Credit due

In times of austerity it's really important to exercise budgetary discipline, isn't it? Or at least that's what SO tells me when our monthly credit card bill arrives.
I'm busy working this morning and have had the radio on as usual. Music radio doesn't work for me, so it's talk all the time - although I only hear half of what's being said.
But I did tune brain and ears in a moment ago. The programme is a financial help thing - people phone in with their moans and the experts in the studio offer answers.
One of the callers phoned in to say she had messed up on her mortgage payment and it didn't go out of her bank account. She realised what she had done and sent a payment as quickly as she could, but it meant that the money turned up two days late.
When she checked her credit reference it turned out there was a now a note about the late payment. What could she do?
The financial suit told her that as she had been late with a payment the note on her ref has to stand, but he told her she does have the right to put something on her reference to explain what had happened.
And he said that that something goes by a "rather old-fashioned name" - it's called a Note of Correction...

For a moment she wasn't thinking at all. She had stopped being her altogether and had become no more or less than the burning white heat of her poor, poor bottom. Her poor caned bottom.
How long she remained in position over that desk she didn't know. The sensation of her cool , soothing palms pressed to her striped bum was all that she knew and time stood still.
The spell was only broken when he carefully placed the cane on the desk in front of her and discreetly cleared his throat. "Miss Wood...you may rise now," he said, his voice as measured and calm as it had been since their meeting had begun.
She straightened up a little, gasping at the new discomfort the movement brought with it. Her skirt slipped off her back and fell back into place. 
Looking down through tear-misted eyes she saw that her panties had gathered around her ankles. The kicking and stamping that had come with each of the 12 strokes that she'd suffered had helped them on their way down.
As she bent down to pull them up she saw out of the corner of her eye that he was busy with a sheet of bank headed notepaper, which he slipped into an evelope. She eased her underwear back into place over swollen cheeks then, looking up, their eyes met.
Throughout the process he had maintained a serious demeanour, but now she detected just a hint of a smile. "There we are Miss Wood, all done," he said, handing her the envelope. "Your Note of Correction." 

Fiction Friday: Master of the house

"I'm so very disappointed. I'm sure other guardians don't treat their role so casually. Uncle Harold just doesn't seem to give a fig for what I do or say. He's the least diligent guardian any young lady could possibly have. I am so wayward, so wrong-headed, so in need of rules and regulations, but he sees none of it.

Whatever I do to provoke him, he seems not to notice. Pressed for an opinion it's "whatever you think best, my dear" or "suit yourself, old girl..." He'd rather be off with his fellows at the theatre or the races than giving time to my concerns. It simply will NOT do. 

This time he will notice, I'll make sure of it. This time he will pay attention. I have the key to his private drawer in the library and I'm going to take a look inside..."

I felt I should get back to the Fiction Friday habit (little story-writing exercises to go with found images). Today I've only got time to come up with an idea - I'm sure your imagination can come up with an ending that's better than anything I'd write anyway... Loved this drawing. Not sure of the artist, but it captures a moment beautifully, doesn't it?

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...)

Friday fiction: Disappointed

"I'm very disappointed. You know that, don't you?" She nodded, but couldn't lift her gaze. In her peripheral vision she could see the tip of the cane and could think of nothing but the ordeal to come.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, young lady... You've let yourself down, you've let your form down - you've let the whole school down..."

Yes, I've had months to work on my project and what have I produced? Almost nothing. It's a shockingly poor effort and, if things were as they should be, I deserve to suffer a severe punishment. 

Months back I started out on my Beryl novel - set in 1940s Britain - full of enthusiasm, but as time has gone on I have run out of steam. Two chapters in I've hit writer's block and just can't seem to get round it.

By way of an excuse ("...I don't want to hear your excuses, my girl...") I must say I've loads of real life writing and editing to do at the moment, so doing more in my free time seems like a chore rather than fun.

Now I'm torn. I feel like I should leave Beryl and her pals on hold and try something different; I rather like the idea of finding out what happened next for the Week in the Country characters (a week in the city, maybe). Perhaps I could come back to Beryl in the future.
Then again, maybe it just needs immersion in all things 1940s for a time and a bit of a push to get through the block. Am I giving up to readily?

Anyway, I thought I'd share a snippet with you so that at least a bit of Beryl's story sees the light of day. In this bit she has an encounter with an old friend from school:

Mrs Jones had been joined by the others by the door and all looked at Cassie and Bee in confusion. Further away, across the yard, Bran came come out of the barn with a wheelbarrow and he stopped too. “Miss Wordsworth, whatever is the matter?” Mrs J asked.

“I suggested that this girl - this very rude girl - might care to help me start the car. It takes a turn or two with the starting handle. She answered me with very bad word,” she said. “I really am quite shocked.”

“I certainly d…” Bee began, before being cut off by Mrs Jones.

“I’m very disappointed, Beryl. The Assistant District Commissioner is our guest, so please say sorry and help her with her bag – jump to it.”

“No, – that won’t do. Given what the DC has said about discipline Mrs Jones I think Miss Daley needs a little lesson, don’t you? Do you have a slipper?”

“Certainly, I’m sure I can find something…,” said Mrs J. As she went to the door Beryl took her chance to screw up her face and stick her tongue out at Cassie.

Cassie’s grin signalled that she was still at least partly the mischievous Sixth Former of days gone by. “Actually Mrs Jones,” she called in through the open door. “A good, solid hairbrush might be more appropriate, if you’ve something suitable for a minx with a big bottom.”

Seconds later Mrs J reappeared carrying a large ebony brush with an aged, well-used look.

“How about this?” she said to Miss Wordsworth, holding it out to be taken.

“No, no. You keep it. I have to fly – other appointments to keep,” said Cassie, opening her car door and slipping in behind the wheel. The door slammed shut, but she wound down the window.

“Well thank you for splendid tea, Mrs J.”

“My pleasure. Have a safe journey.”

Cassie’s reply was lost as the engine spluttered into life – no need for a starting handle it seemed. Cassie engaged the gears and as she released the clutch the car began to pull away, which meant she had to shout at the top of her voice to make herself heard. “And remember Mrs Jones, that girl – lay it on smartly, won’t you? All part of the war effort…”

Monday moment: Old friend

Sorry, I've not been keeping Another Country frisky and fresh just lately. Not good enough, D minus, see me at the end of the lesson...

The problem is, the weather here has been so, so good that we've been living the outdoor life to the full. It's hard to break off halfway through a beach BBQ to do a bit of blogging.

Anyway, a quick find to share. Or rediscovery. I was thinking about spanking fiction that I like the other day and found myself going back a decade or so to when there was a fab story site that was called Laura's something or other.

Laura's Spanking Corner? That was it, and a quick google led me to it. Amazingly, there it is - still up in cyberspace after all this time.

There is some classic writing. I'm now going to spend some time catching up with old friends, starting with the series about Kate, 1950s store-owner and traditional disciplinarian. I love the characters and the situation - it's all so Benson (hence the pic).

Book Club: Saddled Up

'Some girls need to be spanked.' Can't argue with that, can I? 'I need to be spanked anyway, not often, but just occasionally.'

And I'm not going to argue with that either, although sometimes it's a bit too occasional from where I'm sitting. With those opening couple of sentences 'Saddled Up' had me gripped, because it could have been me speaking.

And reading on I felt a real connection with the the novel's 'leading lady' Amber Oakley. Later she says 'All my life I've fought against that need, but never managed to conquer it', and again I know where she's at.

Mind you, what follows doesn't seem to involve much fighting against that need and a fair bit of giving in to it it.

I'd say 'Saddled Up' is my spanko fiction find of the year and deserves a Book Club post. The writing tag team of Penny Birch and Miranda Forbes have created a great cast of weird and wonderful characters and put them into a contemporary British setting that I could recognise and feel at home with. 

Their story has lots of humour, but when it gets to the spanky bits it was, for me, seriously sexy. Of course, the horse-riding aspect of Amber's life is the thing that caught my eye, although her interest in equitation goes beyond the normal confines of jodhpurs, bits and bridles and takes in ponygirl play too.

Actually, I suspect bits and bridles are involved in the ponygirl thing too, especially naughty bits. But I digress, personally my horsey interest is of purely vanilla, so the pony stuff left me a bit cold. 

'Saddled Up' touches on one or two non-spank kinks along the way and that does mean that it has a bit of a Quality Street problem. You know, your tin of sweets has plenty to love - but inevitably there's something in there that just isn't your thing at all.

Unavoidable, I suppose, if you're not creating something that is strictly for the spanko community. It does raise a question: how narrowly niche should an erotic novel be? .

For all of that, when 'Saddled Up' was in spanko country it did have lots and lots that I found very sweet indeed. It's one of a series of novels that feature Ms Oakley and I'm going to look out the others - I feel like Amber and I are on the same wavelength.

Friday fiction: Letter home

Dearest Father

I do hope this finds you well. I really must insist that you arrange my return home as soon as possible. I do not wish to complain about Aunt Anne as I understand that she is your sister, but she has been very unkind to me since my arrival here. The thought of three more months in this old-fashioned backwater is simply too much to bear.

Aunt Anne seems to be at odds with me at every turn. In the days that I have been here I have made a number of suggestions about how she could improve her home to make it more in keeping with what is considered to be a la mode on the East Coast. To my exasperation she is disinclined to take my advice.

In the hope of coaxing a smile from her I have played for her. Her piano is really rather poor, but I explained that any fault in performance was due to the instrument and not my level of accomplishment.

I have even made a point of meeting as many of her friends and neighbours as I can, in the hope that this would please her. I think it my duty while I am here to enlighten local people. However, I have to say that their manner has been quite gruff and Aunt Ann appears to take their part rather than mine.

Anyway, I must cut this letter short as she has said she has something to discuss with me upstairs. She said something about 'old-fashioned methods', so it may be that she has seen sense about the drapes and wallpaper.

So, I must end here by requesting again that you forward a train ticket to me by return.

I remain, your loving daughter

Carolina

Friday fiction

“And we’ll have these down.” Neatly-manicured fingers slip under the waistband of his underpants, which are tight and very white. The cloth clings to well-muscled, athlete’s buttocks like a second skin. So tight that it takes a tug or two to get them down far enough to bare his pale cheeks just the way she wants them.

“I’m very disappointed with you, Coleman. Very disappointed. You’ve been a very disobedient young man this term, haven’t you? I’ve given you chance after chance, haven’t I?” There’s a pause, which he knows means the question is one that she expects him to answer. Most of her questions are meant to answer themselves, but this last one is clearly one of the ones that isn’t. An answer is expected.

It’s a dilemma. If he doesn’t come up with one quickly he will be even deeper in trouble than he already is. But he’s a little preoccupied with the weird feeling of hyper-sensitivity that he’s been experiencing since he entered the room.

His over-stimulated nervous system is focussed almost entirely on his butt. In a normal day how often are you aware of your behind? It’s just there isn’t it, usually between you and whatever you are sitting on?

Not just now though. At this precise moment Jay time is in go-slow and every nerve ending in his butt cheeks vibrates with anticipation about what is about to happen.

From the moment she took the strap out of the desk drawer the air has seemed electric. In the slight chill of the room the surface of his lily-white bottom and sun-browned thighs have turned to goosebumps.

He has to say something. The Vice-Principal (Pastoral) is waiting for something, but the best he can do is to mumble: “I don’t know... I guess I’m sorry...”

The fact that his face is pressed into the polished teak surface of the desk top doesn’t help. “Speak up young man, I can’t hear you,” Mrs Flood says. Her voice is cool, steely edged and rather husky.
“I’m sorry...” he says again, lifting his face a little to free a little more sound. Almost too much.

“No need to shout,” she answers sardonically. “Save your voice for later. You have had your chances, but still you’re disobedient. So I think it’s time for a long-overdue punishment...”

Jay screws his eyes shut and holds his breath waiting for the swish-crack of the punishment strap. But it doesn’t arrive and after four or five seconds he opens his eyes again to see that Mrs F has crossed to the far side of the room.

She’s standing by the window looking out and running the dark, aged strap slowly through her fingers as though she’s testing its weight. Looking over surrounding roofs to a quiet road – it is Sunday morning – and to rolling countryside beyond she is counting slowly to ten in her head. Anticipation is all part of the experience, she feels, and so he should wait just a little longer.

Pure and simple

Am I a bit narrow in my outlook? Should I be more open to the new and the different? Lots of questions about the concept of the spanking purist since reading Spanking Pixie on the subject this morning - and I'm pretty certain that I am one, for better or worse.

Pixie asks for a definition of the spanking purist.  She says: "Is it one that only enjoys OTK hand spankings?  Some have told me that is the proper and ONLY way to deliver a spanking."  Then she goes on to ask if the definition could also take in implements and, if so, which ones.

Could a 'spanking' clip work if it only featured non-spank punishments? Soaping, cornertime, lines or whatever. 

Personally, I’m 'pure'. Nothing against the bondage and whipping lot, but they do nothing for me. The tingle time only arrives if the scenario - in realtime or inside-my-head time - is domestic (or perhaps scholastic) and it has to involve corporal punishment that fits logically with that scenario.

Implements yes, yes, yes. But domestic ones - hairbrush, slipper, cane. Leave the stock whip to India Jones.

Some non-spanking punishment is fun, but there has to be spanking. Without it, I'm being handed a burger without meat.

My 'purity' does worry me a bit when I'm writing though. When you write fiction you want to please readers, that's the point. So, does my blinkered narrowness exclude and disappoint some of my readers?

I've thought about it. I've read novels written for a spanko audience that have content that takes in other BDSM interests, but they don't work for me. I flick on a few pages and the flow of the story is, for me, spoiled.

So I've remained 'pure', as it were. I'm writing the stories that I'd like to read - hopefully there are lots of other purists out there.

Perhaps it's time for us students of spankology to do what mathematicians did and form sub-sets. Pure maths and applied maths. Pure Spank and Applied Spank, or whatever?

Are you sitting comfortably..?

Then I'll begin. (But before I do, I want you to get that thought about comfort, sitting and a well-whipped bottom out of your grubby little mind). What's history and what's historical fiction? The line is being blurred, says leading historian and fiction author Alison Weir.
I've just been listening to a fascinating discussion about writing history on BBC Radio 4 and thought Weir's contribution was spot on. She talked about the line between history and historical fiction (in books and on film) and how it is becoming dangerously blurred.
Her latest non-fiction work Mary Boleyn: 'The Great and Infamous Whore' tells the story of Anne Boleyn's sister. There's little fact to go on when it comes to Mary's life, says Weir, but her story has been spun and re-spun by so many historical novelists that the truth was been all but smothered.
Maybe historical fiction writers should put 'health warnings' on their work. Something to make it clear that what they're offering isn't a history lesson, but a fireside story.

Photographic memory

There’s a problem with writing novel-length fiction if your memory isn’t as sharp as it could be. Mine’s pretty good, I would say. It can deal with a mountain of stuff pretty well – the kid’s lunch money, the deadline for my weekly column, the tax form, putting out the dustbins... it goes on.
So somewhere in there with all that I need to find room for my characters – their back story, what they wear, how they look. It’s a problem. This morning it was Felicity’s ass.
It’s been five chapters since it last made an appearance and I can’t remember much about it. Voluptuous, womanly and wonderful or neat, toned and athletic? JLo or Lindsay Lohan? The chapter in question isn’t on the flash drive I’m using today so there wasn’t time to look back. Felicity is having to journey on into chapter 12 with ‘XXXX’ where her bottom should be.
It’s far from ideal. Speaking to another (vanilla) author recently he told me he cut out pictures from magazines of men and women that he wanted to use as models for his characters. Stuck on the wall next to his desk they were an instant reference point.
Good idea. But I’m not sure how having a print-out of Felicity’s rear end on the wall would play with my family, friends, visitors or the guy who comes to read the electricity meter.