In the time honoured way of such
matters I suppose I should state that I am composing this piece standing up. It
would not be true but given that the engaging Dr Woods, deputy headmistress of
the Whipstock Grange Spanking School, laid a variety of instruments across my
bare behind it would be understandable. This school is superbly organised and totally
realistic and over seven hours a motley class scribed numerous tests, and failing willingly lowered shorts or raised skirts for disciplinary
retribution. I could say that I was doing this purely as research for my blog
but, truthfully, every time I dropped my schoolboy pants for the slipper or
cane of Ms Woods I was in some surreal heaven. I got whacked at school in the
1950’s with eager eyes watching. But it was never like this. They walloped our
behinds in those days but rarely bared them. Perhaps they should have done
because it adds an alcoholic gin to the much wanted tonic. When that deputy
headmistress peeled down sundry underpants or knickers for personal correction,
minds buzzed in expectation. Heads down and bottoms bare in the air
concentrates that mind in a manner that Dr Johnson would approve and Whipstock
emphatically endorses.
There were nine of us on this day
(April summer school) even if the constant rain of the last few weeks defied
that description. Seven lads, one lass, and one who crossed the divide. And
they were all delightful companions. I shan’t name them as that would be
impolite, but the Essex girl was feisty and witty and the pseudo schoolboy
regular a source for much comic repartee. The French boy left early, a shame as
he had a delightful and very spankable bottom, and my northern companion did
his best to win an Oscar for a tearful aftermath from a private caning from the
headmaster. That summons to the headmaster was a constant feature of Dr Woods’
class and added to the realistic fun. She set the tests and whacked the bottoms,
regularly I am glad to say, and all was interspersed with the dreaded entrances
of the enigmatic Miss Storm. School secretary and conjurer of a delicious lunch,
she entered the classroom in style and called for the wanted perpetrator of
some fictitious misdeed. At least I hope it was fictitious as two were summoned
for unseemly mooning on public transport. All knew that a bottom was shortly to get
caned, on the bare, by that unseen headmaster. Whipstock may be about spanking
but they know a narrative when they see one. Only one, reluctantly leaving,
would feel pain but all would envisage pictures. That is imaginative class.
The theme of the day was
‘Titanic’ and either side of that splendid lunch, vegetarian shepherd’s pie, we
had oceanic and historical tests. Some excelled, one or two cheated, and the
remainder were abject. But all got slippered and strapped so it did not matter.
Art was fun, depicting that doomed ship, and the feisty girl from Essex got all
the gold stars and the promise of fame in the next school magazine. The day
ended with private detentions with Dr Woods. We had to settle our accumulated
scores. Most of mine were for smoking but the reasons mattered less than the
event. Lined up we entered the classroom one by one. For the only time in the
day we were alone with the young and formidable mistress. The realistic classroom
setting and schoolboy outfit suddenly gelled for this culmination of an
eventful few hours. I can’t speak for the others but I bared my behind and bent
over her desk with a sense of distant and long lost truth. Twelve with the
strap, and twelve with the cane. End of day. A left hander. Hard. I rose with
tears in my eyes and joy in my heart. I pulled up my pants and kissed Dr Woods lightly
on either cheek. I think Whipstock would approve. After all, its raison d’être is
the not so gentle kissing of cheeks of another kind.
See story – ‘I Have Never Seen
Whipstock Grange’ - for an earlier, fictional story, of this highly recommended
establishment.