Barrawah is a town on the south coast of Trowenna: a quiet fishing village which used to be a logging port. Now it is home to schooners and smacks, and the occasional skiff. I have been coming here since I was about seven: my father has a boatshed down here and although Imshi, the boat he and my grandfather built themselves, is now long gone the shed remains.
It is cold today, but having just arrived in Trowenna from my new home in Albion I cannot remember whether it is the winter arriving early, or staying late...I find the seasons so confusing these days, and not just those of the climate. I pull my scarf across my chest once more, a long pink twist shaped like a breast-cancer awareness ribbon it crosses my breasts between my overcoat and my jumper, and should be keeping my chest warm. I have Australian flu, (I’ve been coughing up green and gold all morning), and I don’t want to be put to bed: I don’t have long here this time.
I pull my beret down on my head, which is not how it is supposed to be worn, but I’m too cold to be bothered by jaunty or chic. Not that Trowenna is known for such things anyway. We are a culture of food: Atlantic Salmon, cheese, gourmet beer and wine, and the ubiquitous fruit of our history; but we’ve never been ones for fashion beyond the occasional Aran style sweater or a "My XXX went to Trowenna, and all I got..." style garment in some of the waterfront boutiques. There is a plague of them in our capital, Georgian warehouses beneath brooding Unghanyaletta and its silent “Organ Pipes” which remind me of Kaapstadt and a boyfriend I’d rather forget.
The wharf is how I remember it: wharfish, (dwarfish?), and certainly neither a pier or a jetty. There is no funfair at the end of this boulevard of tar and treated pine, neither does it “jet” but rather it runs parallel to the shoreline; indeed it is suspended above it. An old steamer slumps painfully on screaming ropes just ahead of me. Nothing changes, this place has always been old and forgotten. I look beyond the bollards and gulls and see that the pub is still there: and it has been resurrected into something not quite modern, yet nothing like it was. It will have been “gastrocised” now, all Trowennan new-builds are, but I hope it will be homely. I always loved Barrawah’s waterside pub; and I am certain that even after four years since my last coming there is a schooner with my name on it.
I smile with childish delight, and look down at my hands. There indeed it is, a frosted beer glass with the cursive legend across it Caoirstig Saoirse, (what the hell were my parents thinking?): literally a schooner with my name on it. I maintain the smile and show it to the young man behind the bar. I’m sure we had a cheeky snogging session about fifteen years ago, but like most of the boys of summer he’s probably married now.
“You right Kirst?”
(Am I right cursed? Undeniably so.) “Yes thank you Peter.”
“S’bin ages since you bin’ere”
“Four years I believe.”
“For years?”
“Four years, one-two-three-four.”
“Agh so.”
Agh so. My mum says that, I’d forgotten Peter was of Northern Irish stock too, so he is.
“What cha doin’ in Albion now?”
“Fuck knows really.”
He laughs. “Na Kirst, not why you there but what cha do? Fer workin’ at?”
I smile again. “Still in school.”
“Geography wasn’t it?”
My smile broadens, “yes it was, but now it’s Religion Education.”
Peter explodes in a fit of Ulsterism, “fer fook’s en croyen’s sake Caoirstig, now what would ye be goin’ and doing a ting loike dat fer?”
An ever broadening smile, “it’s all much the same thing Pyedor,” (I say in my best Inis Ceithleann accent), “geography, history, RE are all about the reality of a world bigger than ourselves. I hope to show kids how to look beyond their own world, not just for adventure but for society’s sake. Religions Education is the cure for selfishness.”
“Agh so, so is a good hard slap across the backside.”
“Well, since you’re offering...” I give him a wink.
“Cheeky girl.”
“Quite, so I am.”
I am back on the wharf, and so is the rain. I cannot pull down my beret any further for fear of obliterating my view so I huck up my collar and fold my arms across my chest. I stamp my boots on the wet cement: for all the world looking like a little girl in a defiant hissy fit. (For which the cure is the same as that for selfishness.) My car is just over there, but I actually like the rain so I’ll stay out a bit longer. I see Peter locking up the pub; surely only for a moment as although it is getting dark it is still only mid afternoon. It is definitely winter here, I remember now.
Lashing and belting. Which are words to describe heavy rain? I would have been a champion at Jeopardy if ever Trowenna TV had screened it here. I love rain, it always makes me feel special: I’m rather in the mood of a bit of lashing and belting and even though I am wet I am giggling. The water cycle is such an amazing thing, and even as a Geography teacher, (and therefore destined ever to wear brown corduroy ) I never tire of reviewing its miracle. This water running down my jacket and skirt: most of it down the outside of my boots, has been so many places and been used for so many things. I love how rain connects me to the basics of the humanity of strangers: of drinking and cooking and washing. The smacks and skiffs are bobbing about on the water beyond the wharf: there is no wind in this rainstorm so there is nothing to flatten the waves as the tide meets the river on its journey down from Swanport. The schooner sits far more contrite: (as indeed I would in the presence of such wild smacks): its larger size allows a decorum in the midst of tempest which is a lesson for me in the maze of my imagination right now. If only home weren’t so far from life. I need recalibration.
When I was seventeen I began a summer job at the Antiquarian bookseller in Swanport, and at twenty (and University) I was made mistress of the market stall in Barrawah. Now the store itself has moved to Barrawah, and it is here I choose to seek shelter from the inundation. I love rain, but I hate being wet, and in fear of my Australian flu turning Aotearoan, (where you’re coughing up all black), I go inside. The man for whom I worked in the dark and distant nineties is now gone, his daughter was at Ladies College with me and she now sits amidst the dust and flyspeck at the neat yet loaded counter to the left of the door. She greets me with a peck on each cheek, a warm smile, and the correct pronunciation of Saoirse. We’ve not seen each other since graduation from university, me as Mistress of Teaching, she as Spinster of Education (with Honours). Does she remember the books we used to read?
“Caoirstig Saoirse, how lovely to see you darling. I have read of your exploits, and indeed have read from your writings as well. I see that you still...”
I smile nervously and look down at my hands. Men usually find that becoming in me, but does she think me wanton for the substance of my writings?
She smiles back. “I also...yet I cannot hope to write as you do. My husband...dead...and my parents moved to the north island. Alone...just Peter...and sometimes your mother comes to tea when she and your father are down at their shed, but...no-one since you lwent from here and...”
The dark secret, never shared, (only us). Before we found our men folk (...dead...) we had found each other.
“And now Caoirstig Saoirse, you write of it with loneliness.”
“There is no-one, and I have not felt the need to.”
She sighs and a tear forms. “Oh dearest departed I had hoped...”
I reach for her hand, but she is standing too far from me so I abort the attempt. “Describe for me the rain,” I ask her.
“The...”
“Rain. I write with loneliness because I feel lonely. Tell me what you feel. Describe for me the rain.”
“The rain is heavy.”
“Go on.”
“The rain is falling.”
“And yet...”
“Caoirstig Saoirse, the rain is belting. Look out on the water, on the river. Look at the skiffs bobbing. Look at the schooners and smacks! Oh, Schooners and Smacks...do you remember?”
I nod and smile congratulation at her. “Schooners and Smacks...innocently describing the two most common watercraft of Swanreach, Swanport itself and of course Barrawah...yes also words in the Trowennan cant which describe...”
“A tall glass of New South Welsh beer, and also...well...”
“Smacks?”
“Yes, well we always thought that was pretty self evident.” Her smile fades. “So lonely Caoirstig Saoirse.”
“I’m not surprised dearest, it’s a bit isolated down here, out the backside of Unghanyaletta.”
“I meant you.”
There are no secrets that can be hidden from your first love. Not when you write an online story blog under a very thinly designed pseudonym. Even Trowenna, even Barrawah, has t’internet.
I shed a tear.
She takes my hand.
We lock the door of the shop, but do not pull the blind. We go around the end of the row where the travel books are kept, (the holiday aisle), and she pulls out a step used for reaching the uppermost shelves.
She offers me the seat. I pause for a breath, then sit.
She smiles down at me then lays herself across my knees.
Over the course of time I steadily beat her to tears...a rhythmic smack upon smack, each cheek, each sit-spot; the untamed wilderness of her skirt a well covered continent of exploration by the time I can no longer lift either of my exhausted arms. She is sobbing rather than crying, wracked and compliant she’d not hesitated under my rain but only writhed in response. My hands are swollen and my arms are heavy. My heart, even heavier. This hasn’t helped at all...I feel ever more lonely and ever more lost. This is no longer who I am. She has sensed this, and this is part of why she is crying. She has waited eleven years for me to return to her, and she has failed me.
She rises painfully, and looks again down at me. Her eyes are puffy, her lipstick smeared clownishly on her left cheek and also her shoulder. She is incapable of sitting, and I wonder if she wonders as I do...what if she’d taken the seat at the outset and I'd...
I stand, embrace her, kiss her. I’ve half a mind to lick that smear of lipstick but that passes. I turn and walk out of the shop, pausing to nod to a young woman who had been waiting at the locked door. It is only as I turn down the street and hear her asking for a copy of Raskolnikova that I realise she probably heard us going about our reintroductions inside. I also recognise her voice as that of my cousin with whom I shared a tent when we were eighteen.
But that is another story...
Saturday, January 23, 2010
The Story of K
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.
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.
Sister Madly
Following along my theme of adults in the legitimate role of “student”, (an interest of mine as a teacher I suppose), here’s a story I’ve been stewing on for a while about a student nurse. You’ll find hints of it in the “Student Teacher” stories I wrote for Yolanda and Laura. Please note, I have no medical knowledge so if the “hospital aspects” aren’t correct then get over it. I’m writing a spanking story, not an episode of ER!
Sister Madly
“Who in St Vladimir’s name gave her this?” Doctor Jacobsen was beetroot red as he surveyed the chart. Mrs Evans had been brought into hospital the previous day suffering from chronic diarrhoea and dehydration, and had been immediately medicated and placed on a drip. Now the evidence of a monumental mess-up lay on the trolley beside him. Someone had messed up the delivery of tablets and the poor woman had been given a laxative.
“It is initialled by ‘LE’, that’s Louisa Ellis’ initials. She’s one of the final year nursing students.”
“Can’t she bloody read a simple instruction? A simple chart? Who gives laxative to a dehydrated person, let alone one with diarrhoea? Can’t she see the bloody drip hanging out of Mrs Evans’ arm?”
Louisa was only at the next bed, but behind the curtain she was invisible to the conversation. She had thought the order strange, and had indeed seen ‘the bloody drip’, but she had been told in no uncertain terms by her NUM that to question a doctor’s prescription was the task of the NUM herself, and not some snotty nosed know-it-all from university. (The Nursing Unit Manager at this particular hospital had been born during the war, but whether that was the one against the Germans or the one against the Boers, Louisa wasn’t quite certain. What she was certain of, having been told daily, was that the NUM’s first hospital had been in the middle of a frozen lake in the Sahara Desert and the NUM had had to walk ten miles through snow, uphill there and back, just to buy bandages for the troops, three times a day and out of her own money.) Louisa looked at the drug sheet in front of her, the pharmacist had definitely prescribed and the doctor and NUM had both definitely signed off on a laxative. Louisa had presumed it was some kind of complimentary emetic treatment, (in place of a painful enema), to clear out the gastrointestinal tract from both ends.
The curtain flew back, and there stood Doctor Jacobsen, his head a steamed plum, his body a twitching stick. Louisa stifled a chuckle as she thought of how like a cartoon character he looked. “Did you do this?”
“Sir, the chart said…”
“I know what the bloody chart said girl, I wrote the bloody chart.”
“I saw it was a laxative sir, but I thought it might be emetic.”
“Stupid girl the drug is not the question. It’s the time. You’re three days early! Mrs Evans is supposed to take this at the end of the course of treatment I have prescribed now, to release the pressure of us stopping up her guts for a few days.”
Louisa looked down. The chart was for Thursday, her birthday. Today was Monday. She’d been daydreaming about the party she was hosting and had picked up the wrong file. It was her mistake, but fortunately Doctor Jacobsen had run out of steam and had puffed off to find some more.
“Nurse Ellis?” The NUM. “I believe you owe Mrs Evans an apology. Fortunately she’d not actually taken the tablets, saving them to take with her lunch as you correctly advised. Louisa blushed and returned to Mrs Evans’ bed to offer her regret.
Lauren Evans was twenty-seven years old and had been on her honeymoon when she’d fallen ill. Happily her insurance cover had been enough to see her back to England, but the pain in her stomach and the feelings of dizziness were not what she had been looking forward to a week earlier when Marcus had ever-so-slowly stripped her of her bridal outfit in their suite at St Michael’s Manor. First had come her shoes, then her bodice, skirt, petticoats, and her hair was released from its pins. (“Nails and staples” Marcus had called them. “Wife, were you dressed this morning, or assembled?”) Lauren’s stockings had been next to go, tantalisingly rolled down, (she wondered if he’d done that before), before the button that enclosed her “lady place” was released along with her longing. Now she was on her back in bed, (a good place for a new bride), but surrounded by grunting and farting old woman patients and old man doctors.
“Oh Mrs Evans, I’m ever so sorry.” Louisa quite liked Lauren and had enjoyed looking after her. Lauren had appreciated the bubbly young nurse as well, but was not in the mood for it now. Anything, anyone, who stopped her getting back to Marcus was to be rid of immediately. Lauren merely grunted and closed her eyes.
“Nurse Ellis. As you know this is a teaching hospital and discipline is part of any young nurse’s training. Good patient care, good hygiene, good care taken in all aspects of a nurse’s demeanour, practice, and appearance. We will not suffer compromise in this hospital.”
“No matron.”
“Matron? MATRON? I’m your Nursing Unit Manager and don’t you forget it. Do I look like a Matron?”
(Actually you do, thought Louisa, adding to herself that the war in progress at NUM’s birth was probably that “of the Roses”.)
“Nonetheless standards of excellence and high levels of discipline must be maintained. I must ask you to bend over the chair here.”
(Definitely Wars of the Roses, but was she a Lanc or a York? Tee hee. Umm, hang on, did she just ask me to…) “I’m sorry Ma’am, did you just ask me to bend over the chair?”
“Yes young lady I did. We are a teaching hospital and you are in dire need of teaching. I have sent Nurse Manchester to fetch the rod from my office and I am about to punish you for your oversight in patient care. Must I also add insolence to your record.”
“No ma’am. What do you mean rod?”
“Rod. A stick for beating with, child. Ah, here she is now. Manchester? Manchester, over here with that. Yes girl, now flit away, flit flit!” Louisa looked across at the transaction. Sarah Manchester was handing the NUM a thin cane. “Unless you wish to join Nurse Ellis of course?” Sarah Manchester looked at Louisa briefly, then back at the NUM. She lowered her eyes, whispered a tearful ‘no ma’am’, all but dropped a neat curtsey, and turned away from the scene, her hands absently crossing behind her back to cover her bottom as she scurried out of sight.
“Surely ma’am I, that is to say, you, …”
“Surely nothing Nurse Ellis, now bend over the chair like a good girl, although if you had been a good girl you’d not need to be in such a position now would you?” Just then Mrs Evans rolled back toward the conversation, and raised a slight smile at the sight of the elderly matron, (well, she is isn’t she), waving her cane at the young and frightened nursing student who had tried to kill her. “Ah, Mrs Evans, you’re awake. Change of plan Nurse Ellis. Across the bed. Yes?” This question addressed to Mrs Evans, who smiled again, sat herself up slightly (Louisa jumping in to assist), and nodded her assent. “Yes, caned by me across your patient’s bed. Practically across Mrs Evans’ knee. Very suitable.”
“Please ma’am.”
“Bend OVER young lady.”
Louisa knew better than to argue, and did as she was told. It had after all been her mistake, but was she seriously about to be caned? The first stroke landed across the back of her dress just as the question had formed in her mind. It appeared the answer was ‘yes’, and five more strokes came in support of the thesis.
“Let’s have the dress up then.”
“Pardon ma’am?”
“Six across the back of your dress, three more with the dress lifted. Nine strokes.”
Again Louisa acted smartly to obey, standing immediately to lift the skirt of her dress up above her waist before bending over the bed again, her hands on the other side of Mrs Evans so that the patient had a good view of proceedings, and the foolish nurse was indeed all but bending over her patient’s knee.
“Stockings?”
“Yes ma’am, hold ups are cooler and more comfortable than tights.”
“Nurse Ellis your uniform guideline quite clearly states that female nursing students wear ‘black tights only’ with the uniform blue and white pinstriped dress.”
“Yes ma’am, but I thought that meant ‘black only’ rather than ‘tights only’. I thought it was to stop girls wearing white tights or flesh coloured tights. I didn’t realise you meant for us not to wear stockings. Sarah is…” Louisa stopped herself. She knew that whatever Sarah Manchester was wearing underneath her own dress would in no way alleviate what was coming to Louisa Ellis.
“If you wish to suggest that Nurse Manchester is also wearing inappropriate hosiery then I shall see her later for a good slippering. This does not concede anything to your case for being out of uniform.”
“No ma’am”
(Whack!) The first of the new set of strokes took Louisa completely by surprise, bisecting her bottom into even halves of pain. She raised herself slightly on her arms but was bent over again before the NUM could comment.
“Three further strokes were owed for your messing up Mrs Evans’ dosage. I’ll give you an additional four for being out of uniform. Two smacks for each illegal stocking; you’ve just had one of the three.”
“Yes, (whack! Whack!), ow, yes ma’am.”
“Stand up.”
Once more Louisa obeyed. She had not been spanked much as a child, and schools had banned the use of corporal punishment for girls before she had ever deserved its application. Still, she knew the protocols of a smacked bottom and how it always went better for the girl who was prompt.
“Hand me your plimsoll.” Louisa looked down as the NUM took up a seated position on the chair beside Mrs Evans’ bed. Without any further instruction she took off one of her ward slippers and handed it to the NUM. She then folded up her dress again and laid herself across the NUM’s knee. Four smart smacks of the sole of her left shoe struck her, two on her knicker-clad bottom and one each on the naked strip of thigh between the black nylon and the white cotton.
The NUM had left the ward to enquire after Nurse Manchester’s uniform and Nurse Ellis had dabbed her eyes dry when Doctor Jacobsen entered the ward, beaming widely. “Good catch Ellis. We’d forgotten to take into consideration that Mrs Evans had been hospitalised before her arrival in England, the course of laxatives may begin immediately.”
Sister Madly
“Who in St Vladimir’s name gave her this?” Doctor Jacobsen was beetroot red as he surveyed the chart. Mrs Evans had been brought into hospital the previous day suffering from chronic diarrhoea and dehydration, and had been immediately medicated and placed on a drip. Now the evidence of a monumental mess-up lay on the trolley beside him. Someone had messed up the delivery of tablets and the poor woman had been given a laxative.
“It is initialled by ‘LE’, that’s Louisa Ellis’ initials. She’s one of the final year nursing students.”
“Can’t she bloody read a simple instruction? A simple chart? Who gives laxative to a dehydrated person, let alone one with diarrhoea? Can’t she see the bloody drip hanging out of Mrs Evans’ arm?”
Louisa was only at the next bed, but behind the curtain she was invisible to the conversation. She had thought the order strange, and had indeed seen ‘the bloody drip’, but she had been told in no uncertain terms by her NUM that to question a doctor’s prescription was the task of the NUM herself, and not some snotty nosed know-it-all from university. (The Nursing Unit Manager at this particular hospital had been born during the war, but whether that was the one against the Germans or the one against the Boers, Louisa wasn’t quite certain. What she was certain of, having been told daily, was that the NUM’s first hospital had been in the middle of a frozen lake in the Sahara Desert and the NUM had had to walk ten miles through snow, uphill there and back, just to buy bandages for the troops, three times a day and out of her own money.) Louisa looked at the drug sheet in front of her, the pharmacist had definitely prescribed and the doctor and NUM had both definitely signed off on a laxative. Louisa had presumed it was some kind of complimentary emetic treatment, (in place of a painful enema), to clear out the gastrointestinal tract from both ends.
The curtain flew back, and there stood Doctor Jacobsen, his head a steamed plum, his body a twitching stick. Louisa stifled a chuckle as she thought of how like a cartoon character he looked. “Did you do this?”
“Sir, the chart said…”
“I know what the bloody chart said girl, I wrote the bloody chart.”
“I saw it was a laxative sir, but I thought it might be emetic.”
“Stupid girl the drug is not the question. It’s the time. You’re three days early! Mrs Evans is supposed to take this at the end of the course of treatment I have prescribed now, to release the pressure of us stopping up her guts for a few days.”
Louisa looked down. The chart was for Thursday, her birthday. Today was Monday. She’d been daydreaming about the party she was hosting and had picked up the wrong file. It was her mistake, but fortunately Doctor Jacobsen had run out of steam and had puffed off to find some more.
“Nurse Ellis?” The NUM. “I believe you owe Mrs Evans an apology. Fortunately she’d not actually taken the tablets, saving them to take with her lunch as you correctly advised. Louisa blushed and returned to Mrs Evans’ bed to offer her regret.
Lauren Evans was twenty-seven years old and had been on her honeymoon when she’d fallen ill. Happily her insurance cover had been enough to see her back to England, but the pain in her stomach and the feelings of dizziness were not what she had been looking forward to a week earlier when Marcus had ever-so-slowly stripped her of her bridal outfit in their suite at St Michael’s Manor. First had come her shoes, then her bodice, skirt, petticoats, and her hair was released from its pins. (“Nails and staples” Marcus had called them. “Wife, were you dressed this morning, or assembled?”) Lauren’s stockings had been next to go, tantalisingly rolled down, (she wondered if he’d done that before), before the button that enclosed her “lady place” was released along with her longing. Now she was on her back in bed, (a good place for a new bride), but surrounded by grunting and farting old woman patients and old man doctors.
“Oh Mrs Evans, I’m ever so sorry.” Louisa quite liked Lauren and had enjoyed looking after her. Lauren had appreciated the bubbly young nurse as well, but was not in the mood for it now. Anything, anyone, who stopped her getting back to Marcus was to be rid of immediately. Lauren merely grunted and closed her eyes.
“Nurse Ellis. As you know this is a teaching hospital and discipline is part of any young nurse’s training. Good patient care, good hygiene, good care taken in all aspects of a nurse’s demeanour, practice, and appearance. We will not suffer compromise in this hospital.”
“No matron.”
“Matron? MATRON? I’m your Nursing Unit Manager and don’t you forget it. Do I look like a Matron?”
(Actually you do, thought Louisa, adding to herself that the war in progress at NUM’s birth was probably that “of the Roses”.)
“Nonetheless standards of excellence and high levels of discipline must be maintained. I must ask you to bend over the chair here.”
(Definitely Wars of the Roses, but was she a Lanc or a York? Tee hee. Umm, hang on, did she just ask me to…) “I’m sorry Ma’am, did you just ask me to bend over the chair?”
“Yes young lady I did. We are a teaching hospital and you are in dire need of teaching. I have sent Nurse Manchester to fetch the rod from my office and I am about to punish you for your oversight in patient care. Must I also add insolence to your record.”
“No ma’am. What do you mean rod?”
“Rod. A stick for beating with, child. Ah, here she is now. Manchester? Manchester, over here with that. Yes girl, now flit away, flit flit!” Louisa looked across at the transaction. Sarah Manchester was handing the NUM a thin cane. “Unless you wish to join Nurse Ellis of course?” Sarah Manchester looked at Louisa briefly, then back at the NUM. She lowered her eyes, whispered a tearful ‘no ma’am’, all but dropped a neat curtsey, and turned away from the scene, her hands absently crossing behind her back to cover her bottom as she scurried out of sight.
“Surely ma’am I, that is to say, you, …”
“Surely nothing Nurse Ellis, now bend over the chair like a good girl, although if you had been a good girl you’d not need to be in such a position now would you?” Just then Mrs Evans rolled back toward the conversation, and raised a slight smile at the sight of the elderly matron, (well, she is isn’t she), waving her cane at the young and frightened nursing student who had tried to kill her. “Ah, Mrs Evans, you’re awake. Change of plan Nurse Ellis. Across the bed. Yes?” This question addressed to Mrs Evans, who smiled again, sat herself up slightly (Louisa jumping in to assist), and nodded her assent. “Yes, caned by me across your patient’s bed. Practically across Mrs Evans’ knee. Very suitable.”
“Please ma’am.”
“Bend OVER young lady.”
Louisa knew better than to argue, and did as she was told. It had after all been her mistake, but was she seriously about to be caned? The first stroke landed across the back of her dress just as the question had formed in her mind. It appeared the answer was ‘yes’, and five more strokes came in support of the thesis.
“Let’s have the dress up then.”
“Pardon ma’am?”
“Six across the back of your dress, three more with the dress lifted. Nine strokes.”
Again Louisa acted smartly to obey, standing immediately to lift the skirt of her dress up above her waist before bending over the bed again, her hands on the other side of Mrs Evans so that the patient had a good view of proceedings, and the foolish nurse was indeed all but bending over her patient’s knee.
“Stockings?”
“Yes ma’am, hold ups are cooler and more comfortable than tights.”
“Nurse Ellis your uniform guideline quite clearly states that female nursing students wear ‘black tights only’ with the uniform blue and white pinstriped dress.”
“Yes ma’am, but I thought that meant ‘black only’ rather than ‘tights only’. I thought it was to stop girls wearing white tights or flesh coloured tights. I didn’t realise you meant for us not to wear stockings. Sarah is…” Louisa stopped herself. She knew that whatever Sarah Manchester was wearing underneath her own dress would in no way alleviate what was coming to Louisa Ellis.
“If you wish to suggest that Nurse Manchester is also wearing inappropriate hosiery then I shall see her later for a good slippering. This does not concede anything to your case for being out of uniform.”
“No ma’am”
(Whack!) The first of the new set of strokes took Louisa completely by surprise, bisecting her bottom into even halves of pain. She raised herself slightly on her arms but was bent over again before the NUM could comment.
“Three further strokes were owed for your messing up Mrs Evans’ dosage. I’ll give you an additional four for being out of uniform. Two smacks for each illegal stocking; you’ve just had one of the three.”
“Yes, (whack! Whack!), ow, yes ma’am.”
“Stand up.”
Once more Louisa obeyed. She had not been spanked much as a child, and schools had banned the use of corporal punishment for girls before she had ever deserved its application. Still, she knew the protocols of a smacked bottom and how it always went better for the girl who was prompt.
“Hand me your plimsoll.” Louisa looked down as the NUM took up a seated position on the chair beside Mrs Evans’ bed. Without any further instruction she took off one of her ward slippers and handed it to the NUM. She then folded up her dress again and laid herself across the NUM’s knee. Four smart smacks of the sole of her left shoe struck her, two on her knicker-clad bottom and one each on the naked strip of thigh between the black nylon and the white cotton.
The NUM had left the ward to enquire after Nurse Manchester’s uniform and Nurse Ellis had dabbed her eyes dry when Doctor Jacobsen entered the ward, beaming widely. “Good catch Ellis. We’d forgotten to take into consideration that Mrs Evans had been hospitalised before her arrival in England, the course of laxatives may begin immediately.”
The Visit
A story I wrote for my 360 friend Yolanda Carrington. It is fiction, I never got to meet her, but she helped me with some of the information. This story was my first commission.
Saturday, May 19th, 2007
London
(Written for Yolanda and Laura.)
Preview
“I’m sure I want to do this, she seems nice enough online.” Kirsten was sitting on the train on her way into London and to the first time meeting with her online correspondent Yolanda. The women had been posting on Yahoo 360 for four months and had arranged to meet up at Yolanda’s flat to get to know each other better and to play out some of their common stories. Kirsten was looking forward to the meeting, and all that the afternoon might entail, but she was still conscious of the uncertainty gnawing in her stomach.
“I told her our fantasies are me being spanked by someone else and you spanking me and someone else.” Yolanda was rather excited at the prospect of seeing these desires met, and was reminding Laura of why she and Kirsten had agreed to meet up in the first place. “Kirsten’s a school teacher, from Australia, and told me she is bringing a scenario she had been working on for a story she’s writing. She also said she wanted to try out some things she’s not done before, especially the leather paddle. I said we like schoolies, and office scenarios.” Yolanda had been spanked by only five other women before (and one man) and was looking forward to being asked to “bend over” by a new female voice, and whilst Laura had not played a major part in the correspondence she had readily agreed to meet Kirsten.
Arrival
The doorbell rang, the friends met with hugs and kisses, and all moved into the front room. Laura was dressed rather formally in a skirt suit, as Kirsten had instructed, and Yolanda in a school uniform. Following cups of tea and some ice-breaking conversation about preferences and postures, (Yolly and Kirsten had similar tastes, although Kirsten had never been spanked with a leather paddle and her preferred implement was her wooden hairbrush, something Yolly had confessed to not enjoying), Laura suggested getting underway.
“What is it about the leather paddle that interests you Kirsten?”
“It’s just that I’ve never received it before. The man that shares my house with me and my friend Catherine, Paul, sometimes whips me with the strap when I have been naughty, but the paddle is new.”
“And you’d like to try it out?”
“Yes please.” Kirsten could feel the knot in her guts rising again, excitement and apprehension all at once. She looked down at her shoes. All of the spanking this afternoon was to have been “fun”, and Yolanda had suggested that Laura’s fun spankings had never caused her to cry, but Yolanda had also said that she could take quite a long spanking, “my bum turns deep pink rather than red or crimson”, and Kirsten knew that she was not so resilient. Kirsten looked back up to see that Laura had the paddle in her hand and was beckoning her towards her. Yolanda had stood up and was standing beside the easy chair she had just been sitting in.
“Let’s show you how it’s done first, and then you can have a turn.” She nodded at Yolanda, who turned and bent over the arm of the chair. Laura came into position and began the demonstration.
Kirsten was pleased to see that whilst Yolanda was wincing, and moaned quietly as each smack landed upon her bottom, the paddling didn’t seem to be terribly painful, even after Laura had paused briefly to ask Yolanda to raise her skirt. Not that she was counting, but there must have been about fifteen smacks to each of Yolly’s skirt, and then panties.
“Would you like a turn now?” Laura was holding the paddle out to Kirsten. Kirsten wasn’t entirely certain whether she was supposed to take the paddle to spank Yolanda herself, or to “assume the position”, but as she walked across to the easy chair Laura deftly turned the paddle in her hand, presenting Kirsten with the handle. “Is this okay?” Laura seemed to be asking Yolanda.
“Yes, of course,” replied Yolanda, still bending over the arm of the chair.
“Now Kirsten, I’m sure you know how a paddle works,” smiled Laura, stepping back.
Yolanda was wearing a rather pretty pair of French knickers below her school uniform, which covered the entire area of her punishment. Kirsten would like to have seen the damage to Yolanda’s bottom before continuing, but that wasn’t possible. She delivered six firm smacks to the silken hemisphere in front of her, the fourth one eliciting a small “ow!” from Yolanda.
“Would you like a turn now?” The same question Laura had asked earlier, but this time there was no doubt as to what she was offering to Kirsten. She stood back to allow Yolanda to stand up, and was about to take her position across the arm of the chair when Laura suggested the back of the sofa as a better position. “It’s a little higher up, so affords a better angle for contact.” Yolanda nodded in agreement so Kirsten took up her position there. “Ready?”
The first smack was much as Kirsten should have known it was, central to her bottom, firm but not harsh, familiar (she’s been on the receiving end of several table tennis bats in the past) yet different as well. The smacks that followed forced “ouch” from Kirsten on several occasions, but were not unpleasant. Still, she could feel a tear welling in her eye, but whether that was from pain (unlikely) or from the excitement of finally being here with Yolly and Laura she wasn’t certain.
Laura asked Kirsten whether she would be willing to raise her skirt. Kirsten readily agreed, but had to stand up to do so. “You’re wearing tights?” Laura commented.
“I usually do,” Kirsten explained. “I like to be wearing tights, what with the idea that what is on display is attached to that area of private pleasure; my tights, which can be seen by the public connecting my skirt and shoes, also come up to cover my bottom”.
“And the cotton pants?”
“I don’t wear thongs, and don’t like frilly underwear under my tights.”
“Fine with me. Bend over young lady.”
Kirsten smiled; her favourite phrase as published on her 360 page: Laura had done some homework too. She bent over the back of the sofa and her spanking resumed. Whether the removal of the layer of skirt really made that much difference, or whether Laura was smacking harder, Kirsten noticed that she was beginning to hurt now, although she tried to keep that fact from the other two by biting her lip. The tears began rolling down her cheeks, (but then that was not unusual for Kirsten), and the moaning became a quiet sob. She knew she was having fun, but it was still painful.
Student Teacher
“So, Kirsten, why ‘Curtseygirl’ as a nickname?”
“Well, Laura, it is kind of cute don’t you think, but basically it’s because my name is Kirsten and it just sounds similar. When my family first took me to Australia, from New Zealand, I was six years old, and the way I was pronouncing “Kirsty” at school didn’t sound like the way the other children spoke. And I like the idea of the curtsey as a feminine form of respect since it can’t really be done effectively in trousers.”
“That makes sense,” Yolanda was sitting in the same chair she’d been spanked across, nursing another cup of tea.
Kirsten smiled back, “I used to be a bit militant about it, ‘You can’t make me bow or break: I curtsey and bend because I want to,’ but now I’m a bit more grown up.”
“And this scenario you have for us?”
“Student teacher. I have always been fascinated as a teacher with the idea of adult students. I remember seeing a sketch on TV in Australia, Benny Hill or something like that, I don’t know what. It was based in a ‘teaching hospital’, and a chief doctor was going around the wards caning the old men patients who weren’t getting better quick enough. I went up to my room and wrote a story where it was the nurses who were caned, bending over their patients’ beds if the patient’s condition wasn’t improving. It was the first story I wrote, I was about sixteen, and the first one I acted out with some friends in my first student flat. I was about twenty then, and of course I was a nurse. One of the girls in the next flat was a student nurse, so we were able to wear the real uniforms, (and not some Anne Summers latex mock up), and we used a green cane from the local garden centre; the sort you use to hold up tomatoes.”
“And cane wayward nurses,” laughed Yolanda.
“When necessary. It got me to thinking though that in such a situation the girls who get spanked are punished for something that isn’t necessarily their fault: and that a situation where a student teacher might be punished for the unruliness of her class might be a fun idea.”
The story
Laura: in the role of head teacher at a mixed comprehensive secondary school.
Yolly: as a sixth form pupil at the school
Miss Ellison (Kirsten): as a pre-service teacher at the school on her final practice placement before qualification.
“Yolanda, are you responsible for this?” Miss Ellison had had enough of 6C and was looking forward to the bell. She was not entirely certain that teaching Australian History as a unit for these sixth formers was such a good idea, but the University had disagreed and now here she was.
“Yeah, but this is boring Miss, how come we have to learn about convicts and natives, it’s all rubbish. It’s not like I’m going to smelly Australia anyway, if I want a suntan I’ll go to Ibiza.” 6C were also sick of Miss Ellison, and Yolanda in particular. She had initially welcomed the young teacher and was quite looking forward to being let off from the rigours of the Tudor Monarchs which the crusty old Mr Bates had been teaching, but then Miss Ellison had got all stressed, and that had made her cranky.
“I’ll give you another sort of tan in a minute!” Kirsten was getting frustrated now. “You know that as a VC school we are still allowed to use corporal punishment here, even though it has been banned in government schools.” It was an idle threat, Miss Ellison was actually opposed to physical punishment of children, but that Yolanda was really rather nasty and she had almost certainly been the one responsible for snapping the stick on the New South Wales state flag that had been sitting on the front desk.
“You and what army? The Rum Corps I suppose? A bit of British military discipline? 500 lashes of the cat-of-nine-tails tied to the triangle outside Macquarie Barracks?” Yolanda smirked around the class, gaining the required assents of grunts from the boys and smirks from the girls.
Kirsten smiled. “At least I know you’ve been paying attention to the subject matter.”
“Yeah, it’s okay. Kids like us being sent to the other side of the world for doing nothin’, just nicking an apple and stuff. But you’re drillin’!”
“And the flag?”
“What? Oh yes, YES IT WAS ME OKAY. What are you gonna do about it Miss, spank me?”
“Exactly. Come here.”
“You can’t!”
“What did you just call me? I’LL NOT BE SPOKEN TO LIKE THAT.”
“No Miss, I said ‘you can’t’, as in, ‘you can’t spank me’. I’m eighteen years old, and besides there’s boys here.”
“You’re a pupil in this school, a student in my class, and the rules say I can do what I need to to maintain order. Come here now.” Amazingly, Yolanda did as she was told, Kirsten wondered whether she’d been baited into doing this all along. She was not adverse to a bit of “fun spanking” herself, when she was home, in fact she’d been across her housemate Catherine’s knee just the previous night for not putting away all the washing up. Nineteen smacks with the wooden spoon: six to each of skirt and tights, and seven to her bare bottom. The last seven had been meant as chastisement and their memory was still fresh. Perhaps Yolanda was looking for a spanking. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“Yeah, you gonna cane me.” There was a glint in Yolanda’s eyes, Kirsten was sure she’d been set-up.
“Girls aren’t caned at this school. Girls are spanked. Bend over my knee young lady!” Miss Ellison decided that if Yolanda was looking for a smacked bottom she’d find one. The glint was still there as Yolanda gracefully placed herself across her teacher’s lap. Kirsten paused to look down at the upturned skirt before her, and the black nylon legs poking out beneath: she was really going to do it, really spank one of the girls in her class. She was going to spank Yolanda, and Yolanda wanted her to do it.
The first spank came as a surprise to Yolanda, she hadn’t expected it to hurt as much. What she did not know was that Miss Ellison wasn't using her hand to spank her, but was using the decorative wooden boomerang that she’d been showing to 4B in the previous lesson. Its odd shape made for quite an effective handle and paddle. Again and again it came down, Yolanda began to cry out. Was she enjoying it? She wasn’t sure, she certainly had been setting Miss Ellison up to do this to her, but was it worth the embarrassment of having the boys watch her gets her bottom smacked like a little girl? Yolanda hoped that it was.
“Return to your seat. Actually, go to the toilets and wash your face first.” Kirsten was exhausted, not by the physical effort of spanking Yolanda but by the thought that she’d actually had the courage to do it. To put the girl over her knee and smack her bottom, and to smack it quite hard, quite a few times, with a wooden stick.
Yolanda stood up a little shakily and went out to the toilets, to wash her face and to survey the damage. She had to stand on the bench to get the right angle for the mirror, but having pulled her skirt down (it was too tight to pull up) and pulling down her tights and knickers she was both chagrined and pleased to see a soft pink glow spreading across her “seat of learning.” “Oh yes,” she said to herself, “we’ll be doing this again.”
“Kirsten, it seems as though your practical teaching round is going quite well, but you are having trouble with one of the sixth form groups?” Laura had been head teacher of the school for six months now, Miss Ellison was the first pre-service teacher she had had to work with. “I believe you spanked Yolanda C today?”
“Yes Laura. I had good cause to. No I am quite pleased with the way things have been going, but I do struggle with Yolanda and her group.”
“Many teachers do. Still, I am pleased you did not shy away from corporal correction, let’s hope it was effective. It does however raise an issue: I believe you waited too long.”
“Too long?”
“You should have spanked her, and I dare suggest Melissa and Deborah, much earlier. The class is at the brink of anarchy and I am calling you to account. I’m afraid I must ask you to…” (Am I really going to do this? thought Laura. Yes, it’s what’s required by the governors, and it will be of help to Kirsten later.) “I must ask you to bend over my desk.”
“Excuse me?” Kirsten was stunned. “Are you suggesting you’re going to cane me because the students in my class are rowdy?”
“You know very well we don’t cane girls at this school. In fact the regulation doesn’t specify “girl” it specifies “female student”, and since you are a female student, albeit a university student in her twenties, you are still under my duty of care. You will be spanked, but I can hardly put you over my knee can I, so I want you to bend over the desk.” Laura had stood up and walked across to the desk as she had been speaking, and Kirsten saw for the first time the space that had been cleared of stationery on the front of the long wooden desk. Laura had the paddle in her hand, a flat wooden object with air holes cut in it which was used to punish the boys under thirteen and the girls older than thirteen. (Older boys were caned, younger girls hand-spanked.)
Kirsten considered arguing her case, she was twenty-three years old after all and far to old to be having her bottom smacked by the headmistress, (that hadn’t happened since she was fourteen). But she could see that Laura was not to be deferred from her position. “Of course.”
“Right, let’s have that skirt up then. It’s always “on the underwear” when a student comes in here for punishment, let’s not make it any different for you. “Trousers down young man, skirt up young lady, fair is fair.” An odd mix of reluctance and excitement rose in Kirsten’s stomach as she lifted the back of her skirt and bent over the desk. “Good girl, or at least you will be when I have finished with you.”
There were twelve spanks in all, each of them very much a discipline spanking, and by the end of it Kirsten was sobbing loudly. She had cried out with the first two, and final four hard smacks.
“Right, since you are a teacher I think we should make your punishment a little more severe than that given to the girls. I want you to pull down your tights and knickers for me.” Kirsten was lost in her tears and embarrassment and complied without question or comment, sobbing loudly she pulled down her tights to just above her knees and her knickers to mid thigh; their usual places when spanking at home went to “bare bottom phase”. She bent over the desk again, resting her weight on her forearms. It was a full ten seconds before the first stroke fell. The cane.
Laura had been uncertain about using the “boy” instrument, but thought that as Kirsten was a teacher there should be an ultimate sanction. What better than six of the best across a bare, just-spanked bottom? Kirsten cried out in shock, but apart from writhing sideways somewhat she did not lift from the desk. She had never been caned before and was amazed at the stinging it produced. Eight further strokes were applied, the final two cutting across the seven parallel tramlines that were forming welts on Kirsten’s pink bottom. “Thank you Miss Ellison, you may leave now and I shall expect better of 6C come Monday.” Kirsten stood and gingerly replaced her underwear and skirt. “Of course Ma’am,” replied Kirsten, “thank you Laura for taking such a keen interest in my progress.”
Saturday, May 19th, 2007
London
(Written for Yolanda and Laura.)
Preview
“I’m sure I want to do this, she seems nice enough online.” Kirsten was sitting on the train on her way into London and to the first time meeting with her online correspondent Yolanda. The women had been posting on Yahoo 360 for four months and had arranged to meet up at Yolanda’s flat to get to know each other better and to play out some of their common stories. Kirsten was looking forward to the meeting, and all that the afternoon might entail, but she was still conscious of the uncertainty gnawing in her stomach.
“I told her our fantasies are me being spanked by someone else and you spanking me and someone else.” Yolanda was rather excited at the prospect of seeing these desires met, and was reminding Laura of why she and Kirsten had agreed to meet up in the first place. “Kirsten’s a school teacher, from Australia, and told me she is bringing a scenario she had been working on for a story she’s writing. She also said she wanted to try out some things she’s not done before, especially the leather paddle. I said we like schoolies, and office scenarios.” Yolanda had been spanked by only five other women before (and one man) and was looking forward to being asked to “bend over” by a new female voice, and whilst Laura had not played a major part in the correspondence she had readily agreed to meet Kirsten.
Arrival
The doorbell rang, the friends met with hugs and kisses, and all moved into the front room. Laura was dressed rather formally in a skirt suit, as Kirsten had instructed, and Yolanda in a school uniform. Following cups of tea and some ice-breaking conversation about preferences and postures, (Yolly and Kirsten had similar tastes, although Kirsten had never been spanked with a leather paddle and her preferred implement was her wooden hairbrush, something Yolly had confessed to not enjoying), Laura suggested getting underway.
“What is it about the leather paddle that interests you Kirsten?”
“It’s just that I’ve never received it before. The man that shares my house with me and my friend Catherine, Paul, sometimes whips me with the strap when I have been naughty, but the paddle is new.”
“And you’d like to try it out?”
“Yes please.” Kirsten could feel the knot in her guts rising again, excitement and apprehension all at once. She looked down at her shoes. All of the spanking this afternoon was to have been “fun”, and Yolanda had suggested that Laura’s fun spankings had never caused her to cry, but Yolanda had also said that she could take quite a long spanking, “my bum turns deep pink rather than red or crimson”, and Kirsten knew that she was not so resilient. Kirsten looked back up to see that Laura had the paddle in her hand and was beckoning her towards her. Yolanda had stood up and was standing beside the easy chair she had just been sitting in.
“Let’s show you how it’s done first, and then you can have a turn.” She nodded at Yolanda, who turned and bent over the arm of the chair. Laura came into position and began the demonstration.
Kirsten was pleased to see that whilst Yolanda was wincing, and moaned quietly as each smack landed upon her bottom, the paddling didn’t seem to be terribly painful, even after Laura had paused briefly to ask Yolanda to raise her skirt. Not that she was counting, but there must have been about fifteen smacks to each of Yolly’s skirt, and then panties.
“Would you like a turn now?” Laura was holding the paddle out to Kirsten. Kirsten wasn’t entirely certain whether she was supposed to take the paddle to spank Yolanda herself, or to “assume the position”, but as she walked across to the easy chair Laura deftly turned the paddle in her hand, presenting Kirsten with the handle. “Is this okay?” Laura seemed to be asking Yolanda.
“Yes, of course,” replied Yolanda, still bending over the arm of the chair.
“Now Kirsten, I’m sure you know how a paddle works,” smiled Laura, stepping back.
Yolanda was wearing a rather pretty pair of French knickers below her school uniform, which covered the entire area of her punishment. Kirsten would like to have seen the damage to Yolanda’s bottom before continuing, but that wasn’t possible. She delivered six firm smacks to the silken hemisphere in front of her, the fourth one eliciting a small “ow!” from Yolanda.
“Would you like a turn now?” The same question Laura had asked earlier, but this time there was no doubt as to what she was offering to Kirsten. She stood back to allow Yolanda to stand up, and was about to take her position across the arm of the chair when Laura suggested the back of the sofa as a better position. “It’s a little higher up, so affords a better angle for contact.” Yolanda nodded in agreement so Kirsten took up her position there. “Ready?”
The first smack was much as Kirsten should have known it was, central to her bottom, firm but not harsh, familiar (she’s been on the receiving end of several table tennis bats in the past) yet different as well. The smacks that followed forced “ouch” from Kirsten on several occasions, but were not unpleasant. Still, she could feel a tear welling in her eye, but whether that was from pain (unlikely) or from the excitement of finally being here with Yolly and Laura she wasn’t certain.
Laura asked Kirsten whether she would be willing to raise her skirt. Kirsten readily agreed, but had to stand up to do so. “You’re wearing tights?” Laura commented.
“I usually do,” Kirsten explained. “I like to be wearing tights, what with the idea that what is on display is attached to that area of private pleasure; my tights, which can be seen by the public connecting my skirt and shoes, also come up to cover my bottom”.
“And the cotton pants?”
“I don’t wear thongs, and don’t like frilly underwear under my tights.”
“Fine with me. Bend over young lady.”
Kirsten smiled; her favourite phrase as published on her 360 page: Laura had done some homework too. She bent over the back of the sofa and her spanking resumed. Whether the removal of the layer of skirt really made that much difference, or whether Laura was smacking harder, Kirsten noticed that she was beginning to hurt now, although she tried to keep that fact from the other two by biting her lip. The tears began rolling down her cheeks, (but then that was not unusual for Kirsten), and the moaning became a quiet sob. She knew she was having fun, but it was still painful.
Student Teacher
“So, Kirsten, why ‘Curtseygirl’ as a nickname?”
“Well, Laura, it is kind of cute don’t you think, but basically it’s because my name is Kirsten and it just sounds similar. When my family first took me to Australia, from New Zealand, I was six years old, and the way I was pronouncing “Kirsty” at school didn’t sound like the way the other children spoke. And I like the idea of the curtsey as a feminine form of respect since it can’t really be done effectively in trousers.”
“That makes sense,” Yolanda was sitting in the same chair she’d been spanked across, nursing another cup of tea.
Kirsten smiled back, “I used to be a bit militant about it, ‘You can’t make me bow or break: I curtsey and bend because I want to,’ but now I’m a bit more grown up.”
“And this scenario you have for us?”
“Student teacher. I have always been fascinated as a teacher with the idea of adult students. I remember seeing a sketch on TV in Australia, Benny Hill or something like that, I don’t know what. It was based in a ‘teaching hospital’, and a chief doctor was going around the wards caning the old men patients who weren’t getting better quick enough. I went up to my room and wrote a story where it was the nurses who were caned, bending over their patients’ beds if the patient’s condition wasn’t improving. It was the first story I wrote, I was about sixteen, and the first one I acted out with some friends in my first student flat. I was about twenty then, and of course I was a nurse. One of the girls in the next flat was a student nurse, so we were able to wear the real uniforms, (and not some Anne Summers latex mock up), and we used a green cane from the local garden centre; the sort you use to hold up tomatoes.”
“And cane wayward nurses,” laughed Yolanda.
“When necessary. It got me to thinking though that in such a situation the girls who get spanked are punished for something that isn’t necessarily their fault: and that a situation where a student teacher might be punished for the unruliness of her class might be a fun idea.”
The story
Laura: in the role of head teacher at a mixed comprehensive secondary school.
Yolly: as a sixth form pupil at the school
Miss Ellison (Kirsten): as a pre-service teacher at the school on her final practice placement before qualification.
“Yolanda, are you responsible for this?” Miss Ellison had had enough of 6C and was looking forward to the bell. She was not entirely certain that teaching Australian History as a unit for these sixth formers was such a good idea, but the University had disagreed and now here she was.
“Yeah, but this is boring Miss, how come we have to learn about convicts and natives, it’s all rubbish. It’s not like I’m going to smelly Australia anyway, if I want a suntan I’ll go to Ibiza.” 6C were also sick of Miss Ellison, and Yolanda in particular. She had initially welcomed the young teacher and was quite looking forward to being let off from the rigours of the Tudor Monarchs which the crusty old Mr Bates had been teaching, but then Miss Ellison had got all stressed, and that had made her cranky.
“I’ll give you another sort of tan in a minute!” Kirsten was getting frustrated now. “You know that as a VC school we are still allowed to use corporal punishment here, even though it has been banned in government schools.” It was an idle threat, Miss Ellison was actually opposed to physical punishment of children, but that Yolanda was really rather nasty and she had almost certainly been the one responsible for snapping the stick on the New South Wales state flag that had been sitting on the front desk.
“You and what army? The Rum Corps I suppose? A bit of British military discipline? 500 lashes of the cat-of-nine-tails tied to the triangle outside Macquarie Barracks?” Yolanda smirked around the class, gaining the required assents of grunts from the boys and smirks from the girls.
Kirsten smiled. “At least I know you’ve been paying attention to the subject matter.”
“Yeah, it’s okay. Kids like us being sent to the other side of the world for doing nothin’, just nicking an apple and stuff. But you’re drillin’!”
“And the flag?”
“What? Oh yes, YES IT WAS ME OKAY. What are you gonna do about it Miss, spank me?”
“Exactly. Come here.”
“You can’t!”
“What did you just call me? I’LL NOT BE SPOKEN TO LIKE THAT.”
“No Miss, I said ‘you can’t’, as in, ‘you can’t spank me’. I’m eighteen years old, and besides there’s boys here.”
“You’re a pupil in this school, a student in my class, and the rules say I can do what I need to to maintain order. Come here now.” Amazingly, Yolanda did as she was told, Kirsten wondered whether she’d been baited into doing this all along. She was not adverse to a bit of “fun spanking” herself, when she was home, in fact she’d been across her housemate Catherine’s knee just the previous night for not putting away all the washing up. Nineteen smacks with the wooden spoon: six to each of skirt and tights, and seven to her bare bottom. The last seven had been meant as chastisement and their memory was still fresh. Perhaps Yolanda was looking for a spanking. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“Yeah, you gonna cane me.” There was a glint in Yolanda’s eyes, Kirsten was sure she’d been set-up.
“Girls aren’t caned at this school. Girls are spanked. Bend over my knee young lady!” Miss Ellison decided that if Yolanda was looking for a smacked bottom she’d find one. The glint was still there as Yolanda gracefully placed herself across her teacher’s lap. Kirsten paused to look down at the upturned skirt before her, and the black nylon legs poking out beneath: she was really going to do it, really spank one of the girls in her class. She was going to spank Yolanda, and Yolanda wanted her to do it.
The first spank came as a surprise to Yolanda, she hadn’t expected it to hurt as much. What she did not know was that Miss Ellison wasn't using her hand to spank her, but was using the decorative wooden boomerang that she’d been showing to 4B in the previous lesson. Its odd shape made for quite an effective handle and paddle. Again and again it came down, Yolanda began to cry out. Was she enjoying it? She wasn’t sure, she certainly had been setting Miss Ellison up to do this to her, but was it worth the embarrassment of having the boys watch her gets her bottom smacked like a little girl? Yolanda hoped that it was.
“Return to your seat. Actually, go to the toilets and wash your face first.” Kirsten was exhausted, not by the physical effort of spanking Yolanda but by the thought that she’d actually had the courage to do it. To put the girl over her knee and smack her bottom, and to smack it quite hard, quite a few times, with a wooden stick.
Yolanda stood up a little shakily and went out to the toilets, to wash her face and to survey the damage. She had to stand on the bench to get the right angle for the mirror, but having pulled her skirt down (it was too tight to pull up) and pulling down her tights and knickers she was both chagrined and pleased to see a soft pink glow spreading across her “seat of learning.” “Oh yes,” she said to herself, “we’ll be doing this again.”
“Kirsten, it seems as though your practical teaching round is going quite well, but you are having trouble with one of the sixth form groups?” Laura had been head teacher of the school for six months now, Miss Ellison was the first pre-service teacher she had had to work with. “I believe you spanked Yolanda C today?”
“Yes Laura. I had good cause to. No I am quite pleased with the way things have been going, but I do struggle with Yolanda and her group.”
“Many teachers do. Still, I am pleased you did not shy away from corporal correction, let’s hope it was effective. It does however raise an issue: I believe you waited too long.”
“Too long?”
“You should have spanked her, and I dare suggest Melissa and Deborah, much earlier. The class is at the brink of anarchy and I am calling you to account. I’m afraid I must ask you to…” (Am I really going to do this? thought Laura. Yes, it’s what’s required by the governors, and it will be of help to Kirsten later.) “I must ask you to bend over my desk.”
“Excuse me?” Kirsten was stunned. “Are you suggesting you’re going to cane me because the students in my class are rowdy?”
“You know very well we don’t cane girls at this school. In fact the regulation doesn’t specify “girl” it specifies “female student”, and since you are a female student, albeit a university student in her twenties, you are still under my duty of care. You will be spanked, but I can hardly put you over my knee can I, so I want you to bend over the desk.” Laura had stood up and walked across to the desk as she had been speaking, and Kirsten saw for the first time the space that had been cleared of stationery on the front of the long wooden desk. Laura had the paddle in her hand, a flat wooden object with air holes cut in it which was used to punish the boys under thirteen and the girls older than thirteen. (Older boys were caned, younger girls hand-spanked.)
Kirsten considered arguing her case, she was twenty-three years old after all and far to old to be having her bottom smacked by the headmistress, (that hadn’t happened since she was fourteen). But she could see that Laura was not to be deferred from her position. “Of course.”
“Right, let’s have that skirt up then. It’s always “on the underwear” when a student comes in here for punishment, let’s not make it any different for you. “Trousers down young man, skirt up young lady, fair is fair.” An odd mix of reluctance and excitement rose in Kirsten’s stomach as she lifted the back of her skirt and bent over the desk. “Good girl, or at least you will be when I have finished with you.”
There were twelve spanks in all, each of them very much a discipline spanking, and by the end of it Kirsten was sobbing loudly. She had cried out with the first two, and final four hard smacks.
“Right, since you are a teacher I think we should make your punishment a little more severe than that given to the girls. I want you to pull down your tights and knickers for me.” Kirsten was lost in her tears and embarrassment and complied without question or comment, sobbing loudly she pulled down her tights to just above her knees and her knickers to mid thigh; their usual places when spanking at home went to “bare bottom phase”. She bent over the desk again, resting her weight on her forearms. It was a full ten seconds before the first stroke fell. The cane.
Laura had been uncertain about using the “boy” instrument, but thought that as Kirsten was a teacher there should be an ultimate sanction. What better than six of the best across a bare, just-spanked bottom? Kirsten cried out in shock, but apart from writhing sideways somewhat she did not lift from the desk. She had never been caned before and was amazed at the stinging it produced. Eight further strokes were applied, the final two cutting across the seven parallel tramlines that were forming welts on Kirsten’s pink bottom. “Thank you Miss Ellison, you may leave now and I shall expect better of 6C come Monday.” Kirsten stood and gingerly replaced her underwear and skirt. “Of course Ma’am,” replied Kirsten, “thank you Laura for taking such a keen interest in my progress.”
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.”
Fasten your Seat Belt
I won’t make this one long as I’m having trouble sitting down at the moment.
I got the strap again last night, Catherine’s one. (If you’ve missed the significance of this, read Robot in Disguise.)
Yesterday, I put my car in for service and “MOT” as it is called here in England, in Australia we called it “Roadworthy”, the annual test to make sure your car is safe both for you and the other users of the highway. No problem there. The problem was, well:
Catherine: You’re later that you said; I thought you had today off classes?
Kirsten: I did, I had to collect my car from St Albans first so there was a bit of bussing to do.
C: Why was your car in St Albans?
K: MOT, at the garage.
C: So it’s alright then?
K: Oh yes, it always was, just needed to get MOT as it’s due on December 1 st . There wasn’t a problem, but I had to drop the car in on the way to school, and then pick it up just now coming home.
C: Okay, explain the journey.
K: Huh?
C: Where did you go that was “bussing”?
K: Oh. Umm, I drove to St Albans, put the car in the garage, walked up to St Albans City station to the busses, caught the bus to Hatfield station, and then walked up to school from there.
(BTW, Hatfield station is not on the same line as St Albans City, which is why I didn’t use the train, in case you are wondering. They are parallel lines into London.)
K: Then home the same way, walked down to Hatfield with some of the children, bus to St Albans, then walked to the garage and drove home. Done and dusted for £149, plus bus, which was £3.30.
C: That’s a bit of a palaver Kirstie; couldn’t someone have driven you from St Albans?
K: Yeah I suppose so, but I...
(Sudden realisation here.)
(Catherine nodding.)
K:...I didn’t think to ask for help. Oh Catie no, please don’t.
C: Let’s just check the facts first, to see if you could have relied on your friends. Who could you have asked?
K: Umm, well there’s...[Kirsten names three teachers who live in St Albans]. I suppose I could have asked any of them.
C: And who else?
K: Umm.
C: Where does Hanie live?
K: Who?
C: Don’t ‘who’ me, young lady. Johanna DeKievert, your mate. Where does she live?
(Deeper sudden realisation here: my best friend other than Catherine herself is Hanie, and she lives in St Albans. Hanie teaches at my school.)
K: But Catie she lives in the western bit, she’d have had to come back into town and then back past her house to have collected me for school.
C: Hmm. And who else?
K: No...No, but, but Catie you work in St Albans, you wouldn’t have wanted to take me all the way to Hatfield and then back again.
C: All the way is six miles each way Kirsten Louisa, hardly an epic journey. Is it?
K: No Catherine.
C: So instead of asking me, your best friend, to go out of her way...instead of asking your best colleague at work to go out of her way...instead of asking people you work with and who would have been driving past, or close by, to help you, you took the bus.
(I start to sob here, this will not end well for me. But more than that I am entirely ashamed of myself.)
C: Go to my room.
K: Oh, please Catie.
C: Kirsten Louisa?
K: Yes, Catherine. I’m very sorry.
C: I know darling, and so am I.
So then it all went pretty much to form: tights and knickers down, over her knee for about ten minutes of hand spanking to tenderise the meat, then nine vicious lashes of the belt as I bent over the back of the same wooden chair.
I really hate it when my friends let me down...but when I let my friends down it kills me.
And when I let myself down...
I got the strap again last night, Catherine’s one. (If you’ve missed the significance of this, read Robot in Disguise.)
Yesterday, I put my car in for service and “MOT” as it is called here in England, in Australia we called it “Roadworthy”, the annual test to make sure your car is safe both for you and the other users of the highway. No problem there. The problem was, well:
Catherine: You’re later that you said; I thought you had today off classes?
Kirsten: I did, I had to collect my car from St Albans first so there was a bit of bussing to do.
C: Why was your car in St Albans?
K: MOT, at the garage.
C: So it’s alright then?
K: Oh yes, it always was, just needed to get MOT as it’s due on December 1 st . There wasn’t a problem, but I had to drop the car in on the way to school, and then pick it up just now coming home.
C: Okay, explain the journey.
K: Huh?
C: Where did you go that was “bussing”?
K: Oh. Umm, I drove to St Albans, put the car in the garage, walked up to St Albans City station to the busses, caught the bus to Hatfield station, and then walked up to school from there.
(BTW, Hatfield station is not on the same line as St Albans City, which is why I didn’t use the train, in case you are wondering. They are parallel lines into London.)
K: Then home the same way, walked down to Hatfield with some of the children, bus to St Albans, then walked to the garage and drove home. Done and dusted for £149, plus bus, which was £3.30.
C: That’s a bit of a palaver Kirstie; couldn’t someone have driven you from St Albans?
K: Yeah I suppose so, but I...
(Sudden realisation here.)
(Catherine nodding.)
K:...I didn’t think to ask for help. Oh Catie no, please don’t.
C: Let’s just check the facts first, to see if you could have relied on your friends. Who could you have asked?
K: Umm, well there’s...[Kirsten names three teachers who live in St Albans]. I suppose I could have asked any of them.
C: And who else?
K: Umm.
C: Where does Hanie live?
K: Who?
C: Don’t ‘who’ me, young lady. Johanna DeKievert, your mate. Where does she live?
(Deeper sudden realisation here: my best friend other than Catherine herself is Hanie, and she lives in St Albans. Hanie teaches at my school.)
K: But Catie she lives in the western bit, she’d have had to come back into town and then back past her house to have collected me for school.
C: Hmm. And who else?
K: No...No, but, but Catie you work in St Albans, you wouldn’t have wanted to take me all the way to Hatfield and then back again.
C: All the way is six miles each way Kirsten Louisa, hardly an epic journey. Is it?
K: No Catherine.
C: So instead of asking me, your best friend, to go out of her way...instead of asking your best colleague at work to go out of her way...instead of asking people you work with and who would have been driving past, or close by, to help you, you took the bus.
(I start to sob here, this will not end well for me. But more than that I am entirely ashamed of myself.)
C: Go to my room.
K: Oh, please Catie.
C: Kirsten Louisa?
K: Yes, Catherine. I’m very sorry.
C: I know darling, and so am I.
So then it all went pretty much to form: tights and knickers down, over her knee for about ten minutes of hand spanking to tenderise the meat, then nine vicious lashes of the belt as I bent over the back of the same wooden chair.
I really hate it when my friends let me down...but when I let my friends down it kills me.
And when I let myself down...
Kirsten Ellison: Robot in Disguise
I wrote this after a time of self-reflection and self-discovery as I planned to retire from writing on Yahoo-360. Again it is a true account.
I often wonder whether, like Dame Nellie Melba, I will get used to retiring. I have already done it once; back in April 2007 I signed off with “Update: The Story of Miss Ellison” when I was promoted to the position I fill now at school. I am Behaviour Support Teacher, and writer of units for our Humanities Core combined KS3 programme which incorporates Geography, History and Religious Education. I am Head of RE at school. I am also coordinator of assemblies, which task I share with our school’s chaplain.
And now here I am again, preparing to say good-bye, but intending to make it permanent this time. I had always hoped in April that I would be back in August; as it was I was back in July, and over-eager to impress you all I ended up with some lovely stories, but a very sore bottom!
I suppose “Lap of Honour” has an entirely new connotation when it comes to the final cycle of the moon in one’s own spanking blog, (as indeed does, “cycle of the moon”), but I trust you will allow me a Victory Lap before I head inside my office and take on the business of queening my college.
I am a woman of mixed emotions at this time.
I am so bubbling pleased to be asked to take on the brand new Assistant Headteacher role at my school, I am replacing two (count them, 1,2) Deputy Headteachers. As I have said to those who have asked this is not so much a promotion, I am already doing about 85% of the work required, it’s more of a recognition that I AM ALREADY doing about 85% of the work required, so it makes more sense to give me a bigger desk and a smaller teaching load so as to facilitate this. And of course it comes with a groovy title for my nametag, and a few more numbers in my cheque. Everyone I talk to, or read from, is so pleased for me, (and pleased with me, so it seems): I feel much loved.
However; certain things must go, three steps forward and two steps back it isn’t, but it will be three laborious steps forward if I don’t drop some weight from my shoulders. But I don’t want to. And it’s making me irritable. Not that I’m become bitchy, I’m just “obviously not happy about something”. I don’t WANT to give up teaching in the classroom altogether, (which I will do, working only with senior tutorial groups now, and the occasional day of emergency cover), and I don’t WANT to give up Curtseygirl, (which I will do as she is such a distraction). It’s not that Curtseygirl writes naughty things, (she doesn’t), it’s that she’s constantly inventing stuff which gets in the way of the task at hand...running a school. It’s as it was in April:
You’re on the road, but you’ve got no destination,/You’re in the mud, in the maze of her imagination.
Baby’s got blue skies up ahead,/But in this I’m a raincloud.
I don’t have time, or energy, for her. And it is really getting me down.
Or at least it was, until I went cruising 360 on Sunday after church (!!), specifically looking up the collective mates of Julie and Sly, when I found an entry by Sarah W on Transformational Spanking. I read it, read it again, showed it to my friend Catie, who also read it. Then we talked about it, for a long time. I won’t bother offering you a précis of it, go read for yourself, (sorry I’m too much of a girl to give you a hyperlink here , follow her through her comment on my top-page and scroll her blog to Entry for April 30 th 2007 -Transformational Spanking), as I know you’ve read this far for one of two reasons:
a) You love and care for our dear Kirsten Louisa and want to know how this all turns out for her.
b) You want to get to the spanking part and it must be coming up soon as Curtseygirl’s been rabbiting on for a while now.
So then we went for it: bigtime.
I don’t get spanked for punishment. Not really. Last year I got the strap, (which is punishment in our house, we don’t use it for fun) four times. Four, for the whole of 2006. This year I have had it once: in February, (see A Bad Day For The Curtseygirl). I have been spanked, and even caned, for things I thought naughty...but I asked for this verbally. No, when I am spanked it is for fun, and for stress release.
The article on Transformational Spanking describes how an additional spanking is given to a woman who is not learning from her current level of discipline. She’s getting a sore bottom, but she’s still being naughty: one solution offered is to spank harder, for longer. As a Behaviouralist I’m not sure this is always the best way, if a discipline isn’t working then try a different discipline; but as a woman who likes a few calming smacks herself I wondered whether a transformational session might be what I need to deal with my higher level of stress and anxiety right now. As the article states:
Sometimes a woman needs to be given a spanking that has a more pronounced effect than the ones she usually receives... A Transformational Discipline is a discipline that goes beyond a normal spanking and transforms the woman. It is a spanking that creates some kind of quantum leap in her behaviour, her attitude and her understanding. It is a discipline that gives her a total emotional, spiritual and moral makeover. This is a Transformational Discipline.
Primarily such spanking will snap a “brat” out of herself, the idea is to make her more submissive, it is to be avoided “at all costs”, it is the sort of spanking a woman does NOT want to receive.
But I am not a brat.
Sometimes I play like that, my cricket and rugby stories are prime examples of it, and if you ask most of my 360 friends, (particularly the boys) they will tell you how cheeky I can be in text; but for the most part I am respectful and honest and kind and compassionate. I am a good girl, and proud to be so. (I am called curtsey girl after all.)
But I am a psychopath.
One of my friends offered me a little piece of humour a few days ago, I hope you get the joke. He said to me “Kirstie, have you heard about the new film about New Zealanders on Prozac?” When I told him I had not, he offered, “Yeah it’s great, it’s called Once were Worriers.”) Oh how lovely it would be to be a “once were” and no longer a “worrier”. (And I am a New Zealander after all...or at least I “once were”.)
And my current “level of spanking” isn’t sufficient for my current “level of psychopathology”.
So, in the model and spirit, if not necessarily the ideal, of Transformational Discipline, I stepped it up a level. Again to the article:
Women often complain that their spankings do not last long enough for them to be brought to tears properly....These tears may take longer to start flowing, but once they have begun, they will last much longer because the woman will have been taken to a much deeper state of repentance and submission.
I can’t say I’ve often complained that my spankings haven’t been long enough in the past, but I think that what I have lacked is indeed that I have not been brought to tears properly in my maintenance spankings. I have always been in charge, it has been me asking Catie for a few smart smacks across her lap, enough to release the endorphins (and to feel physically close to someone who loves me); but not enough to do anything deeper in my psyche. Short-term action leading to short-term release, but the underlying stress goes untreated.
So, in lieu of continuing the explanation of the reasons behind, (apart from additions to text), let me just tell you what happened.
(It’s okay category-B, you’ve almost reached the spanking bit now.)
What Catie and I agreed to was that she would indeed spank me, and my spanking would be: longer, harder, and better commentated than previous efforts...and that Catie would be in charge.
I think it was this last point that really made the Transformation here, it’s that which scared me. It’s not that I don’t trust Catie, but I am not a “Sub”, (I’m submitted, not submissive). Indeed the root of my problem is that I am too independent, I don’t rely on my friends enough, (thank you Dove for your help in this), and I need to learn to allow them to love me. If I trust Catie, then it’s okay to put her in charge.
The behaviour that was to be addressed was not any specific form of naughtiness, but rather more one of arrogance. I CANNOT do it all by myself, that isn’t how it is supposed to work, so when I learn to relax and let my friends love me THEN I will bloom in ways I have yet to even dream of. And love task number one was for Catherine Margaret to give Kirsten Louisa Saoirse a jolly good belting.
(Here it is, well done category-B!)
We started by going into Catie’s bedroom. I am usually spanked in the front room, so this put me squarely in “her” territory. Next she told me to lift up my skirt, again a new thing as we usually start on the skirt and move inwards. Then she told me to pull down my tights, again this stage is usually well into the spanking, (and often we don’t get that far). Then she told me to bend over her bed...something I have NEVER done before. (I’ve been bent over my own bed, and the kitchen table, both for punishment-type events, but never over Catie’s bed). She pulled down my knickers, (I usually pull them down myself), and started slapping me, alternating cheeks and places...she was warming me up. She stopped slapping and started rubbing, really hard, like she was trying to warm her hands: then a few more harder slaps, again moving around.
This was all new to me, as I have said before usually I just flop myself across Catie’s knee and she whacks me with my hairbrush on the seat of my skirt, or sometimes my sit-spot through my tights if it’s been a particularly busy day. (I like being spanked on my tights, it seems so girly; it’s specifically female and still demure.)
All the time she said basically nothing, which is itself uncommon to us as she often asks me about my day and how I am feeling while she is spanking me. You know the sort of thing, “so who was it today Kirsten?” And “how was Nine Lower then, I know you have been working hard on their Current Event journals?” All the while paddling merrily away, throwing in the occasional hard one to make me wince...or even well up a little bit.
Sometimes we role play it, if I am stressed because I have acted in ways that are below my own standards I ask her to discipline me. This is not real punishment, I don’t have to report to her in any way, it’s just a different game for the same ends. So it will be something like “oh, so you shouted at Nine Lower when they go too noisy did you? Excellent teachers don’t ever have to shout do they Miss Ellison?” Again, she just paddling away, punctuating with a hard one every now and then.
This time she just slapped me around, with the occasional “ooh” when one went crack! or if she saw/heard me flinch.
And then we really got into it. “Right Kirsten, come across my lap.” Not bend over young lady which is what I like to be asked, not even over my knee, but across my lap. This was very unsettling...again not that I was scared, but this was NOT the approved script.
She allowed me to keep my clothes on, albeit tucked or pushed out of the way, and she sat on the chair where Paul sits when he punishes her. (Catie is far naughtier than me and gets punished quite a bit. She’s had the strap six times this year, and several bare bottom sessions with her hairbrush which she HATES. Catie has her wooden spoon for fun.) I bent over her lap, and allowed her to adjust me, earning me a “good girl” which made me feel very pleased.
Then the spanking began in earnest. She gave me another few rounds of her hand on my bare bottom, to maintain the warm-up, increasing in force each time. Then she started on me with her hairbrush. Now I enjoy being spanked with my hairbrush, but hers is far less pleasant. And again she just got into it, whacking away at a greater rate than usual, but with the same force. It wasn’t very hard, but it was frequent, so it built up; and as I started to sob she just kept going, like she hadn’t even noticed. She started telling me how lovely I am, how proud of me she is, how proud my parents are of me, and all my friends.
She read things out of my Book.
My Book is the place where I write down all the nice things and the encouragements people have said about me. Inside there are print outs of letters from most of my 360 friends, (including you Kelicious...you didn’t take long did you? Oh, and Joe Mudd thinks I rock...Joe Mudd is correct), as well as excerpts from meeting minutes and newsletters from school, things my parents have sent me, letters and cards that I kept from ex-boyfriends, and stuff from all over. Basically the sorts of encouragement every girl wants to get to make her feel like a princess. I have been keeping this stuff since I was about seven, (which is perhaps why I have such strong self-esteem, but am not a snob, I have all the love I need).
So there I am, bare bottom and glowing, across my best friend’s knee, in her private bedroom, having the living daylights spanked out of me with her personal hairbrush, (that she actually brushes her gorgeous hair with), while she reads me stuff from my own diary of how well I am loved, blessed, admired, respected, and honoured.
Dear woman, why didn’t she just stick the knife right through now and I’d be done for.
Oh man, the tears that were shooting out had nothing to do with my sore bottom: SUCH a resource I have in friends and family, and me so bloody stubborn and self-reliant.
(Don’t ask me how she managed to read a book AND spank me at the same time...although the book is rather easy to flop open so she may have had it next to her on the bed.)
Then she began whacking with full fury, repeating stuff from my book and getting me to say it after her.
“Kirsten Ellison is an asset to our teaching staff”
WHACK!
“Umm..Kkkirr...”
WHACK!
“Eeeihh! Kirsten Elliso-aaah!”
WHACK!
“...is an aaaaa”
WHACK!
“...aa-haaa-aaa-sset to our teeee-“
WHACK!
“...eeaching staff-ffff.”
WHACK!
“...gorgeous Kirsty-girl...”
WHACK!
And so forth.
Once I was crying solidly, but not screaming, (she didn’t get me that far...but she broke me down), she slowed down to a rhythmic whack, getting me to say nice things about myself from memory and then say “and my friends think so too.”
The time ended with her rubbing me for a bit, and then getting me to stand up. I stood up very gingerly, and took over the rubbing for myself, still sniffling. I have never been spanked for so long, and with such a variety of strokes. As I say Catie is usually pretty consistent and rhythmic in her calming-me-down sessions: and when I am punished by Paul I get the strap, very hard. I don’t really remember much about my spankings as a child, and my boyfriends who used to spank me, (two at Uni, but not my last boyfriend who I met after graduation), used to do it instead of sex, so it was rough and desperate.
Then Catie pulled out the final trick. She gestured to her chest of drawers, and told me to “bend over young lady”. I did so, even flipping up my skirt without thinking, and SNAP, got nine strokes from one of her dressy belts. She’d doubled it up, and she absolutely went for it as hard as she could. “Oww FUCK!” I said. (I did, well for the first one...I just cried for the next eight.)
“And that is so you’ll remember it. This is the new regime Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellison. You WILL rely on your friends, you WILL ask for help when you are stressed, and you WILL tell me when you are sick, or scared, or need a cuddle.”
There will be no more gentle otk for me, well not for stress release after a busy day anyway. If I need a relaxing smack, I’ll get a nice cup of coff-a-late (black coffee and white chocolate) instead, and will be allowed to lay my HEAD in Catie’s lap while she brushes my hair and strokes my face: any time I want. If I don’t do this, and Catie notices I’m getting edgy, then it’s over her chair for her strap...with an otk warm-up.
I don’t want the strap, I don’t like it. I didn’t like it when Paul used to use it to punish me, and I didn’t like it on Sunday.
I know Catie loves me, (so does Paul): I know some of you love me, (and most of you seem to like me). I am this planet’s most loved daughter EVER.
I have lots of friends who like me; colleagues who respect me; and people whose favour I desire who favour me.
I don’t have to do it alone.
I will NOT do it alone.
THIS is the new regime: and I don’t need Curtseygirl anymore.
So again, this is not goodbye yet, I still have a few more stories I want to write as I have promised them and it would be rude to my friends not to write them. I like having friends, and I like doing nice things for them: so this is as much about me as it is you.
Thank you for being my friends, thank you for reading this...especially those of you in category-A.
And thank you so much, Sarah W, for posting this.
I love youse all!
Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellison
(Kirsten Blessed.)
I often wonder whether, like Dame Nellie Melba, I will get used to retiring. I have already done it once; back in April 2007 I signed off with “Update: The Story of Miss Ellison” when I was promoted to the position I fill now at school. I am Behaviour Support Teacher, and writer of units for our Humanities Core combined KS3 programme which incorporates Geography, History and Religious Education. I am Head of RE at school. I am also coordinator of assemblies, which task I share with our school’s chaplain.
And now here I am again, preparing to say good-bye, but intending to make it permanent this time. I had always hoped in April that I would be back in August; as it was I was back in July, and over-eager to impress you all I ended up with some lovely stories, but a very sore bottom!
I suppose “Lap of Honour” has an entirely new connotation when it comes to the final cycle of the moon in one’s own spanking blog, (as indeed does, “cycle of the moon”), but I trust you will allow me a Victory Lap before I head inside my office and take on the business of queening my college.
I am a woman of mixed emotions at this time.
I am so bubbling pleased to be asked to take on the brand new Assistant Headteacher role at my school, I am replacing two (count them, 1,2) Deputy Headteachers. As I have said to those who have asked this is not so much a promotion, I am already doing about 85% of the work required, it’s more of a recognition that I AM ALREADY doing about 85% of the work required, so it makes more sense to give me a bigger desk and a smaller teaching load so as to facilitate this. And of course it comes with a groovy title for my nametag, and a few more numbers in my cheque. Everyone I talk to, or read from, is so pleased for me, (and pleased with me, so it seems): I feel much loved.
However; certain things must go, three steps forward and two steps back it isn’t, but it will be three laborious steps forward if I don’t drop some weight from my shoulders. But I don’t want to. And it’s making me irritable. Not that I’m become bitchy, I’m just “obviously not happy about something”. I don’t WANT to give up teaching in the classroom altogether, (which I will do, working only with senior tutorial groups now, and the occasional day of emergency cover), and I don’t WANT to give up Curtseygirl, (which I will do as she is such a distraction). It’s not that Curtseygirl writes naughty things, (she doesn’t), it’s that she’s constantly inventing stuff which gets in the way of the task at hand...running a school. It’s as it was in April:
You’re on the road, but you’ve got no destination,/You’re in the mud, in the maze of her imagination.
Baby’s got blue skies up ahead,/But in this I’m a raincloud.
I don’t have time, or energy, for her. And it is really getting me down.
Or at least it was, until I went cruising 360 on Sunday after church (!!), specifically looking up the collective mates of Julie and Sly, when I found an entry by Sarah W on Transformational Spanking. I read it, read it again, showed it to my friend Catie, who also read it. Then we talked about it, for a long time. I won’t bother offering you a précis of it, go read for yourself, (sorry I’m too much of a girl to give you a hyperlink here , follow her through her comment on my top-page and scroll her blog to Entry for April 30 th 2007 -Transformational Spanking), as I know you’ve read this far for one of two reasons:
a) You love and care for our dear Kirsten Louisa and want to know how this all turns out for her.
b) You want to get to the spanking part and it must be coming up soon as Curtseygirl’s been rabbiting on for a while now.
So then we went for it: bigtime.
I don’t get spanked for punishment. Not really. Last year I got the strap, (which is punishment in our house, we don’t use it for fun) four times. Four, for the whole of 2006. This year I have had it once: in February, (see A Bad Day For The Curtseygirl). I have been spanked, and even caned, for things I thought naughty...but I asked for this verbally. No, when I am spanked it is for fun, and for stress release.
The article on Transformational Spanking describes how an additional spanking is given to a woman who is not learning from her current level of discipline. She’s getting a sore bottom, but she’s still being naughty: one solution offered is to spank harder, for longer. As a Behaviouralist I’m not sure this is always the best way, if a discipline isn’t working then try a different discipline; but as a woman who likes a few calming smacks herself I wondered whether a transformational session might be what I need to deal with my higher level of stress and anxiety right now. As the article states:
Sometimes a woman needs to be given a spanking that has a more pronounced effect than the ones she usually receives... A Transformational Discipline is a discipline that goes beyond a normal spanking and transforms the woman. It is a spanking that creates some kind of quantum leap in her behaviour, her attitude and her understanding. It is a discipline that gives her a total emotional, spiritual and moral makeover. This is a Transformational Discipline.
Primarily such spanking will snap a “brat” out of herself, the idea is to make her more submissive, it is to be avoided “at all costs”, it is the sort of spanking a woman does NOT want to receive.
But I am not a brat.
Sometimes I play like that, my cricket and rugby stories are prime examples of it, and if you ask most of my 360 friends, (particularly the boys) they will tell you how cheeky I can be in text; but for the most part I am respectful and honest and kind and compassionate. I am a good girl, and proud to be so. (I am called curtsey girl after all.)
But I am a psychopath.
One of my friends offered me a little piece of humour a few days ago, I hope you get the joke. He said to me “Kirstie, have you heard about the new film about New Zealanders on Prozac?” When I told him I had not, he offered, “Yeah it’s great, it’s called Once were Worriers.”) Oh how lovely it would be to be a “once were” and no longer a “worrier”. (And I am a New Zealander after all...or at least I “once were”.)
And my current “level of spanking” isn’t sufficient for my current “level of psychopathology”.
So, in the model and spirit, if not necessarily the ideal, of Transformational Discipline, I stepped it up a level. Again to the article:
Women often complain that their spankings do not last long enough for them to be brought to tears properly....These tears may take longer to start flowing, but once they have begun, they will last much longer because the woman will have been taken to a much deeper state of repentance and submission.
I can’t say I’ve often complained that my spankings haven’t been long enough in the past, but I think that what I have lacked is indeed that I have not been brought to tears properly in my maintenance spankings. I have always been in charge, it has been me asking Catie for a few smart smacks across her lap, enough to release the endorphins (and to feel physically close to someone who loves me); but not enough to do anything deeper in my psyche. Short-term action leading to short-term release, but the underlying stress goes untreated.
So, in lieu of continuing the explanation of the reasons behind, (apart from additions to text), let me just tell you what happened.
(It’s okay category-B, you’ve almost reached the spanking bit now.)
What Catie and I agreed to was that she would indeed spank me, and my spanking would be: longer, harder, and better commentated than previous efforts...and that Catie would be in charge.
I think it was this last point that really made the Transformation here, it’s that which scared me. It’s not that I don’t trust Catie, but I am not a “Sub”, (I’m submitted, not submissive). Indeed the root of my problem is that I am too independent, I don’t rely on my friends enough, (thank you Dove for your help in this), and I need to learn to allow them to love me. If I trust Catie, then it’s okay to put her in charge.
The behaviour that was to be addressed was not any specific form of naughtiness, but rather more one of arrogance. I CANNOT do it all by myself, that isn’t how it is supposed to work, so when I learn to relax and let my friends love me THEN I will bloom in ways I have yet to even dream of. And love task number one was for Catherine Margaret to give Kirsten Louisa Saoirse a jolly good belting.
(Here it is, well done category-B!)
We started by going into Catie’s bedroom. I am usually spanked in the front room, so this put me squarely in “her” territory. Next she told me to lift up my skirt, again a new thing as we usually start on the skirt and move inwards. Then she told me to pull down my tights, again this stage is usually well into the spanking, (and often we don’t get that far). Then she told me to bend over her bed...something I have NEVER done before. (I’ve been bent over my own bed, and the kitchen table, both for punishment-type events, but never over Catie’s bed). She pulled down my knickers, (I usually pull them down myself), and started slapping me, alternating cheeks and places...she was warming me up. She stopped slapping and started rubbing, really hard, like she was trying to warm her hands: then a few more harder slaps, again moving around.
This was all new to me, as I have said before usually I just flop myself across Catie’s knee and she whacks me with my hairbrush on the seat of my skirt, or sometimes my sit-spot through my tights if it’s been a particularly busy day. (I like being spanked on my tights, it seems so girly; it’s specifically female and still demure.)
All the time she said basically nothing, which is itself uncommon to us as she often asks me about my day and how I am feeling while she is spanking me. You know the sort of thing, “so who was it today Kirsten?” And “how was Nine Lower then, I know you have been working hard on their Current Event journals?” All the while paddling merrily away, throwing in the occasional hard one to make me wince...or even well up a little bit.
Sometimes we role play it, if I am stressed because I have acted in ways that are below my own standards I ask her to discipline me. This is not real punishment, I don’t have to report to her in any way, it’s just a different game for the same ends. So it will be something like “oh, so you shouted at Nine Lower when they go too noisy did you? Excellent teachers don’t ever have to shout do they Miss Ellison?” Again, she just paddling away, punctuating with a hard one every now and then.
This time she just slapped me around, with the occasional “ooh” when one went crack! or if she saw/heard me flinch.
And then we really got into it. “Right Kirsten, come across my lap.” Not bend over young lady which is what I like to be asked, not even over my knee, but across my lap. This was very unsettling...again not that I was scared, but this was NOT the approved script.
She allowed me to keep my clothes on, albeit tucked or pushed out of the way, and she sat on the chair where Paul sits when he punishes her. (Catie is far naughtier than me and gets punished quite a bit. She’s had the strap six times this year, and several bare bottom sessions with her hairbrush which she HATES. Catie has her wooden spoon for fun.) I bent over her lap, and allowed her to adjust me, earning me a “good girl” which made me feel very pleased.
Then the spanking began in earnest. She gave me another few rounds of her hand on my bare bottom, to maintain the warm-up, increasing in force each time. Then she started on me with her hairbrush. Now I enjoy being spanked with my hairbrush, but hers is far less pleasant. And again she just got into it, whacking away at a greater rate than usual, but with the same force. It wasn’t very hard, but it was frequent, so it built up; and as I started to sob she just kept going, like she hadn’t even noticed. She started telling me how lovely I am, how proud of me she is, how proud my parents are of me, and all my friends.
She read things out of my Book.
My Book is the place where I write down all the nice things and the encouragements people have said about me. Inside there are print outs of letters from most of my 360 friends, (including you Kelicious...you didn’t take long did you? Oh, and Joe Mudd thinks I rock...Joe Mudd is correct), as well as excerpts from meeting minutes and newsletters from school, things my parents have sent me, letters and cards that I kept from ex-boyfriends, and stuff from all over. Basically the sorts of encouragement every girl wants to get to make her feel like a princess. I have been keeping this stuff since I was about seven, (which is perhaps why I have such strong self-esteem, but am not a snob, I have all the love I need).
So there I am, bare bottom and glowing, across my best friend’s knee, in her private bedroom, having the living daylights spanked out of me with her personal hairbrush, (that she actually brushes her gorgeous hair with), while she reads me stuff from my own diary of how well I am loved, blessed, admired, respected, and honoured.
Dear woman, why didn’t she just stick the knife right through now and I’d be done for.
Oh man, the tears that were shooting out had nothing to do with my sore bottom: SUCH a resource I have in friends and family, and me so bloody stubborn and self-reliant.
(Don’t ask me how she managed to read a book AND spank me at the same time...although the book is rather easy to flop open so she may have had it next to her on the bed.)
Then she began whacking with full fury, repeating stuff from my book and getting me to say it after her.
“Kirsten Ellison is an asset to our teaching staff”
WHACK!
“Umm..Kkkirr...”
WHACK!
“Eeeihh! Kirsten Elliso-aaah!”
WHACK!
“...is an aaaaa”
WHACK!
“...aa-haaa-aaa-sset to our teeee-“
WHACK!
“...eeaching staff-ffff.”
WHACK!
“...gorgeous Kirsty-girl...”
WHACK!
And so forth.
Once I was crying solidly, but not screaming, (she didn’t get me that far...but she broke me down), she slowed down to a rhythmic whack, getting me to say nice things about myself from memory and then say “and my friends think so too.”
The time ended with her rubbing me for a bit, and then getting me to stand up. I stood up very gingerly, and took over the rubbing for myself, still sniffling. I have never been spanked for so long, and with such a variety of strokes. As I say Catie is usually pretty consistent and rhythmic in her calming-me-down sessions: and when I am punished by Paul I get the strap, very hard. I don’t really remember much about my spankings as a child, and my boyfriends who used to spank me, (two at Uni, but not my last boyfriend who I met after graduation), used to do it instead of sex, so it was rough and desperate.
Then Catie pulled out the final trick. She gestured to her chest of drawers, and told me to “bend over young lady”. I did so, even flipping up my skirt without thinking, and SNAP, got nine strokes from one of her dressy belts. She’d doubled it up, and she absolutely went for it as hard as she could. “Oww FUCK!” I said. (I did, well for the first one...I just cried for the next eight.)
“And that is so you’ll remember it. This is the new regime Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellison. You WILL rely on your friends, you WILL ask for help when you are stressed, and you WILL tell me when you are sick, or scared, or need a cuddle.”
There will be no more gentle otk for me, well not for stress release after a busy day anyway. If I need a relaxing smack, I’ll get a nice cup of coff-a-late (black coffee and white chocolate) instead, and will be allowed to lay my HEAD in Catie’s lap while she brushes my hair and strokes my face: any time I want. If I don’t do this, and Catie notices I’m getting edgy, then it’s over her chair for her strap...with an otk warm-up.
I don’t want the strap, I don’t like it. I didn’t like it when Paul used to use it to punish me, and I didn’t like it on Sunday.
I know Catie loves me, (so does Paul): I know some of you love me, (and most of you seem to like me). I am this planet’s most loved daughter EVER.
I have lots of friends who like me; colleagues who respect me; and people whose favour I desire who favour me.
I don’t have to do it alone.
I will NOT do it alone.
THIS is the new regime: and I don’t need Curtseygirl anymore.
So again, this is not goodbye yet, I still have a few more stories I want to write as I have promised them and it would be rude to my friends not to write them. I like having friends, and I like doing nice things for them: so this is as much about me as it is you.
Thank you for being my friends, thank you for reading this...especially those of you in category-A.
And thank you so much, Sarah W, for posting this.
I love youse all!
Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellison
(Kirsten Blessed.)
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?
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