On the other end of the reading room, the library regulars were convening over their newspapers, coffee and biscuits.*

“That’s the punishment committee,” Abel murmured in my ear. “They are having their weekly meeting.”

I looked at the tweed jackets and home-knitted cardigans, the tidy hair, the sombre expressions, the tobacco stains on the fingers of the older men, and realised that Abel was right. This had to be the local punishment committee.

As well as receiving parents who came here with their grievances, these conscientious members of the community would go through the local papers, looking for reports of misbehaviour by the young people. They would discuss each instance in a polite debate, decide on the most appropriate measures. The secretary would write up a notice for the culprit, who would have a week to submit any defences or objections.

These would be looked at - and most certainly dismissed - at the following meeting, after which a volunteer from among the committee members would be dispatched to the culprit’s house armed with punishment instructions and a suitable implement. Case closed.

It’s amazing how innocent these people looked in the bright light of Saturday morning, while accomplishing such tasks in plain view of the reading public.

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* You’re allowed to talk and eat in this room. In fact, they sell you the food. I nearly had a heart attack the first time I saw somebody munch a lemon drizzle cake over a 19th-century book, but I guess they trust you to be careful.

Virgin Media has sent about 800 letters to customers warning them that they should not be downloading illegal music files via file-sharing sites.

It is part of a 10-week campaign it is running in conjunction with the BPI to “educate” users about downloads. The BPI, the body which represents the UK record industry, told the BBC that “thousands more letters” would be sent.

One can imagine the consequences…

The letter in its crisp envelope, opened by their father.

The summons, calling the three of them down to his office. “Which of you girls has been breaking the rules we agreed about using the internet?”

The ever-so-innocent looks on their faces.

The correspondence from their hosting company, read aloud. Slowly, purposefully.

The nervous glances between the sisters. The eldest stepping forward, to take the blame despite the shared responsibility. Her reluctant confession. His dismissal of his other two daughters.

The belt, being drawn purposefully from the loops of his trousers. Doubled. “It’s been a long time since I had to do this, Elizabeth. But I’m sure that you remember the position.”

Over the side of his armchair. Outstretched. Jeans down.

The stinging strokes. Only four. (Only?) Delivered slowly. Hard. Counted aloud.

And the hugs after, and the reassurance that he loved her. Before she was sent to bed, where her sisters would come to cuddle and offer their thanks for her bravery and her protection.

Delightful… and bratty, that is. So perhaps I should have known better when she texted me yesterday morning:

Please please please get today’s Daily Mail and go to page 22/23. Please? Pretty pretty please?

I responded positively, grateful for the tip and curious as to what this fabulous two-page expose could be about. A sympathetic history of kink through the ages? A celebration of some obscure disciplinary anniversary (“It was exactly a hundred years ago today that the first shipment of rattan arrived in the UK from Asia”)?

So Haron and I drove down into the local town, parked up, headed for the newsagent, bought the Daily Mail, turned excitedly to the article. Headlined…

“So are you a wrinkly yet”

… the author “takes a wry look at growing old”. The symptoms of old age apparently include “your knees buckle but your belt won’t”, “you begin every sentence with the word ‘nowadays’”, and the safe knowledge that you’d get out “in a hostage situation – they’re more likely to keep the young, pretty ones.”

Needless to say, I was decidedly unimpressed and reached for my phone, texting:

You are in *so* much trouble, young lady…

I could hear the laughter from the other end of the country:

Me? Why? Whatever for? Hehe

Now, I’m a great believer in democracy. So rather than reach straight for a cane, I thought I should consult the readers of the blog. How do you think the incident should be dealt with when we next see your badly-behaved fellow correspondent?

Wearily I made my way to the front and bent over to take the pain for coming bottom. Across my bottom, naturally. Six proper cracks with the strap whilst I clung grimly to the bench, distracting myself as best I could by pondering what would happen if I actually wrenched off one of the gas taps in my efforts to stay down. Would we all have to be evacuated? Could we avoid prep that evening?

Whilst the young lady in the blog entry resisted the lure of the gas tap, I foresaw an alternative ending, in which she did indeed manage to tamper with the equipment. An alarm would ring; her punishment would have to be suspended as the whole school filed out into the playground. No doubt, on their return, the remainder of her punishment would be doubled… at the very least.

My mind wandered still further along similar lines. A girl had been called to her Headmaster’s study to be caned. Her best friend, worried about her fate, would set off a fire alarm; an evacuation of the buildings would ensue. The two girls would find one another in the melee - but it would seem that the distraction had come too late, for the first two strokes had already been administered. There’d be hugs before the pupils were let back in - and the rule-breaker would trek tearfully back to face her Housemaster to receive the remaining four strokes.

Only… their cuddles would have been noticed, and the instigator of the false alarm would find herself called before the Headmaster. Confronted with the allegation, she would break down and confess, and her dozen strokes in assembly the following morning would teach her the most painful of lessons.

For example,

It’s not easy to keep a blog thriving for so long–what inspires and motivates you to keep blogging….and spanking?

Keeping spanking? Well, Haron keeps misbehaving and…

How dare you? Bad husband! No curry-out-of-the-packet for you!

Anyway, I think you, dear readers, who are always nice to me, and know that I would never ever misbehave (except on days with a “y” in the name), may enjoy reading Dave’s thoughtful interview of my bad, bad husband.

Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

When she fetched him from hospital, with his face all wired up, his (astonishingly cute) girlfriend apparently commented:

“You look like Frankenstein. Then again, you weren’t exactly Brad Pitt to start with”.

He’s not really in a fit state to administer the sound spanking to her that said comment clearly deserves.

Should I offer my services ? Helping a wounded colleague, and all that?

(Thing is, I’ve known her for years, she’s a close friend and I’ve long suspected that she might enjoy it…)

His grand idea for the event was that I would receive a number of smacks with an implement, and then blog my impressions right away. He prepared the computer and the implements (I still had no idea what they were, and even how many of them he’d bought) and told me to bare my bottom and get over his knee.

The resulting review is below, underneath the picture of the whole lot. (There were six, by the way, and I was sentenced to six strokes with each.) The reviews got shorter as my distress grew, but I decided not to expand them, and post the authentic first impressions just as they’d been typed up.

The Josephine (aka the leather mini carpet beater thingy) - was used OTK. Stings like the devil, but used lightly would be quite pleasant and sensual. I wish.

Rope paddle - I was bending over the bed for this. There was a weird scratchy sensation when it touched my bum, and it’s a stingy little bastard. Leaves a lasting burn.

The Grand Josephine (aka the big huge carpet beater) - used while I was kneeling on the bed on all fours. Felt like a fist punching your bum. Even a light tapping produces overwhelming pain. Really thuddy. Probably my favourite of the lot, if only Abel could bring himself to use it even lighter.

Plastic cane - used touching toes. I safeworded after 3 strokes. Feels more like a knife, never again.

Loopy whip - also used touching toes. Just really stings, a pretty scary implement.

The rope and suede flogger - used lying flat on the bed. Heavy, soft, delicious, though can be stingy if used harder. More a reward than a punishment implement. And it’s so pretty!

The teacher disliked me for some reason, I knew that. But I was more concerned with a boy in my class I really liked. I was just trying to summon the nerve to ask him out after the lesson was over, when the teacher started accusing me of something. Some misdeed I had no idea I was guilty of. I was told to go to the front and bend over for the cane.

Just at that moment the boy I fancied stood up in his seat and cried: “Sir, it was me, I did it!”

I could see the teacher grinding his teeth; after the lesson about taking the blame for thy neighbour and whatnot, he couldn’t forbid this boy for taking the cane on my behalf.

I was ridiculously grateful. Although in this dream I didn’t mind being caned, it was incredibly pleasant to be the object of such sacrifice. I felt sorry for the boy, but now I knew for sure that he liked me too.

Only the imposing, half-ruined castle that once belonged to the Marquis de Sade hints as a darker truth of the feudal rulers who lorded it over the villagers in this south-eastern corner of France… de Sade’s chateau [is] said to have inspired the gothic settings for his novels of sexual perversion.

Cardin has “spent millions restoring the castle” and his plans for the village include “luxury hotels, a top restaurant, a de Sade café and a piano bar.”

A de Sade café?!! The mind just boggles. I suspect that the conditions of employment for the waitresses are likely to be rather strict. And is it too much to hope that one of said hotels might be located in the castle itself, all themed rooms, whips available from room service and “would sir care to make use of the dungeon”?

“Do you like my new belt?”

I looked. And closed my eyes, to see if the monstrosity would go away if I blinked. And then I looked again. The belt was still there: the thickest, widest strip of leather I’ve ever seen, liberally decorated with massive metal studs. With a belt like that, Abel would have been welcome at a hard rock festival. He was clearly delighted at having sneaked in a purchase like that while I wasn’t looking.

I honestly told him that the belt suited him very much. And that I was sure it was purely decorative.

For a short while I even believed it to be so. He sat on the bed and invited me over his lap, he reminded me what a spanking felt like. (A note, in case I ever actually forget: at first it feels kind of warm and lovely, and then he gets into the swing of things, at which point it hurts like hell and you begin to wonder what you’re doing in the same room as this monster, never mind being married to him.)

After my bottom felt like I had accidentally sat on a bee hive, Abel sternly ordered me to bend over the bed. I cautiously looked around the room, wondering whether he’d brought anything from home to use on me, and saw to my dismay that he’d picked up the monster belt.

He considerately folded it the soft side out, with the metal bits safely covered up, and asked me how many strokes I thought were appropriate for the occasion. I bit my tongue on “none,” and suggested six. And you know what? Even folded - and even used quite lightly - that belt is a good candidate for a charity give-away some time when Abel isn’t looking. I did get one really hard stroke - the final one, aimed across the tops of my thighs - and it made me question whether I was still into spanking at all.

Five minutes later, however, the sharp pain turned into a comfortable glow, the smacks turned into hugs, and I knew I was home again.