Home time 5

At last Jo-Jo hung limp over her mother's lap, all fight finally slippered out of her. Her cheeks were a deep, glowing red and there were splashes of pink and purple on her thighs.

“There. I think you'll agree that Joanna has learned a very good lesson, Miss McDuff. Annabel. Haven't you, Joanna?” Jo-Jo struggled to control her breathing and to respond correctly, but couldn't find the words.

Just as she finally opened her mouth to speak she had to squeal instead as the slipper struck full-force for one last time on her right cheek, and one last time on her left. “Come along, my girl! Speak up!”

“Sorry, I'm really sorry,” she babbled. “I honestly, truly won't ever miss doing my homework ever again. Ever.”

She repeated the word ever three times over as her mother pushed her off her lap and pulled her into a standing position.  Jo-Jo's hands went to her burning bottom, but her Mum grabbed her wrists and held them in front of her.

“I'm glad you've learned your lesson, young lady,” she said, a note of tenderness entering her voice for the first time since Miss McDuff's arrival. “This is how it will be from now on, so you'd better buck your ideas up. Now go to Miss McDuff and show her your naughty bottom, and tell her how sorry you are too…”

Jo-Jo shuffled across the room, her progress slowed by the navy knicks around her ankles and by stretched, swollen bumcheeks that burned like fire. When she got to her, the teacher gave her a searching look with her cool blue eyes before signalling that she wanted her pupil to turn around.

“Lift your skirt up then,” her Mum directed and, reluctantly, she did as she was told. Showing her well-spanked bare bottom to her teacher was deeply, deeply humiliating, but it was good to know her suffering was over and done with.

How she longed for the peace of the Guest Room. She felt Miss McDuff's fingers lightly brush across the lower curve of her left bumcheek and it made her quiver. “Couldn't have done a better job myself, Joyce,” the teacher said.

 “Now, there was something else,” she began, and Jo-Jo looked over her shoulder to see Miss McDuff opening her handbag. She took out the piece of green card, folded but still recognisable, and what looked like some sort of belt that was part rolled-up.

A rather thick and well-worn brown belt that had two splits at one end and a sort-of eye at the other. As it dawned on Jo-Jo what the belt might be for she offered up a simple prayer - a prayer that she might be back in that Guest Room. The nice, quiet, boring - but very safe - Guest Room.

The End

 

Home time 4

Jo-Jo had been watching the two women out of the corner of her eye and was horrified at how they seemed to be getting along so well. A cake! This woman is offering to come into my home and beat me on the bottom and you're going to bake her a cake, she thought.

As she became aware of the two of women looking at her, Jo-Jo snapped her eyes back to face forward and began to study the corner in front of her with great care. She wished she could be anywhere else but there, even the Guest Room.

“Joanna, come here young lady,” her Mum said. “I think Miss McDuff is speaking a lot of sense. We have some catching up to do, so come here.” Jo-Jo chose to delay, but was stung into action by a bellowed: “NOW!”

As she turned round she saw that her Mum had moved to sit on the edge of her chair and had taken off one of her slippers. Or to be more precise, house shoes; the pumps were well-worn, but sturdy with a good leather sole that would, she was certain, deliver more of a sting than any slipper.

Mrs Unwin patted her lap and said: “Over you go…”

Jo-Jo moved so slowly that it took a tug to pull her off balance and over her mother's knee. She was a tall girl, taller than her mother, and it took a minute or two for her to be wrestled into position -head well down and her big, round bottom well presented.

She squawked a protest as her skirt was pulled up and out of the way to reveal tight, navy blue school knickers. “Down or not, Miss McDuff?”

“Has to be down, Mrs Unwin. Best to see what you're about. Let me do the honours,” she said, and Jo-Jo wriggled and fought as the teacher crossed the room.

Her struggling intensified as she felt fingers at her waistband. “Noooo,” she pleaded. “It's not fair….” But her Mum kept her clamped in place and with effort Miss McDuff bared Jo-Jo's broad, white buttocks.

“I should have done this ages ago,” said Mrs Unwin, hefting her slipper. As the sole connected with Jo-Jo's bottom it sent of bolt of pain jangling around her nervous system and forced a squeal from her that could have shattered lead crystal.

Katy was wrong. Horribly wrong. A year in the Guest Room would be better than have to endure a single spank, she thought in the moment between smack one and smack two.

Two became a dozen and then 20 and Jo-Jo bucked and struggled. She moved so much that it was hard for Mrs Unwin to get her aim just right, so the slipper connected with the two plump cushions that were her intended targets but also went off track too catching Jo-Jo's thighs.

Mrs Unwin dealt in dozens and paused after each had been applied. After two she took a moment to admire how many red sole prints were decorating her daughter's pale, tight-clenched bumcheeks and to ask: “Will your homework be done in future, Joanna?”  

“Yes, oh yes. I promise,” Jo-Jo screeched, her voice edged with approaching tears.

“Good. What do you think, Miss McDuff, a little more?”

“I think so, Mrs Unwin…” And Jo-Jo was blubbing like a baby as the next dozen peppered the lower slopes of her behind, where bum and thigh meet.

By four dozen Mrs Unwin was amazed to see how the red shoe-shaped blotches had all blended together to be part of an unbroken scarlet. As Jo-Jo cheeks clenched and unclenched she could see that the slipper had even taken its pink blush down into the tender cleft between.

“Had enough, young lady?”

“Uuhhhh, yeff,” gulped Jo-Jo, sobbing and gasping and all spanked out. “Plea, plea dun do it anymore…”

“She's learned her lesson, don't you think?” Mrs Unwin asked Miss McDuff.

The history teacher smiled, delighted to see her most troublesome pupil tamed and - to a degree - sorry for her too. But only to a degree.

“I think it never does any harm to be safe rather than sorry. Personally I add a last dozen…”

Jo-Jo reacted with a great outpouring of sobs and a bucking and wriggling that Mrs Unwin took a moment to quell. But once she had Jo-Jo in place once again she lashed the slipper down on buttocks and thighs with real intent.
(Still some to come)

Home time 3

“JOANNA MARGARET UNWIN,” her Mum's voiced echoed through the house. “Get down here now!”
Jo-Jo toyed with the idea of staying put and rolling herself into a protective ball. She anticipated many, many hours in the Detention Cell to come and felt that it was probably well-deserved, but she couldn't face the telling-off that would have to come first.
“JOANNA, GET DOWN HERE THIS MINUTE.” She had to face the music, but felt as though all energy had drained from her body. Slowly, painfully, she got to her feet and moved to the door.
“IF I HAVE TO COME UP THERE…” Her Mum left the threat unspoken, but Jo-Jo knew that there was no avoiding what was going to happen next.
She went out onto the landing and looked down into the hall. Her Mum was at the bottom of the stairs looking furious while Miss Hamilton stood behind her. Her expression seemed to be an attempt at stern, strict and forbidding but the slightest ghost of a smile suggested underlying amusement.
Maybe she does have a sense of humour, Jo-Jo caught herself thinking. “Miss McDuff,” she said, trying for something that sounded like surprise and pleasure.
“Don't waste my time, young lady,” her Mum said. “What have you to say for yourself?”
Good question. For a moment she struggled for a plausible excuse. 'Just a little joke' wouldn't cut much ice, but 'they made me do it' would be a breach of the Unwritten Code - never, ever tell tales.
Before she could decide one way or another her Mum spoke again. “Miss Hamilton has shown me your history homework. Or lack of history homework. What do you have to say for yourself?”
What a relief. “I find it really hard and I've tried to keep up and I do try to understand…” she began.
“Shut up and get down here,” Mrs Unwin said, and Jo-Jo trudged down the carpeted stairs until she was within arm's reach of her Mum. She was she was grabbed by the arm and shaken like a rag doll, before being marched into the Living Room and shoved into the corner next to the television.
Mrs Unwin sat on a straight-backed chair and ushered the teacher to the sofa across the room. “I'm so disappointed, Miss McDuff…”
“Annabel, please.”
“Annabel. I'm Joyce, by the way. Tea?”
“Thank you, no.”
Mrs Unwin leafed through her daughter's exercise book with an air of defeat. The girl would never learn. Finally she looked up at the younger woman and asked: “What am I to do?”
“In my day a girl of promise who did so poorly in tests would have soon had to face the music. No nonsense, just a good dose of the tawse and a warning of another if she didn't pull her socks up.”
“Tawse?”
“The punishment strap, Mrs Unwin. Very effective and as Scots as bagpipes and shortbread. It was that sort of school. Sadly, the tinkering bureaucrats have forbidden that sort of thing in this county's schools,” Miss McDuff continued. “But there's nothing to stop a concerned parent or indeed a well-meaning friend of the family…”
Joanna's mother had never made use of corporal punishment. Others did, she knew, but it wasn't for her. But as she thought about what Miss McDuff had said it dawned on her that she had been wrong - that her failure had cost her dear.
“Joanna has a great deal of aptitude - if it can be channelled in the right direction. I'd happily pop round from time to time to 'discuss' matter with her,” Miss McDuff said.
Mrs Unwin smiled, her mind made up. “That would be lovely. I could bake a cake, we could make a little occasion of it,” she said.
To be continued again (sorry, it goes on a bit, but the end is in sight...)

Home time 2

Since when did teachers make home visits? Doctors made home visits, rent collectors made home visits, even the truant officers. But not teachers.

Joanna found herself saying 'please, please, please' under her breath as Miss McDuff looked up and down the road, trying to wish her to go to another house.

Perhaps she had a boyfriend living somewhere in Rectory Road, although Joanna couldn't think of any man eligible enough to be Miss McDuff's other half. She was easily pretty enough to be one of 'Pan's People' or a model or someone on television.

People said she looked like that Joan Collins, but Jo-Jo reckoned she was actually prettier. Whoever she looked like she was coming straight for No. 12…

Jo-Jo watched her teacher open the garden gate and start walking up the path to the front door. It suddenly occurred to her she might be able to hide and she dropped out of sight below the windowsill, squeezing in under her David Cassidy poster.

The doorbell rang and she heard her Mum go to the door . Pinning the card onto the back of Miss McDuff's jacket hadn't been easy. It had been hanging on the back of the Changing Room door when they were all getting showered and sorted out after hockey.

Jo-Jo had to get the card out of her bag and get it onto the jacket in the few seconds that Miss McDuff was looking the other way. Karen had created a diversion by shouting in the shower and throwing shampoo suds at Natalie Hopcroft.

She hadn't expected Miss McDuff to actually put her jacket on without seeing the card. Who fails to see a pale green card pinned to the back of a burgundy velvet jacket?

But she did. She put the jacket on and went to open the door, but paused at the sound of stifled giggling. “What is it?” she asked looking directly at Jo-Jo, who had been making a point of being completely engrossing in doing her ponytail.

“Miss?” She said as innocently as she could manage.

“I hear laughter…”

“We're just happy, miss. Honest,” said Jo-Jo, without a hint of cheek.

Miss McDuff stared at her for a long ten seconds and then turned and went out into the corridor. The card was placed just so, its arrow pointing right at the history teacher's rather pear-shaped behind.

Jo-Jo would have loved to have watched her teacher stride off along the corridor, but that would have been too risky. Instead, she enjoyed giggling along with her friends and agreeing with the general consensus that the stuck-up, humourless cow deserved to be taken down a peg or two.

To be continued, again... (because I can't figure out how to use page breaks)

Friday fiction: Home time

It had to be the most boring view in the whole wide world. Or universe. Even the galaxy. Was the galaxy bigger than the universe? Or was it the other way round? Anyway, it was boring.

From her cell, also known as the Guest Bedroom, you could see houses, lamp posts, gardens and parked cars. That's it. So there was a danger that she'd die of boredom. Jo-Jo was sure of it. A real genuine, medical, factual chance. People really could die of boredom and it could happen to her, she knew it.
“Go to your room, and stay there” was one thing. That hadn't been so bad because in her room she had her little radio, she had books and there were old copies of 'Jackie' to look at.
Then the Wicked Witch of West Corley (otherwise answering to Mum) had come up with the Guest Room. It made her the cruellest mother in the entire world. Universe. Galaxy. Ever.
The whole point of the Guest Room was that it was deadly boring. Like a cell. Tiny, with a couple of singles bed and a wardrobe and nothing else. Nothing. Just a pair of Grannie's old shoes in the wardrobe. It had been straight in from school at 4pm and she was stuck there until teatime at 7pm.
Three hours of nothing to do but look out the window. 'You can have a good hard think about your behaviour, my girl,' she'd been told. But how much thinking is there to do about swearing at your little brother? He is an irritating little reptile and 'sod' isn't such a bad word.
Three hours for one three-letter word. It was a good thing she hadn't said: “Shit, bum, bugger, bastard, bloody bollocks.” She'd never get out.
It made her sort of jealous of Katy. In Katy's house things were straightforward. Cut and dried when it came to 'discipline'. If Katy swore her Dad would whack her bum really hard with a hairbrush, simple as that.
Bad words, sore bum. Which was barbaric and Medieval and Victorian and downright awful, but it was also quick. Katy said half an hour later your bum was back to normal and that was that, slate wiped clean. Not hours of endless boring boringness,
Then a car drove slowly down the street. When you live in a cul-de-sac cars are usually ones you know, but this one didn't belong. It went slowly, in that way they do when someone is looking at house numbers.
Jo-Jo didn't know much about cars, but this one was dark red like Ribena. And it looked sort of familiar, but not in the right place.
It came to a stop in the only gap to be seen, four or five doors away. A woman got out. Or to be more precise, Miss McDuff got out.
Jo-Jo didn't breathe for as long as it took for Miss McDuff to get out of the car, lock the driver's door and put the keys into her large handbag. For more than a minute she held her breath and felt her heart race.
When she finally remembered respiration, she exhaled at the same time as saying 'sod it' to herself three times over. Miss Annabel McDuff, history and games. The youngest teacher at Bradenhall High School for Girls and easily the best-looking. Tall, slim, Scottish, high cheekbones and absolutely no sense of humour whatsoever.
The notice was only a joke. It hadn't been Jo-Jo's idea, but she went along with it all the same. They found a sheet of card and a safety pin then Karen Burley had borrowed Stacey May's felt tip marker pens.
Karen had written 'SMACK ME PLEASE' on the card in big capital letters along with an arrow pointing downwards. Then they'd dared Jo-Jo to pin it in place. And Jo-Jo couldn't ever resist a dare.
(Too many words for one post, so to be continued...)

Reaching that top shelf

There was the one about the bratty girl who goaded guys until they spanked her good and hard. There was the women who daydreamed about being a governess in Wild West days and whipping her charges. And, if I'm remembering it right, there was the girl who got turned on watching her mother punish her older sister with a cane.

Reading Hermoine's post 'From the top shelf' set me to thinking about the thrill that I felt when I first got my hands on Nancy Friday's first big hit, 'The Secret Garden'. It was published in the early 1970s, but mine was old, dog-eared and was handed to me by a friend a few years later.

When she gave it to me she reckoned it would blow my mind, and she wasn't wrong. I don't know where that book is now. It may be in a box in the attic, or I might have thrown it away. But if it's gone, it's not forgotten.

In those days - when I first read Secret Garden - magazines like Janus were pretty much the only thing that let on that there was such a thing as a spanko, and they were out of my reach. Literally. Janus was stocked by my local newsagent, but safely out of reach of anyone other than tall men.

I could see the covers and was pretty sure what they were about. I had to fight not to look that way when I went into the shop and from the moment I walked through the door I'd be blushing at the thought of being in that space with the shopkeeper - and that magazine.

From Secret Garden I learned that girls heads were filled with all sorts of 'bad' thoughts about sex. Stuff I hadn't even dreamt of, and some that I had (and in a book that was written by a woman who was the same age as my Mum...).

And some of the the book's interviewees, like me, had feelings that were all tangled up and confused with ideas about guilt, sin and punishment - especially corporal punishment. Must find that book and re-read it.  

PS This little collection of 1970s imagery is borrowed from Richard Windsor's Vintage Spanking, which is absolutely fab. He deserves a medal for his work preserving the history of Spankoland.

The Sizzling Seventies

Great flares, aren't they? I'm not sure this is going to work out though. I think there's a good chance she'll end up whacking a hand rather than a buttock.

She needs to get that girl to bend over properly, get the and to get those hands well out of the way. A caning is a serious business, not something to rush into.

Those were the days...

Or were they? It's interesting how long it takes for a decade to begin to go all hazy with nostalgia.  The 1990s are in sharp detail - we were there, weren't we, so we know. But the 1890s are all fuzzy and soft focus and just right for all sorts of imaginings.
At the moment I'd say that the 1950s were going through the process. They are certainly being re-invented and especially by spankos, who see the decade as a sort of domestic discipline nirvana. And why not?
The fashions turn up in shoots and there are any number of stories featuring no-nonsense dads, scarily strict mothers and 18-plus daughters (and sometimes sons) who accept corporal punishment when they do wrong.
And it sort of works for me as a child of the 1970s. Growing up in the 70s corporal punishment was part of our lives, but a rarity (where I lived anyway). But adults were more than happy to tell us about how we had it good and how the tough the rules - and punishments - were when they were kids.
As a spanko-in-the-making it gave me a thrill - it was scary and exciting all at the same time. I'd love to know your favourite decade for spanko fantasy - please vote in the poll over on the right of this page.