Louisa.”
“Shh!”
Tuesday Morning:
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.
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.
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.
Aer Lingus girl: Good morning Kayley, I love your show.
Kayley: Thank you; may I have an aisle seat?
Aer Lingus girl: Of course. Hey, your passport says your name is…
Kayley: Yes, that is what my name is. Kayley is actually my initials.
Aer Lingus girl: Oh yes, hey my middle name is also L…
Kayley: Thank you Allison, are we done now?
At least they were letting her fly Aer Lingus rather than BA.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
“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.
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.”
“Ka mate!”
“Ka ora!”
Wednesday Morning:
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.
Friday Morning:
“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.
“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…”
Kayley smiled.
“Oh God no, really?”
Kayley bit her lip, still smiling. “Good for you.”
“I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be, the best thing you can do for his kids…”
“…our kids, Kayley…”
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?”
“Yes, it’s Marissa. She’s even worse.”
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?
“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.”
Kayley burst out laughing, only then remembering the bet she had made with Bill. “I have a similar bet: with Bill the sound man.”
“The Maori fellow?”
“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.”
“I take it that would displease you?”
“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.”
“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.
“Yeah glucose eh.”
“You what now?”
“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.”
“Bill that’s bastard behaviour; whatever it earns you with Kayley that’s screwing up the kid more so.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Thank you Kelly, I’m very sorry about the porridge.”
“So am I Marissa.”
“I’m sorry I’m not in the thinking place, I needed to twink: and I think Oolie-boolie is my mum now anyway.”
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.
Friday Evening:
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.
“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.
“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.”
“So you remember the wager then.”
Kayley smiled and raised her head, “of course Billy boy, it’s only the children we don’t smack on this show.”
“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.
“As you should be, did you know Marissa told Kayley that I’m her mummy now?”
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.”
“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.”
“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.
“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.
“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?”
“Ah, but I got Marissa to behave on Friday, so I‘m immune,” responded Kayley, “but it was a close run thing.”
“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?”
“Well if I have to, she has to!” pouted Julie.
Kayley smiled. “Put the camera down Bill; Jeff, hand this man a chair.”
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!”
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.
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.
“Syrup BP was it?” Kayley whispered so as to avoid Marissa’s parents hearing, not that they were paying much attention any more.
“Glucose. How did you know?”
“She pissed gold at lunch; you owe me a tenner, and Julie an apology.”
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.
“Oh I don’t know, I don’t think she minds that much.”
Kayley smiled as Julie told Jeff “I’ve been much naughtier than that, you spank like a girl!”
“What say we finish an evening early, William, and leave these remarkable parents to work on their skills together?”
Bill sighed and smiled, “yes indeed, indeed. I believe your work here is done, congratulations; Kirsten Louisa.”
“Shh!”
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