Is there ANYONE out there in our forum who can write some decent fiction/fantasy on our subject?

Any chance of a competition?

I'm fed up with reading drivel that seems to've been written by the Moral Majority, or its' UK equivalent, in which teenage schoolgirls are willingly slippered or beaten to a pulp by fierce headmistresses or angry mothers or cool fathers, without any protest OR the slightest hint that this sort of punishment might just be assault!

This just isn't good enough! Fiction might at least be entertaining SOMETIMES, and with a twist?

Yes, Lotta, I know we HAVE had several attempts at it on here from men pretending to be women, but they didn't actually purport to be fiction. They sure were just that, of course, but, again, the entertainment or novelty value was zilch.

Well, what about it? It's obvious to me there's some talented people out there & we could all vote for a favourite out of a top 5 chosen by Big John?

We could also have a word limit if needed. I'm sure the various viewpoints I can readily attribute to certain of my fellow posters could produce something that bears repeated reading by the rest of us-I know it!

Here is something from a book titled "The Passions of Lady Meg" by Paul Little. No historical accuracy what so ever. This is an excerpt from A Taste Of The Birch blog. A 'right royal birching'.

The year is 1775 and King George III is on the throne of England and married to an irascible old Hanoverian shrew named Charlotte Sophia. Three of her young and high spirited ladies in waiting, Arabella Clarison, Beatrice Digby and Gloria Talmadge steal the Queens jewellery box for a jape, intending to return it the next day having enjoyed seeing the miserable Queen rant and rave over its disappearance. Unfortunately their identities are discovered and the Queen is not amused. So angry is she that the three terrified girls are sentenced originally to a whipping across the back with a cat o nine tails in public at Tyburn. The Lord Chamberlain, Sir Henry Percival, pleads with the Queen that the cat is too cruel a sentence for three such high spirited and gentle girls and the Queen partially relents......but only to substitute the birch rods for the cat and that the punishment might take place in the Palace grounds with only the royal family and their many servants as onlookers. However she insists on considerably more shame being involved in order to compensate! The three girls were imprisoned and then, on the appointed day, taken in a tumbril to their appointment with pain and humiliation. Read on..



'..the procession had entered the courtyard at the rear of the palace. Arabella groaned aloud, for she knew that the humiliation intended for her and her friends would be overwhelming. She could see already a score or more of royal valets, ladies-in-waiting, and other servants of the royal household. Then, horror in her face, Arabella recognised, in an adjacent seating pavilion, several of the minor court officials plus their wives and daughters, many of whom were friends.

She looked up at the palace and her face creased in anguish. For there, on the second floor, peering from the balcony was the blowsy, ugly face of Charlotte Sophia, one of her maids speaking to her rapidly and pointing out the tumbril which had just brought the three girls for their punishment.

"OH God," she murmured to Beatrice and Sophia "the old sow has come to watch!"

The tumbril stopped in front of the scaffold. The guards who had marched along in the processional through the streets of London from the Tower now unlocked the back of the cart and beckoned to the three lovely ladies-in-waiting to descend. The eyes of the guards glittered with lust in anticipation of the delicious spectacle they would be privileged to see! It was not every day that humble servants of the crown witnessed ladies of quality, so young and delicious, stripped to the buff and birched on the bare arse!

Arabella was first to descend, and tried to push away the hand of the man who would have helped her down. But he, with a coarse laugh, touched her waist, lifted her, and pressed her body to his muttering "You'll soon be begging for gentle caresses like mine when you feel what Master Dickon will dole out to you, I wager!"

Gloria and Beatrice had tried to control their sobbing, learning that the implacable Queen was to watch their disgrace. The friar ascended the steps of the scaffold with them, his prayers ringing out in the silence of the attentive gathering.

Arabella's eyes widened with fear as she saw two buckets, in which sheaves of birch switches, bound and gathered and of varying thicknesses, were thrust. The buckets contained brine so the withes would more fiercely sting the naked young flesh. There was no sun in the grey leaden sky. The day was, indeed, as mournful as their fate.

They were on the platform of the scaffold now, the friar beside them. The whipper and his assistant were off to one side, verifying the condition of the rods selected for the castigation of these high spirited rebels, whose caprice was to cost them dearly.

The Lord High Constable, a bluff red bearded man in his forties, now ascended the steps and read out the charges and the sentence.

"Your age, Mistress Clarison?," he first asked Arabella.

"Twenty three," the lovely young redhead responded in a steady voice.

"Then by the decree of the Queen, Mistress Clarison, you are to receive three and twenty cuts of the birch upon your naked body! And your age Mistress Digby?"

"Tw-twenty one" stammered Beatrice tearfully then bowed her head as she sobbed.

"And you, Mistress Talmadge?"

"T-twenty" the lovely brunette answered faintly.

"You will mark that, Master Dickon," The Lord High Constable demanded, and the hooded whipper bowed his head in respectful acknowledgment. "You will begin with the youngest then! Let Mistress Talmadge be prepared for her punishment!"

The terrible moment had come and Gloria Talmadge, with a wail of fright and shame, fell to her knees before her punisher and sobbed, "Have mercy on me Sir! Not naked, Oh God, please not naked! Whip me if you must but do not bare me in front of all these people, in the name of mercy!"

From the second floor balcony, a guttural gloating voice could be heard.

"No mercy for thieves!" The Queen had spoken. There was to be no relief from the degradation intended for those who had so rudely insulted her.

The burly whipper moved towards the buckets containing the brine soaked birch rods and Tom, his young assistant, now approached the terrified young brunette. Seeing his approach, Gloria uttered a cry of terror and , still on her knees, tried to crawl to the edge of the scaffold. With a mocking laugh, the brawny young man seized the weeping girl by the elbows and lifted her to her feet. Then he hustled her across to the cross-armed post to which she would be tethered.

Master Dickon, stooping now, picked up a length of hempen cord and tossed it to his assistant who deftly caught it with one hand. Taking a knife from the pocket of his leather breeches Tom cut the cords binding Gloria's wrists only to seize her left wrist and draw it up high to the metal ring set in the cross arm. He turned to Master Dickon who tossed him another length of cord and this served to tie Gloria's other wrist to the ring so that she stood on tiptoes, painfully posed and helpless.

Setting his hand to the neck of her dress, the boy ripped it to her hips and Gloria uttered a scream of shame and terror. "OHHHH NO MERCY PLEEEEEEAAASSEEE!!"

Beatrice, still on her knees, watched with horrified despair as she imagined her own ensuing humiliation. Only Arabella remained courageous, standing straight, her hands bound behind her, her back turned to the balcony from which the Queen watched with greedy eyes and smirking mouth.

"Courage, dear Gloria, courage. It will soon be over!" she whispered but the young panic stricken girl on the scaffold could neither hear nor take comfort from the words. Her head strained back, she dragged wildly on her bound wrists and tried to twist her body away from the whipper's young assistant as , chuckling lewdly, he seized the rent gown at the hips and ripped it down to the hem. It gathered at Gloria's ankles and she was revealed in a white chemise with elegant lace trim. With one frantic tear, that too went the way of the gown and Gloria screamed once more "OH MERCIFUL GOD, NOT NAKED! DON'T STRIP ME NAKED FOR PITY'S SAKE!" as she pressed herself frantically to the whipping post, glancing feverishly back at the hooded man behind her.

The crowd cheered as Gloria was now revealed in white batiste drawers, and a short white camisole which barely concealed her firm young breasts, their hard coral tips nuzzled the thin material in the wild spontaneous arousal of her terror. Now the camisole was ripped away and the beauty of Gloria's virgin breasts was displayed to all. Her skin was a warm, ivory cream, satiny soft in texture.

Now that the crowd could see her nakedness they gasped at the splendour of her breasts, fondled lustfully by every male eye, even if no man's hand had yet sullied them. The aureolae were of brownish coral and one could also see the shallow indent of her belly button. The girl's stockings were of grey silk, held up high on her thigh by mauve garters. Her legs were long and beautifully curved, the thighs gradually ripening as they neared the base of oval cheeked, ample buttocks, her thin drawers revealing the deepening cleft which led the way to both temples of her virginity.

Naked now except for her drawers, garters, hose and shoes, Gloria burst into hysterical sobs. The sides of her breasts pressed against the the rough wood of the whipping post's vertical stake, focusing her mind on her dreadful situation, this public humiliation and disgrace.

The young assistant halted for a moment, perhaps so the spectators could feast their eyes on the luscious nakedness of this young brunette. Her curls were piled high on her forehead and atop her head , then tumbled in a shimmering black swathe to her shoulder blades. Her eyes were closed desperately tight, but tears formed beneath the fluttering eyelids. Her delicate nostrils flared and shrank, and her lips twisted as she sought to suppress the sobs and groans which surged into her throat.

"Get to it, man!" Master Dickon growled as,squatting beside the buckets containing the birch rods, he turned to watch his young assistant.

"At once good Master!" the boy replied. He put his hand on the waistband of Gloria's drawers and with a violent ripping, accompanied by a shriek of despair from the girl, the last veil of modesty was torn from her body. In a desperate gesture of modesty, she tried to hug herself against the whipping post. Gloria was naked except for her hose and garters, her bare buttocks made more delectably vulnerable by the cool breeze in this early hour of the morning. The cold air made her flesh shrink, and her lovely bottom cheeks tensed and contracted violently as the unfortunate young woman strove to hide her most intimate parts from the prying eyes all around her.

Fighting her terror, her eyes tightly closed, her body pressed fiercely against the heavy whipping post, Gloria Talmadge awaited her birching. The cool air tickled her skin, sensitised her nerves and made this tension filled moment before the first stroke interminable frightful agony. With all her might she pressed her loins against the rough wood of the post to hide the thick black curls which garlanded the entrance to her virgin ****. The crowd could see the rippling spasms up and down her thighs and along her stockinged supple calves as she prepared for her first taste of the rod.

The whipper took his place behind the shuddering girl, standing at her left and brandishing the rod. He gave it one or two preliminary swishes just to test its efficacy, but the whistling hiss made poor Gloria gasp in fear and shrink with convulsive anguish against the whipping post. Arching up on tiptoe, her arms dragged out wide, the magnificence of her young pale body stark against the leaden sky, Gloria was like a beautiful frightened animal and the crowd was absorbed in the unfolding spectacle.

The whipper lowered the birch to the floor of the scaffold, measuring his distance, appraising the firm ample ovals of that delightful naked bottom given up to his flagellatory skills. Aware that the Queen herself was watching, he determined to acquit himself with valour. He watched the young woman's buttocks tighten and shudder as all her muscles came to her defence, and he bided his time, proving he was a master of his craft. When he saw the cheeks of Gloria's bottom relax their tension. he suddenly drew back his strong right arm and swung the birch out horizontally, taking a step forward, so the birch rods whipped fantail across the upper summits of both the girl's naked bottom cheeks.

The shock and pain of that first cut overcame what remained of Gloria's courage. With a convulsive jerk, her head fell back and her mouth gaped in a raucous scream

"AAAAAAAAAAHHH OH GOD IT HURTS! DEAR LORD SPARE ME, IT HURTS SO MUCH, OH PLEASE GOD, I'LL NEVER DO IT AGAIN!.....'

                      

"I'm fed up with reading drivel that seems to've been written by the Moral Majority, or its' UK equivalent, in which teenage schoolgirls are willingly slippered or beaten to a pulp by fierce headmistresses or angry mothers or cool fathers, without any protest OR the slightest hint that this sort of punishment might just be assault!"

Which other forum(s) have you been visiting?

Either I'm starting to loose it or the above description and this forum are two separate entities. Back in the bad/good old days cp was a fact of life - and any perceived "unwillingness" was deemed to be disrespect and amplified the crime.

Willingness was faked to avoid even more!

Assault or not as viewed in today's world, cp happened, mostly to boys and to a lesser extent to girls. Cp, or the threat/possibility of cp was the primary means of motivating, enforcing rules and keeping order. It was both tolerated and embraced by society and its laws.

As for people being beaten to a pulp... huh?... where, which threads (of which forum)?

The many references taken verbatim from Friends United largely describe what happened. Yes, of course, in any such exchange there will be a certain amount of exaggeration and fiction, but not widespread and certainly not signficant enough to affect the whole.

SteveM - reading between the lines, I think you mean you'd like to read a "grown-up" story. And, as it happens, there has been one recently. Sadly, it wasn't written by me, but I can safely say it had some of my input. How that came about is interesting.

A couple of weeks ago in the thread titled "Art reflected reality- once" alaric posted a link as follows:-

"Try reading this little essay, which is not only rather witty but spot-on, in my view, about the impression the rest of us had of the USA in the 1950s and 1960s:

http://www.nospank.net/briody.htm "

Since I was one of the posters in the thread, I should have put my hand up and admitted that the article was written by me. But I kept shtum.

This is the second time recently that I've been reminded about this little piece, which I wrote for the PTAVE site in 2000. I had actually forgotten all about it until I was contacted a few months back by a dominatrix (of all people!) She had read it and tried clicking on my contact link at the bottom of the article, but it proved to be defunct. So she googled for me and tracked me down that way. It turns out that this dominatrix is also a writer of fiction and has posted several stories on the britishpanking.com site. I read a couple to see what they were like, and I thought they were quite well written, but basically titillation.

She'd once lived in Malawi and had been searching for anything to do with cp in Zimbabwe because she wanted to write a story in that setting, and that's how she came across my PTAVE article. We became quite friendly, though I should make it clear that I was never tempted to sample her wares, if you know what I mean. She's an amateur dominatrix, not a pro, but from what I gather her cane brings tears to the eyes of very large men. Ouch! No Thanks!

I told her about this site and suggested she might pick up some valuable stuff here. She did lurk for a while, but never posted - probably because I warned her about Lotta N. (Ha!). Anyway, we corresponded quite a lot, and I told her as much as I could about my old school and others that I knew of, related a few anecdotes, and gave her my perspective on the whole game. Her story finally appeared a couple of months ago on that site, and I was absolutely staggered. It was completely out of kilter with her other stuff. Nothing titillating about it at all. It was, in fact, the most powerful demolition job I've ever read on cp in schools.

In the end I don't think she actually used a heck of a lot of what I told her, but she rewarded me by giving her main character my Christian name, and I suspect she based the physical portrait of him on a photo I sent her of me playing rugby for my school. I like to think so, anyway. I did recognize one line of mine from the PTAVE article, a quip about expensive schools - "It costs a lot to have your son treated like a dog". But the only anecdote I recognized was one about a boy at my school who pissed himself when told he had to have a caning. Still, I think I had an influence.

Whatever, it's well worth reading for those interested in school cp, and quite "grown-up" enough to be what SteveM is asking for. It's actually quite a gripping story.

http://www.britishspanking.com/forums/showthread.php?t=27899

TONY

I've visited several & unlike this forum, they are dedicated to fantasy,generally.

Unfortunately, imagination is in short supply. I'm just complaining that nothing seems to have moved on from the social attitudes of Victorian spanking novelettes.

Except we no longer tend to have any references to the goodly rodgering Miss Fosdyke receives from the Principal of her French finishing school after accepting a "deserved" and massive birching. Given the activities of Gary Glitter & co,perhaps that's why that part has changed!

OK, given that most of us seeking stimulation would like to see plenty of detail, it surely shouldn't be beyond the wit of authors to surprise us occasionally. It would be nice to read it with both hands off the keyboard-because you are either doubled up laughing or clapping the wit and inventiveness of the author.

I also genuinely think that the people who post here have that wit and story-telling ability;some of us because we've been round the block twice & others because they have a natural gift!


Steve

That’s a mighty fine idea you got there, Steve M. The prizes will be as follows:

1st. Prize: One night out with me at the Big Fish down at Hove Lagoon.

2nd. Prize: Two nights out with me at the Big Fish down at Hove Lagoon.

The picture shows The Big F at its most vibrant and exciting.



In the meantime, while waiting for those entries to come flooding in, why not have a look at that unfinished masterpiece by romantic novelist Angela M. Higgins, ‘The Punishment of Lavinia’, which you will find in the ‘Girls in Detention’ thread on Page 15.

Thank you!

I'm sure your critical faculties will remain supremely good even with those floods of entries-I just hope nobody blows a gasket trying to win these prizes. It would be a sore temptation!!


Steve

Does that include airfare? Lodgings? 

Does Spongebob Squarepants work there?

Is this the same place Miles Harvey holds court on Sundays?

Does that include airfare? Lodgings?
Unfortunately not. The high cost of the prizes prohibits any further expenditure.

Does Spongebob Squarepants work there?
It is possible. People are flocking to Hove Lagoon in droves. (See picture above)

Is this the same place Miles Harvey holds court on Sundays?
Miles has disappeared again.