May 15, 2012


Our longer-standing visitors will know we’ve been transferring stories from the previous hosting service to this present one which went live in the earlier part of 2012. This process is still ongoing and should be completed shortly.

We always welcome new stories for this site and also factual recollections for our sister site

We also like to hear from anyone who just wants to chat about spanking and CP matters.

Contact us at or direct to

September 19, 2014

Revenge Served Cold

Punishment, when deserved is one thing, but sometimes a pupil feels particularly hard done by.

By Joanna Jones

My worst experience at school was at the hands of my Headmaster, a bad tempered man with, to my mind, a vicious streak when it came to punishments.

During my school career I was caned twice by him; one was harsh, but I was in the wrong so I could live with it. The other was, to my mind, totally unfair; I was literally just in the wrong place at the wrong time and for reasons best known only to him he caned me, adding extra for my impertinence in protesting my innocence. I had nothing to do with the incident, and it was the most upsetting and painful experience of my school career.
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September 12, 2014

Over the Limit

Being in the public eye makes life harder when you break the law.

By Katherine Jones

“Arnett!” Lizzie jumped to her feet and made her way across the waiting room to the door being held open by the white coated man. He beckoned her through to a dimly lit corridor and then snapped handcuffs on her with a silent menace.

Lizzie now walked in front of the man, head bowed, reflecting on how she had found herself in this awful situation. Lizzie Arnett was a 41 year old TV sports presenter living a happy and satisfying professional and personal life in the north of England. However the events of a Saturday, four weeks ago, spent working in London had turned her life upside down.
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September 7, 2014

Daddy’s BMW

A novel way of dealing with a careless driver, told from several perspectives.

By Joanna Jones

A story inspired by a number of communications with an internet friend, for which I am very grateful.

The Prologue: Monday Evening.

Jack Tompkins

I was furious as I stomped into the house, having seen the deep scratches in the front passenger side corner paintwork and of course the absence of the passenger wing mirror. My darling daughter had clearly had another accident.

“Sally-May,” I hollered, stomping in through the door. “Downstairs, now!”

Sheepishly she appeared in the kitchen where I was now standing, arms folded, at the sink having had a quick glass of water to calm me down.
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September 3, 2014


A second by second account of a girl being caned.

By Joanna Jones

The moment I walk in I know I’m doomed. My fate is sealed, I am done for.

I knew it anyway, had been anticipating the dread call all morning, but it is still awful to see it so starkly confirmed.

It’s the chair that says it all, sited oddly with its back against his desk.

Sited for me to mount I am sure.

My mouth is dry as I hear Miss Frobisher close the door behind us. Clearly she is staying here. I guess that is why I had to wait, wait till she was on a free period.
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September 1, 2014

The Honeymoon

War looms and a couple look back.

by Jane Fairweather

It was late on a Sunday and it was towards the end of July 1914. The possibility of war might be in the headlines, but the young English couple were here in Paris for their honeymoon. The Frenchman was gabbling what Jennifer Franklin (who had so recently been Jennifer Ashton) took to be felicitations on their marriage, which was little more than twenty-four hours old, but seemed years ago and in a faraway land, though it had only been in a village church in Kent, which was scarcely that far away from this little hotel in Paris, where her husband seemed rather well known. George was responding in his very good French, which was what you would expect of an English naval attache in France, which had been the appointment that had persuaded her family to cease their objections to the marriage. Her own command of the language was slight in the extreme; she could just about recite the present tenses of  etre and avoir and aller and she knew chez nous meant ‘our house’ and fermez la fenetre meant ‘shut the window’, but she could barely read French and she had never heard the language spoken before.
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August 31, 2014

Caught with the Evidence

A girl is set up deliberately to get her into trouble. By a new writer to us.

By Mike Preston

Amy Windsor, an attractive seventeen year old blue eyed brunette, a month away from her eighteenth birthday, was five feet seven inches tall, her hair reaching to her shoulders and curling slightly outwards at the bottom, she stood, rather uncomfortably, at the front of the Headmasters desk. The Deputy Head, Miss Winters, who was also Amy’s form mistress, was standing to Amy’s left. A stern-looking dark-haired lady in her early fifties, Miss Winters stood five feet nine inches tall and always held a dignified posture. She was very well respected by everyone at the school. It was normal policy for the Head Girl, Helen Watson, to also attend on these occasions. Helen stood at five feet eight, she was of slim build, had short blonde hair and green eyes. She was very intelligent and also well respected. It was just after 4pm on a Friday afternoon.
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August 30, 2014

Seeing Mr Edwards

Five girls are called to the headmaster’s office.

By Kenny Walters

They barely tapped on the door before thrusting it open and barging in. Mrs McCormack stopped typing on her computer and looked up. They weren’t in the conventional school uniform but were nonetheless smartly dressed; therefore they had to be sixth form girls.

“Can I help you, girls?” The secretary asked, although she already knew far more than they did.

“We’ve been told to report here to see Mr Edwards.” A tall blond girl acted as spokesperson.

“And you are…?”

“I’m Becky Harding,” The blond girl announced. “This is Fiona Carver, Alison Streeter, Jane Brighouse and Susan Williams.”
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August 19, 2014

Amanda and the Victorian Punishment Chair

A newly married girl re-discovers her masochistic leanings

by Frances Stephenson

John and Amanda were rummaging around an antique shop. This was nothing new as they both found this a splendid way to relax and, in addition, a good part of their new home was furnished thanks to this agreeable pastime.

They were married some six months ago and were pleased to find they both shared an interest in antique shops. John was especially good with his hands and was very keen on wooden furniture, in fact anything made of wood. His darling wife was very keen on china and unusual artefacts.

Amanda was looking at some handsome Masons Ironstone plates with the pretty Formosa pattern. They all seemed so badly chipped but four were fine.
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August 14, 2014


(Part of the Swinging Sixties Series of short stories)

By Dick Templemeads

(With apologies to anyone unfamiliar with cricket)

The villagers of the picturesque Yorkshire village of Upperdale said that there were just three passions in Seth Uttershawe’s life.

In third place was the Yorkshire ale which he regularly supped in the saloon bar of the Batsman’s Arms, while they could not decide whether Glenda, his beautiful raven haired 20 year old daughter whom he’d brought up single handedly since his wife had left him for some ‘fancy Dan’ Londoner 15 years earlier, or cricket came top of his affections.

But a fly on the wall of Seth’s Cottage on Saturday 15th August 1964 would have witnessed a scene which illustrated this conundrum.
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August 13, 2014

The Bench

A quiet girl faces an awful dilemma.

By Kenny Walters

A cautious glance round the corner confirmed Mrs Wilson was alone. She seemed quite busy, going by the quick tapping beat played out on her sturdy old typewriter. Angela was never sure about Mrs Wilson. Actually, Angela had hardly ever spoken to the lady. It was just her manner; always clothed in a tweed suit, her grey hair always kept short and permed, well-spoken but always economical in words, unsmiling.

“Um,” Angela advanced further round the corner so she could see the wooden counter behind which Mrs Wilson sat, and the school secretary could see her.
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