Obviously, they weren’t as satisfying as the real thing, but in their own way they were incredibly fulfilling, giving me an insight into the thoughts and feelings of my Internet friends, and helping me learn about my own desires. Some of those scenes are as bright in my memory as some of the best real-life scenes I’ve played. There was one I’d done with HH where the virtual headmaster made me cry with remorse, sniffling in front of my computer screen. There was one with Uncle Monty giving me a bath and having to spank me halfway through, and it made my inner little girl feel naughty and secure in equal measure. And there was, of course, a chat or two with Abel, which made me think, “I’d like to meet this man some day.”

I haven’t played a single virtual spanking scene since 2001, when I moved to Perv Central that is the UK. Come to think of it, I haven’t been in a chatroom since then. Real-life spankings have been plentiful and delicious, and enough to satisfy my needs.

In the meantime, the Internet spanking scene has moved on technologically in a big leap. From IRC and Usenet, to mailing lists, to forums, to blogs, to social networks. All these are changed methods of communication in the scene, and where some of them are familiar, others are completely foreign to me.*** People communicate differently now. I wonder, does anybody play virtual spanking scenes any more, or write multi-player stories on forums? Do they survive?

If you’re doing some cyber-spanking these days, I’d love to know how it’s working for you. I know I sound like a grandma here (back in my day!), but when you start in the scene as a teenager, there’re lots of experiences and changes behind you by the time you’re thirty.****

Anyway. If you cyber-spank, please share the gossip of how it’s going for you!

* That is, before I knew that my best friend was also very much into spanking, thus wasting a good 2 years for both of us. D’oh!

** If you don’t know what cyber-sex is… you need to get out more.

*** I know I need a FetLife profile. Maybe later.

****OMG, thirty? Me? Wasn’t I supposed to have become a grown-up by now?

A well-disciplined school will have a very clear discipline policy, or code of conduct that may well be put up around the school. The pupils should be aware of the consequences of certain actions.

I like the image of a summary of school rules being displayed on the wall in every classroom. “Would you like to read the section of the school rules you have just broken, Miss Smith, and tell me what punishment is specified there?”

Don’t be alarmed if there’s an “On-Call” system, which can be great if it works! This is where pupils who are misbehaving in class are sent out to be babysat by a senior member of staff… A good “On-Call” system has a central location, and there are consequences for being sent “On-Call” – such as a detention or letter home.

…Or a swift three strokes of the cane as soon as you enter the room. Not as bad as a guaranteed half-dozen you get at detention, which you may still avoid if your behaviour “on-call” is exemplary.

Mmmm. I’ve never heard of such a system before, and am now thoroughly inspired.

Said visitor, a schoolmaster, commented that, “I am much impressed by the Hong Kong Correctional Services Museum which fully shows the evolution of correctional services in Hong Kong. Pupils learned about the punishment for committing crime as well as offenders’ rehabilitation process. All these have a positive impact on their growth.”

It was the photo of the cane and (to the left) the glimpse of the padded stool over which prisoners bent for their punishment that really caught my eye:

I’m conjuring up memories from the old days, when Hong Kong was still part of the Empire. The daughter of a high-ranking British official had befriended a local girl; the pair had been caught playing truant and trespassing on government property. Terrified of their parents finding out, they refused to give their details to the officers who arrested them.

The magistrate determined that they should each receive six strokes of the cane from the Correctional Services officer. “Should you still be unwilling to confirm your names after that, then you shall receive a further twelve strokes each and be detained in the cells until you choose to cooperate.”

Once inside the punishment room, both girls inevitably weakened and confessed their identities. But six strokes each had been decreed as a minimum, and they took their turn for punishment – before the police drove them each home to their respective fathers.

When one of us had done something wrong, the rest would rather die than tell on the guilty party. I don’t know if that was out of loyalty to brothers and sisters or some unspoken code of the mischievous that made us keep silent knowing the same service would be afforded us when we were the one who “done it.” Whatever the reason, our failure to cooperate with the party of the second party (the one holding the belt) usually meant we would all end up getting spanked. If we had taken a minute to think about that, we would have figured out that the loyalty we were drawing interest on in that unspoken kid bank was not really doing us any good if it was intended to be insurance against getting our butt beaten for some future offence. This way, we were bound to get whipped not only for that future one but for every present one as well. Still, the code was followed, and I supposed there was some kind of integrity in it, if not the clearest of logic.

I would always want to be the last in line. My plan was to run around to be first in line before daddy got to me, but that never worked. You’d think a man with that many kids would lose count just once in his life. Being in last place, and being a sensitive kid, I ended up feeling every blow to every other kid just as if it had landed on my butt.

Daddy used to spank us with a leather strap. But when mama whipped us, she would send us out to pick out a switch. We would try a crude form of mountain-urchin psychology by choosing a big, dangerous-looking stick that mama wouldn’t have the heart to hit us with. We’d go out to fetch a switch but come back with a limb that would be better used as a fence post. Our psychology usually backfired when mama would only get madder and go out herself and pick out one of those reedy little sting-your-butt-bad switches.

I love the tactics of cutting a hopefully-too-big-to-be-used switch. I’ve done it myself before, trying to signal something like “See how sorry I am? I’m sorry enough to present you with a whole tree limb!”

It didn’t work for me any better than it did for Dolly.

The stories have all been selected – including a few old favourites, as well as many new ones that never previously been published. A wonderful painting’s been done for the cover (thanks, Cath!).

The book’s formatted. And it’s now being proofread: our friend Martha was working on this for us on a train journey the other day. As she wrote to us:

The binder is out on the table, with my various other paraphernalia, and I’ve been reading away for some time, pen poised for any notes.  Sitting opposite me are an American couple.

I get up and go to the buffet car. On my return, as I sit down, he smiles winsomely and says, “So, on your way back to school then?”

How I didn’t collapse laughing is anyone’s guess!  Just wrong, on so many levels   If he’d had any idea what I was reading…!  Unless he took a sneaky peak when I was away, of course!  (I did close it!)  In the end I contented myself with a heartfelt, “I wish!” and explained that I was “proofreading some work for a friend”.

The target is for the book to appear in print at the very start of the new year. Watch this space!

There was this bit about how you shouldn’t go visit a school on an open day, but insist on being shown around when there’re actual students there. This is how you find out whether the teachers are any good.

“In all schools, it was the head teacher who showed us around. Generally, the head teacher was treated with respect, but in one school, a couple of pupils notably forgot to hold open doors for him, it was almost as though he was invisible… His study was set well away from the rest of the school, and I sensed that he didn’t get out much except for parents and inspectors. At the other two schools, the head teachers were treated with much more familiarity and respect: doors were held openfor them, they were greeted as they entered the classroom, the teachers seemed comfortable arouns them but also anxious to please them.”

What the book is then missing is an episode to the effect that the head teacher in the best school was so sharp and observant that, when he noticed a girl at the end of the corridor push another girl, he called her over – by name, because he knew everybody’s names – and told her to hold out her hands there and then. He had a tawse in the inside pocket of his jacket, which he applied with considerable vigour to the the miscreant’s palms. Then he dismissed the sniffling girl with a comforting word, apologised for the interruption, and continued the tour.

The reason for everybody’s respect and anxiety to please him was rather apparent there.

The scene was played out in a rural cottage – miles from the nearest road or neighbour. The girl was tied to the chair, as I took photographs then transferred them to my laptop. “Now, let’s send these to your stepfather and let him know you’re here…”

An hour later, I unbound her. She struggled; I slapped her hard across the face to quieten her protests. I stripped her, tied her in position once again for the camera. I checked my mail. “He’s replied, being all threatening. He won’t find us here, though. This time we’ll let him know what he needs to do to ensure your escape. An hour for him to do what I say, or his pretty little stepdaughter will suffer some more.” And the next batch of photos were sent.

An hour later. No reply. The girl tied over a table. The camera recording video this time, as I caned her before emailing the clip of her struggles, her cries, her stripes.

And so it proceeded, this darkest of scenes, as the hourly correspondence continued deep into the night: the tortures becoming crueller, the methods of abuse more intimate and penetrating – whilst, off-camera, the girl was forced to offer favours for food, water.

I have no idea how it ended. And it didn’t matter whether or not there was actually another top at the end of the email link, joining in the fun by replying (or not) to my notes. All that mattered was that the victim thought there was.

Perhaps a ransom was paid. Perhaps I’d been seeking revenge for her stepfather having wronged me in some way. Perhaps I concluded that he would never comply with my demands, and simply left her, chained, in that rural cottage, knowing that they would never catch me…

There’s a chance I may get some sweets, but if an irate Headmaster was trying to get some work done, a girl who interrupted him might end up with a sore bottom. Wouldn’t that be a treat, mmm.

Thousands of teenagers had a total of 5,171 litres of alcohol confiscated in a summer crackdown on binge drinking, the government has said.

As part of a £1.4m campaign, more than 3,500 youngsters in 69 “priority areas” of England were stopped between July and September.

What I love about this, from an Abel-can-pervert-anything-to-create-scene-potential perspective is the subsequent comment, though: apparently “more than 1,800 parents were informed”.

Not only, it seems was young Haron not studying in the library on the evening in question – but she was with that boy she promised she wouldn’t ever see again. And – shock, horror – she’s not teetotal after all. Indeed (gasps of horrified astonishment) she must have been buying booze underage. Get upstairs immediately, young lady…