A Spanking in Time (Bexhill School)

by Tom Simple

  “You going to Tessa’s coming-out do on Saturday?” asked Julian. These events were always loaded with vacuous debutantes fishing for the rich and titled. Julian usually fancied his chances when he offered one of them a lift home. It didn’t matter much to him whether Debbie would be there or not, but he might as well know for planning purposes. If he brought Debbie back to his flat, he reckoned a bottle of medium white would be enough to get her into the sack, whereas the debs usually required champagne.

  “Ooo yes! Will you take me? I’ve got a lovely dress: you’ll adore it!”

  “OK, pick you up at seven?”

  “See you then”, she got up to leave.

  “See you. Bonne chance with your little bummie tonight!” Julian caught the waitress’ eye and ordered another Pimms.

  ***

  Debbie waited listlessly for her father’s return. He was a partner in a firm of solicitors and sometimes worked late. Debbie hoped that this would be the case tonight: he might be too tired to get involved in discussing her dismal results. She decided, a trifle unwisely, that she needed something to fortify herself. Her mother was still out, so she crept down to the pantry and helped herself to a strong – in fact, very strong – vodka and tonic. She had almost finished it when she heard the sound of her father’s car on the gravel of the drive. She gulped down the rest and hurriedly rinsed and dried the glass. Then she shot up to her room and closed the door. Maybe her father would think she was asleep.

  “Debbie!” her father’s voice boomed from the hallway, “Debbie, are you there?”

  She opened her door. “Hello, Dad.”

  “Debbie, come down here please. I want to talk to you.”

  Oh Lord. This was it.

  Debbie tripped on the last stair, but regained her balance before she fell. She was feeling quite self-assured after the stiff drink.

  “Yes, Dad, what can I do for you?”

  “Come into the drawing room, please. Close the door. Sit there.” He indicated the sofa while he sat in his usual armchair.

  “Now, I’m sure you know what this is about, don’t you?”

  Debbie returned his gaze in a slightly unfocussed way.

  “It’s about those wretched mock GCE results,” he continued. “They’re pathetic. I was ashamed today when people asked me how you’d done.”

  “What’s it got to do with anyone else? Those old goats in your office should mind their own business!”

  This wasn’t a smart start to the proceedings, but, as we have seen, Debbie was a bit of a slow learner.

  “Do you mind not being rude about by work colleagues! They’re all highly qualified lawyers, which is something it seems that you’re unlikely ever to be!”

  “They’re just a bunch of prats making money every time someone’s wife catches their husband shagging the nanny! They should get a life!”

  “Debbie, how dare you!”

  Debbie was on a run. “All you people are the same. Look at Mum. Spends her life slicing up people’s smelly feet. How much of a loser is that?”

  “Debbie, shut up! Your mother is one of the most respected orthopaedic surgeons in London!”

  “She still deals in smelly feet. Anyway, so what about my results. I don’t want to go to university anyway!” This was a new line, invented on the spot. “I want to travel. I’ll go to Africa or somewhere with Julian. We’ll become big game hunters or keep lions or something like those Atkinsons or Adamsons or whatever they’re called on TV!”

  Debbie’s immaturity was showing rather too clearly.

  “What you’ll do,” said her father, controlling his composure with some difficulty, “is what I’m about to tell you.”

  “Oh yes, and what’s that?” snapped Debbie.

  “Keep quiet and listen. I’ve spent most of the day considering what to do about you. I’ve spoken to St Mary’s and they’ve been kind enough to give me some excellent advice...”

  “I suppose I have to say twenty ‘Hail Marys’ and flagellate myself!”

  “I’ll deal with the flagellation side,” said her father grimly, neatly regaining the initiative as Debbie recalled the lurking presence of the strap. “I was in two minds: let you go to hell your own, ignorant way and muddle through life without a qualification to your name; or to persevere and put you back on the road to a proper future. I decided on the latter.”

  “How awfully kind of you!” Debbie said, sarcastically. Her father ignored her. She was going to pay for this, but not just yet.

  “The reason that your mother and I decided that we’d keep trying is that we’re a family of achievers...”

  Debbie was just about to give some more lip, but her father held up his hand.

  “I don’t want to hear another word from you until I’ve finished. Is that clear?”

  “Democracy rules, OK!” It came out a little slurred.

  “Whatever, in your ignorance, you may think of the firm of Arbuthnot and Bellweather, we’re well on our way to being one of the most respected family lawyers in the city. Your brother will shortly join us and shows great promise. Your mother has her own clinic in Harley Street. Only you present a problem, and I believe that the problem is fixable with a bit of discipline.”

  Debbie misunderstood this to mean that she was going to get her strapping there and then.

  “OK, let’s get it over with then,” she said impudently. “How do you want me? Over your knees? Touching my toes? Hands on a chair? Bending over the back of the sofa here perhaps?”

  “I told you not to speak until I am finished. The discipline I referred to is the Bexhill School for Girls.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Exactly what it says: it’s a school in Bexhill which has a firm approach to discipline. I believe they’ll keep girls like you on a short rein, hammer knowledge into your head, and – hey presto! – in a few years time you’ll emerge as a beautiful, educated swan!”

  “Sounds like crap!”

  “Possibly, but worth a try. I enrolled you today. You start in September.”

  “No I won’t!”

  “Debbie, you exhausted your mother’s patience this morning. You’ve exhausted mine now. Thanks for your suggestions: I think over the sofa will do nicely. Get into position while I fetch the strap.”

  Debbie opened her mouth.

  “Not a word. And I can smell the alcohol on your breath from here, so that will be a few extra. Now prepare yourself!”

  Suddenly, the fight went out of Debbie. She was no longer a feisty teenager telling the world what to do with itself. She was a frightened little girl who knew that she was going to get the thrashing of her life. She got up, a little unsteadily, and walked to the back of the sofa. She bent over and grasped the satin cushions tightly.

  “Good,” said her father. “Now wait there. I won’t be a moment.”

  Debbie could hear a brief exchange of conversation with her mother. She must have come in through the back door, into the kitchen. Oh God, was her brother there, too? She hated it when she knew he was listening in to her punishments. She heard the kitchen door close, and then the closet door open. The closet: repository of the clothes brush and the strap. It was like a torture chamber!

  Her father came back in and closed the drawing room door. He held the heavy, brown strap in his hand. It was something of a family heirloom. Had Debbie been remotely interested in history, she might have been intrigued to know that the leather belt that was about to cause her backside so much grief had once belonged to a Boer commando who had been besieging Mafeking. Her grandfather, taking part in the historic relief of the town, had seized the belt from a protesting captive when his own Army-issue webbing had been severed by a ricocheting bullet. But Debbie knew nothing of the Boer War. If she’d ever even heard of it, she would probably have called it the Bore War, or – even more hilariously – the Bored Whore.

  Returning from South Africa still in possession of the thick rawhide belt, the Colonel had later used it on the backsides o
f Debbie’s father and his siblings, and now in his turn her father used it on her and her brother. Actually, although her father had thrashed Michael once or twice a year when the boy was younger, he had only used it on Debbie twice, but those occasions were burned into her memory.

  He stood behind her. The white miniskirt had ridden up so high that he barely had to adjust it. Out of respect for her decency, he allowed her to keep her knickers on.

  “You’ll stay in place. If you get up, I’ll have to ask your mother to come in here and hold you down. I’m sure you don’t want that. You can howl as much as you like: no-one’s going to take any notice. And just to make it clear, this thrashing isn’t only about your disastrous exam results: it’s also about your abysmal attitude. Are you ready?”

  Debbie was afraid she’d sob if she spoke, so she just nodded. Her father laid the strap across the crown of her bottom, raised it high, and brought it down with as much force as his strong tennis arm could muster. The stroke landed with an almighty thwack. Debbie reared and yelled, but quickly lowered herself back into position. Her father paused, letting the blazing sting percolate through every tissue in her backside. Then he swung again.

  Out in the kitchen, Michael and his mother sat in a rather awkward silence, sipping mugs of tea. The sound of the thrashing taking place in the drawing room was unmistakeable.

  “I feel a bit sorry for her,” said Pat at length, “but she really brought this upon herself today.”

  Back on the sofa Debbie was screeching and writhing and twisting under the onslaught as the leather slapped against the frail protection of her panties. Beneath them, her bottom was turning from red to purple to blue. Her father had never thrashed either of his children as hard as this before, but then neither had ever previously merited such punishment. It seemed to go on forever, but in reality it was probably not even five minutes. Finally, her father stood back and let the strap swing beside his right leg. He was slightly out of breath.

  “Right. I hope that has taught you a lesson. Now get up, compose yourself, and go to your room. We don’t want to see you again tonight. Your mother will bring you some supper later. I suggest that you use the time to reassess your attitude and get used to the idea that the next year is going to be one of hard work.”

  Debbie rubbed vainly at the furnace in her backside. She cast a red-eyed glance at her father and then scuttled upstairs, closing (not slamming) her bedroom door.

  ***

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Debbie’s mother had found her ironing her pale blue ball gown.

  “Julian’s taking me to Tessa Fanshawe’s coming-out dance on Saturday. I thought I’d wear this. Can I borrow one of your necklaces?”

  “You’re not going anywhere, dear! After your behaviour on Tuesday you’re gated for the rest of the holidays. When you’ve gone to Bexhill and started studying properly and learned to behave respectfully, you may be allowed a social life again. Now put that dress away.”

  “Oh, Mummy! Don’t be so mean! You can’t treat me like a child anymore!”

  “I seem to remember that I treated you like a child the other day, whilst you lay on your bed, and your father treated you like a child that evening over the sofa. When you show a bit of maturity, then you can go out to grown-up events like balls. Right now, you’re staying in this house every night.”

  “That’s just the stupidest thing I ever heard! How am I supposed to tell Julian that I can’t go out with him on Saturday? And what will Tess say when she sees I’m not there – I’m one of her best friends?”

  “Perhaps your father or I should ring up and tell them why you’re not going.”

  “Don’t you dare! Don’t even think of doing so! I’d die of shame!”

  “Debbie, you’re going the right way to send me down to the closet again.”

  “Go and shut yourself in it for all I care!” With that Debbie threw the iron down and stomped off to her room. This time she did slam the door.

  Her mother raised her eyes to the ceiling: ‘Teenagers! Roll on September!’ she thought as she switched the off the iron and carefully folded the shimmering blue silk.

  Later, when no-one was around, Debbie phoned Julian.

  “Julian, awfully bad news! I have to go to a family funeral on Saturday. I won’t be able to make it to Tessa’s party.”

  “Never mind, old thing. We’ll just have to get along without you. Have a nice time at the – what did you say it was? Oh, a funeral. Well I don’t suppose that’ll be much fun. Anyway, see you later, alligator!” He was already thumbing through his address book to see which of the debs might be most likely to succumb to his charms. A few minutes later he paused. ‘I say,’ he thought, ‘wasn’t she expecting a thrashing from her father? Must ask her about it sometime.’ He went through to the kitchen of his Sloane Street flat and picked up the bottle of Spanish medium white. When he reached Oddbins, he found the young manager.

  “I say, old chap, would you swap this for a Bollinger. Changed my mind, or rather, changed the tottie! Ha! Ha!”

  Chapter 2

  Catharine

  Unlike Debbie, Catharine was looking forward to starting at Bexhill. Her elder sister, Jane, had been there and had apparently enjoyed it. In her time she’d played games for the school and done creditably well in the GCE exams. She’d been made a Dormitory Captain and then a Prefect.

  The sisters got on well. Catharine was sitting on Jane’s bed while her sister made herself up for a date that evening with her new boyfriend, Steve. Catharine approved of him and had been trying to wheedle out Jane just what stage the relationship had reached, but Jane was remaining frustratingly coy. Now she changed the subject.

  “So, are you looking forward to going to Bexhill?”

  “Oh, rather. I think it should be good. Anyway it’ll be better than having all those juniors around at South Lane.”

  “But you’ll be a junior yourself when you get to Bexhill. Won’t you find that hard?”

  “I don’t think so. There’ll be other new girls starting with me and the whole place sounds much more grown-up. You liked it there, didn’t you?”

  “Oh yes, very much. The other girls were fun to be with and most of the teachers were OK. Mrs. Winchester is great: you’ll think she’s stuffy when you meet her, but underneath she’s fine – quite cool, actually. Lots of us wish she’d been made the Head instead of ‘Three Taps’”.

  “Why’s he called ‘Three Taps’? You’re talking about Mr. Masterson, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, the Headmaster. Well, I hope you never find out for yourself why he’s called ‘Three Taps’. Do you really want to know?”

  Catharine drew her legs up underneath her and hugged her knees.

  “Go on, tell me.”

  “It’s because when he beats you, he always taps your bottom three times before he gives you the first whack. One, two, three, then you know it’s coming: thwack!”

  “Wow! That’s gross. I’m glad Mum and Dad don’t spank us. Were you ever thrashed at Bexhill?”

  “Yes, of course: several times. Most girls were in my day. I think it’s a bit better now.”

  “Gosh, I never knew that you’d been beaten! What’s it like?”

  “Not much fun,” Jane was applying mascara, but half turned to look at her sister. “Do you want me to tell you about it?”

  “Yes please.”

  Jane put the make-up back and swivelled round to face Catharine.

  “Only ‘Three Taps’ and Mrs. Winchester can give you a thrashing. Oh, and Matron’s allowed to spank you, too, although I heard a rumour the other day that they want to allow all the teachers to use a paddle in the classroom. Anyway, they almost always give you a warning first, unless it’s something really serious, like smoking. But if you repeat the offence, then you usually get a hiding. The first time, they use a wooden hairbrush and you’re allowed to keep your knickers on.”

  “A hairbrush? Does it hurt?”

  “Mr. Masterson has a speci
al one. It’s very heavy and we all hate it because it stings so much. It’s even called ‘Stinger’. If you’re up in front of him and he reaches for a drawer on the right hand side of his desk, start panicking – that’s where he keeps Stinger!”

  “How many whacks does he give you?”

  “Six usually, but sometimes as many as twelve. He’s actually allowed to give you twenty, but that’s very rare and it hardly ever happened when I was there.”

  “Wow! Twelve sounds bad enough. Does he put you over his knee or what?”

  “Matron does that, sometimes. ‘Three Taps’ usually makes us bend over something – maybe his desk, or a chair, or the back of the sofa. If you move, he tells you to touch your toes – that’s bad, because it stretches the skin on your bottom even tighter and so the strokes hurt more.”

  “Oooww! I don’t like the sound of this one bit!” Catharine grimaced, but Jane was getting into her stride. She enjoyed occasionally winding her sister up.

  “But ‘Stinger’ is only for minor offences. If it’s more serious, they use a tawse. Do you know what that is?”

  “It’s a sort of strap, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s a leather strap, cut down the middle to make two tongues. They’re joined to a handle. Both Mr. Masterson and Mrs. Winchester have one, but his is the worst. It’s obviously old – they say that some silly ass of an old girl sent it to him. The tongues are about eighteen inches long and heavy: they sting like anything. They leave rectangular marks right across your bum. They don’t last long – only a few days, but it really hurts whilst you’re getting them and it’s always on the bare.”

  “On the bare?” Catharine’s eyes were wide. “That must be so embarrassing!”

  “I suppose they get used to seeing girls’ backsides and I must say I’ve always been so worried about what was about to happen that I didn’t have time to feel embarrassed. I was just focussing on trying not to get up or put my hands in the way.”