Let them watch!

“Oh, Miss! Please -- not here!” I begged, squirming ineffectually on her lap.

“I warned you about the consequences of misbehaviour!” she scolded, tossing my skirt up with a disarming casualness and exposing my bottom to the watching multitude. “And just what are these supposed to be, young lady?” she asked, fingering my skimpy little panties accusingly.

“Um, well... I...”

“Naughty girl! It’s a week of detentions for you when we get back to school! You will learn to wear regulation knickers, like it or not!”

My intended “Yes, Miss” in response was made a rather unbecoming yelp by a sudden volley of hard smacks to my unprotected cheeks. I squealed again in the same pathetic pitch when my legs were treated to some stinging slaps of their own.

A spanking over a teacher’s knee is humiliating enough at the best of times, but this one was a thousand times worse than usual for it was delivered in front of an audience! Tutting ladies, outraged gentlemen, giggling children... it felt like the whole world was watching my ordeal. How I wished that the ground would swallow me up there and then – I honestly thought I might die of embarrassment any moment. So I had been cheeky... so I had ignored Miss Harker’s instructions... repeatedly... so I had, on reflection, been asking for a spanking from the time we arrived at the silly old stately home. I still didn’t expect her to actually turn me over her knee right there on the patio!

It took a lot of painful swats for my bottom to match the glowing crimson of my face, but my strict Form Tutor stuck to her task until that humiliating balance was achieved. What a spanking! My poor bottom felt like it was on fire.

Yet, as frightful as the spanking was, the thing that brought tears pricking to my eyes was the scolding I was given in accompaniment. Miss Harker had always had a way of making me feel like the naughtiest little First Year with her words. Across her knee in the pitilessly public gardens of Winbury Hall, her cruel admonitions stung quite unbearably. “You may think you’re all grown up, Penny Hasler, but you’re really just a silly, naughty little girl!”

“Oh, please, Miss! I’m sorry!” I wailed in futile appeal, my voice breaking with tears. “Please! N-not in front of everyone!”

“Do be quiet, Penny! It’s your own silly fault that you have an audience! Let them watch!”

It is fun, isn't it?

Hello, I’m back. My writing task is done, I’ve had a lovely couple of days off with my Better Half, and I’m all yours again.

(Actually, I’m not quite back up to fully naughty speed as I have something of a stinky cold, but I’ll do my best to get over it quickly).

Before I head bedward I would like to recommend two blogs that may be of interest to connoisseurs of female domination:

Improbable Fun (great name!) consists of an endless parade of hot little F/M vignettes, every one of which is accompanied by a great photo. (The picture above is a stingingly sexy example). If you need a fast femdom fix, look no further!

Consensual Spanking is – appropriately, given its owner’s nom de plume – a red-hot blog filled to bursting with spanking material. I’m sure the site will be familiar to many of you already, but if (like me) you are new to it, you are in for a sexy treat.

Two naughty blogs by two very naughty boys! I’ll have to give each of them a severe tongue-lashing when I’m feeling 100%. In the meantime, I’m going to hop back under the covers.

P.S. Maria Sharapova has just taught that bitch Azarenka an overdue lesson. Ha! Watching Maria win is just the sort of medicine I need xx

Over the trees a single bright star

Apologies for the quietness; it’s just that I have an important writing task with a looming deadline so I must devote all my formidable mental energies (haha) to that for a bit.

As a little gift of compensation I present another silly limerick for your amusement. I think the choice of subject matter might be my unconscious mind trying to tell me something, i.e. that I’m not spending nearly enough time in bed. (Sleeping, you naughty things!) Anyway, I hope you like it!

The Lazy Girl’s Punishment

For lying too long in her bed
Miss Hasler was marched to the shed.
Her sweet derriere
Was rendered quite bare
And paddled until it glowed red.

One painfully reddened rump, as requested

Good news for fans of F/M punishment: the second part of RedRump’s encounter with strict disciplinarian Miss Penelope (!) is now up on his site. Needless to say, it’s great!

And I thought I was mean in the first part... in the second I’m downright merciless:

She rubbed the cane on my hot stinging flesh, enjoying how my legs quivered in anticipation of her next stroke. She employed the same technique as she’d done before, tapping the cane lightly, but did not slowly graduate to a hard stroke, just delivered it with a sudden unexpected force.

Poor little RedRump. But then, I’m really only giving a naughty boy what he wants and (very badly) needs, aren’t I?

N.B. Should any of my dear readers happen to read the piece and enjoy it, I’d really appreciate it if you could leave a comment on RR’s blog telling him so. The stories and illustrations are a real labour of love, and I know that words of thanks for his efforts (even if it is just a single word) will give RR a fantastic feeling inside.

And of course he needs something to take his mind off the pain in his deservedly disciplined derrière...

Yes, Mistress Sharapova!

Readers may know – through my subtle repeated mentions of her and posting of pics – that I have a major crush on Maria Sharapova. And that I would be more than happy to be her submissive, lesbian sex toy.

Anyway, I was looking around the net for photos of her (as one does) and I found one that really pushes my buttons:

Ohhhh...! What a withering stare! It genuinely makes me tingle. That raised eyebrow... and that hand on her hip... she looks seriously cross about something. Excuse me whilst I imagine what that might be...

*****

Maria loved to have me near to her. She loved to look at me, touch me, hold me. And she also liked, she said, to “keep an eye on me.” It was primarily for the last of these reasons that I found myself enlisted one day, quite out of the blue, as a ballgirl for her matches. I didn’t have any say in the matter, of course, not that I would have dreamt of questioning her decision: countless painful hidings over the course of our relationship had taught me that lesson. Even so, I couldn’t help but pout with disappointment a few days (and two matches) into my stint when she informed me that I would remain a ballgirl for the foreseeable future. It was originally only supposed to be for one tournament, but Maria had apparently decided that the role suited me so well that the arrangement would be extended indefinitely. My impudent response to the news was rewarded (and my attitude greatly improved), I should mention, by a good thrashing with the belt. Naked on our hotel bed, I howled and writhed like the naughtiest little slut as the cruel leather lashed my skin. But I knew that I deserved it, and I lovingly thanked my kind Mistress when she gave me permission to.

While it was absolute heaven to be able to watch my beautiful Maria in action so close up, the role of ballgirl was a very humiliating one for a grown woman to be put into. For a start I had to wear a tiny, baby-pink dress and put my hair up into bunches, a combination that made me look and feel far younger than I really was. To my surprise and distress I found that players and officials alike began to talk down to me, where they had previously treated me with a fair degree of reverence. Even the other ballgirls bullied me. And of course, worst of all, each match I literally had to run around after Maria (and her opponent), chasing endless balls down, proffering towels and drinks instantly upon demand, silently meeting every request with breathless alacrity and faultless precision, like a well-drilled, athletic maid. It was very tiring, but I knew that I was pleasing Maria so I was happy.

Sadly, on the day of an important final my efforts did not live up to Maria’s exacting standards. I was nervous; I really wanted Maria to win, and I wanted to do well for her, too. I didn’t normally fumble catches, but that day I couldn’t stop. I fumbled everything. I couldn’t throw a ball straight to her. I dropped her towel in the clay. And my Mistress was, to put it mildly, unimpressed.

The final straw came when I accidentally spilt water over her during a changeover. I gasped, expecting her to shout at me, but she simply stood and fixed me with an icily stern expression that made me tremble. “I’ve had quite enough of your nonsense, Penny,” she said, her voice as coolly authoritative as her statuesque pose. “I told you in the last set what would happen if you misbehaved again. Well, my girl, now you’re going to get it!”

With that, she sat back down, took me firmly by the ear and pulled me across her knee. “Ooh!” I squealed, realising with horror that I was about to be spanked right then and there. “P-please, Mistress! Not out here!” I begged, squirming helplessly against Maria’s firm thighs.

“SILENCE!” she angrily returned. “I’ll punish you anywhere I please, slut!”

In a flash my dress was up around my waist and my matching pink knickers had been yanked down to my knees. And in another heartbeat Maria put her fearsome forehand to good use on my bare, bouncing cheeks, walloping them alternately with merciless vigour. SMACK! WHAP! SMACK! SMACK! “Ow! Ouch! Owww! Ohh!”

I struggled and squirmed and kicked my feet – making myself the very image of a pathetic, naughty little girl in the process – but I was held firm and spanked well past the point of tears, well past the point of helpless pleading, until my poor bottom was quite simply aflame. And all to the salacious cheers and whistles of the crowd! Even the female umpire clapped in approval. I had never been so humiliated, not in my whole life: spanked on the bare with all those people watching! A whole stadium! And countless millions more around the world! My mortification was so complete that my tear-streaked face was, if anything, even redder than my glowing behind. And the worst thing of all was that, deep down, I knew that I deserved it.

When Maria had finally spanked me to her satisfaction, a replacement ballgirl was summoned and the match was resumed. But I didn’t get to see any of it, for I spent the entire time with my nose in a corner of the court, hands on my head, knickers round my ankles and my punished bottom on display to all. I felt so very wretched; like the naughtiest girl in the whole world.

And, for the whole lonely duration, I knew that I would be in for another painful lesson that evening, when Maria had me to herself in our room...

Discipline à la mode

Just a note to say that I’ve added another pair of sites to my links, both of which I recommend as humbly and unreservedly as a girl can.

Strict Julie Spanks and Taste for Disgrace are the respective realms of a strict lady (Julie) and a strict gentleman (TFD), both of whom have kindly commented on my scribblings here.

Their blogs are each filled with intelligent, engaging, HOT writing (and lovely, naughty pictures) on spanking, discipline, domination and submission, and are essential reads. I challenge anyone with so much as a submissive atom in their being to read the fantastically strict Julie’s accounts of her naughty husband’s punishments and not be massively turned on. And while Taste for Disgrace doesn’t at present have a large number of posts on it, the quality more than makes up for the quantity, with thought-provoking (and arousal-provoking) pieces on all manner of aspects of discipline. Anyone who can write a sentence as great as this:

What we seek as adults is a condition of discipline that is consensually non-consensual---the relationship is agreed upon, but when needed, the disciplinarian is in charge.

is the kind of person I want to be reading.

And, you never know, perhaps more visitors might encourage TFD to write some more (please, please!)

I am personally very glad as a reader and a spanko that I was introduced to these great blogs, and I am very proud to link to them. The discipline that Julie and TFD are so expert in writing about (and dishing out) is just my cup of tea, and I would love to be on the receiving end of either one of these disciplinarians’ attentions any time.

(Did I mention that I enjoy being remotely disciplined..?)

Artist, author, squirming brat

I’ve said before that RedRump is a naughty and talented boy. I now have to add ‘kind’ and ‘sweet’ to that list of qualities, as he has written a delightful account of a punishment meted out to him by none other than yours truly.

The story is beautifully written – charming, witty, just wonderfully observed – and it is a scorchingly hot read.

Of course, RR being RR, the piece also has a FANTASTIC illustration (see above); one that depicts his poor, naughty bottom glowing from a severe beating with my hairbrush. The piece just has such character, such energy: I’d go so far as to say it even tops my cat drawing.

And if all that wasn’t enough, a second instalment (when Miss Penny gets serious) is set to follow. I can safely say that, if Part II is anything like the first, it will be a pleasure to read.

Truly, I am a very lucky girl – thank you, RedRump!

Roll over Botticelli

Ask and ye shall receive: further to my list of ‘ten better ways to express my disappointment than by pouting’, one of the more mature and considered items on the list – ‘Draw a nice picture of a cat to cheer myself up, then show it to a grown-up’ – piqued the interest of reader (and grown-up) Nick, or more exactly that of his cat Superman.

Now, I don’t possess a great deal of artistic aptitude, but I should probably point out that I drew the pic in a deliberately crude way as I was in the mindset of ‘Little Penny’ at the time. (“The cat’s a bit wobbly-lookin’ but he’s smiling ‘cos he’s happy. And I wrote ‘cat’ at the bottom, and I spelt it right too! C - A - T!”) I’m sure an art critic would praise it as ‘outsider art’ or suchlike, but it’s really just a two-minute doodle on Paint. True.

Anyway. Here you are, Superman – one picture of a cat! (It’s okay if you don’t think it’s very good).

And you know what? Drawing it did cheer me up!

Penny's homework assignment (2)

And now for my second trick, er, piece of homework: a task kindly given to me by TFD.

The assignment was to come up with a list of ten ways to express disappointment that are better than pouting. Easy, right? Wrong! It was actually really tough. But, like the essay, I completed it. Even if I had to be, um, a little cheeky with item #10. (I figured a funny/bratty answer would be fun, but in all honesty I really was struggling to think of any more).

Though it took less time than the essay, the exercise had a similar sexy effect: it made me put myself in the role of a brat explaining herself to a strict but caring guardian, and I enjoyed that a lot.

Oh, and sorry TFD but I couldn’t give myself an early bedtime as instructed as I was up late writing essays. I promise I’ll send myself to bed early tonight to make up for it!

Stop stalling and hand the list over? Yes, Sir...

Ten better ways to express my disappointment than by pouting, by Penelope Hasler

1. Tell my teddy bear how I feel, in strict confidence on my bed

2. Make an effort to be extra nice so I’m given a treat or a cuddle

3. Politely express my feelings – but only when asked for my opinion – and be careful to do so in an even-tempered way

4. Be quiet and reflective, without being inattentive

5. Write a poem about it

6. Write about my disappointment in my diary

7. If asked, explain what I had hoped for, or suggest how I might have preferred the thing in question to have been done

8. Draw a nice picture of a cat to cheer myself up, then show it to a grown-up

9. Ask nicely for a spanking for being ungrateful, and confess my disappointment while my bottom is being warmed

10. Um... err... ah...

...stamp my feet, maybe?

Penny's homework assignment (1)

Why poor manners and disrespect are never acceptable, by Penelope Hasler

“Good manners cost nothing,” or so the saying goes. Whilst the simplicity and self-evident truth of this age-old expression make it easy to remember, they can also make it easy to take good manners for granted; to mistake their lack of cost for a lack of value. Yet to do either of these things would be an error. Far from being a superficiality, or an anachronism, good manners are an integral part of a healthy society: it is no exaggeration, in fact, to call them a foundation stone of civilisation.

Without manners, we are little better than the animals. Imagine any social situation, any aspect of everyday life, and then try to imagine it in the absence of manners. Ladies would have to open doors themselves, as gentlemen would feel no obligation to hold them open for them. The most agreeable shopping trip into town would become a dull series of transactions; an empty experience shorn of all charm and humanity. A tea party would degenerate into a scene of chaos, with the guests all sitting where they pleased, indulging in the most rude and inappropriate discourse, and fighting over the last buttered scone. Such scenarios are bad enough on their own; when they are set in contrast against what they might be with good manners at their heart, they appear all the more objectionable.

A quality that good manners go hand in hand with is that of respect. A key aspect of these concepts’ relatedness, and of their importance, is that both speak more than anything of consideration for others. This virtue is amongst the highest, and should be prized accordingly: consideration is after all an expression of love; of compassion for our fellow man. It is, furthermore, essential for co-operation, and co-operation has been a vital element in human advancement for as long as we have walked the earth (or, for the past century, flown across it).

Respect should be accorded as a default to each and every person that one might encounter, provided that they do not do anything to lessen it themselves. An individual does not have to be rich and powerful, or a leading light in his or her field, to deserve respect: intangible personal qualities such as fortitude, selflessness or a friendly disposition count for just as much, if not more, in this regard. Respect is, we should never forget, a recognition of a person’s dignity as much as it is of their achievements. The schoolgirl who tries her best deserves respect, even if she is not top of the class; the parents and teachers who inspire her do likewise.

The importance of good manners and respect having thus been established, it is easy to see the corollary concept: that is, the unacceptability of poor manners and disrespect.

We have all been on the receiving end of rude behaviour at some point in our lives, and the experience is unquestionably disagreeable. People shoving ahead in queues; acquaintances (or even perfect strangers) making denigratory personal remarks or inconsiderate demands; the lack of a simple ‘thank you’ in acknowledgment of a kindness. The specific example might vary, but the effect is generally the same. Just as an unsolicited kind gesture or an instance of good manners can brighten someone’s day, a thoughtless or deliberate barb can spoil it.

Hurt and embarrassment are unenviable feelings, and so it should go without saying that we should not seek to evoke them in others. Verbal attacks may not be visible, and may not leave a visible impression on their target, but they are just as unwelcome and unnecessary as physical attacks. If anything, a large part of their sting arises precisely because they are so unnecessary; so avoidable: common courtesy really does cost nothing, and so its absence is felt all the more keenly. Disrespect is perhaps even more injurious than rudeness for it is an assault upon the very essence of a person; an assault upon their identity.

Even taking the above into account, some might argue that poor manners or disrespect are sometimes understandable (or even acceptable). A person who is impolite might argue that they were so in a moment of anger, for example; that such rudeness is ‘out of character’ for them. Yet this should not be accepted as an excuse for their behaviour. It is a rare person who never has cause to feel anger or distress, yet not everyone feels entitled to discard their consideration for others when circumstances permit. It is easy to be charming and polite when everything is just as one would wish; it is more difficult – and more revealing of one’s true character – when things are not so. How admirable is the person who is courteous and respectful no matter the situation!

Yet, even for those who do not possess an even temper and an innate respect for others, politeness and respect should still be observed. If nothing else, these practices can serve one’s own self-interest: they can help to generate goodwill, which is very often likely to be reciprocated in a beneficial way. Treating people well in order to be treated well oneself is a universal concept, applicable across cultures and to an array of experiences. This universality explains why it applies to organisations as much as it does to individuals: not for nothing is good customer service considered an important part of any business. An expression that captures the essence of this idea (if in a somewhat colloquial way) is “be nice to people on your way up, because you might meet them on your way down.”

Whatever a person’s motivation or circumstances, good manners (and their counterpart, respect for others) are something to be valued and striven for, and poor manners something to be avoided. Quite beside the injury to a person’s feelings or reputation that an instance of poor manners might cause – and that alone would be reason enough for its unacceptability – rudeness represents nothing less than a violation of the principles of civilised behaviour. It is a conscious and wilful rejection of all that is good in human society, for it strikes at one of the invisible ties that bind it together in peace.

You'll sit there until you finish, my girl

Well, I asked to be remotely disciplined and I was! Last night I changed into my school uniform (Guide’s honour) and completed two writing exercises as instructed: a thousand word essay entitled ‘Why poor manners and disrespect are never acceptable’ and a list of ‘ten better ways to express my disappointment than by pouting’.

The essay (set by OldFashionedGirl) took me a few hours, but I did it! (I really hit a wall at about four hundred words, but I made like the itsy bitsy spider and kept going). Writing it was a really satisfying experience, in a lot of different ways. For a start I enjoy the academic writing process generally: thinking round a subject; formulating an argument and articulating it; reworking and polishing the text to the best of my ability. And even though it was genuinely hard to keep going at times (partly, I imagine, because I don’t usually write essays in one sitting), I felt really great, just wonderful throughout. It was satisfying when the text flowed, and it was (in a different way) when it didn’t. These latter phases felt just as I had hoped they might: I really felt like a naughty schoolgirl beavering away at a task set as a punishment, and the prospect of further punishment should I fail to complete it felt thrillingly real.

I’d go so far as to say that the experience felt like a kind of kinky meditation; a journey into an immersive state or an alternate reality. (One that really pushes my buttons). I know that this feeling is one central to the BDSM experience, but there’s something unique about placing oneself in a solo situation where the focus isn’t on physical chastisement: I guess it’s like exploring a gentle dimension of one’s submissive personality, and the whole thing just really resonates with me.

I think the fact that I was wearing my school uniform contributed to this sensation, as did my slight discomfort – the hard chair I sat on got very uncomfortable after a while, but worse was sitting on my own hairbrush as instructed (I managed a few minutes on it, albeit with my skirt back down: I hope that’s okay, RR!) – but I think the most significant factors were the sheer length of the task (I know I didn’t have to, but I opted to sit in silence, as if I were in a classroom for detention) and the fact that I had been instructed to complete it. Yum!

Aunty Andrea commented on my original post that groundings are no fun, and that she’d prefer a spanking any day. I can totally understand where she’s coming from with that sentiment, but I have to say I find the sheer un-funness of a grounding fun: it’s hard to describe, but I love the feeling. I guess a comparable experience is that of doing chores as a maid, or any other sub-type figure. The pleasure of the mundane (or something). I’m sure a reader can put it better than I ever could.

Oh, and I was sorely tempted to fill the essay with deliberate grammatical errors as I had been warned that I would get two strokes of the senior cane for each mistake... but I resisted. I’m just too much of a swot. There may well be a few in there, but they’re not deliberate!

Anyway, I’ll stop babbling now and present my essay to Miss for marking. (See the next post).

You're not going anywhere, Missy

Readers may recall that I wrote in February about a trip for work that would necessitate a week-long stay in a hotel. The trip was originally meant to take place in the first week of March, but it was put back a couple of times, and it has now been cancelled. So no remote discipline in a hotel room for the time being, I’m afraid. And I was looking forward to it, too :(

If anyone wants to cheer me up by applying some remote discipline of their own – giving me a line to write five hundred times here at my desk, say, or ordering me to strip and put my school uniform on – then feel free!

I certainly think I’ll sit down one evening this week and write the essay suggested by OldFashionedGirl: a thousand words on ‘Why poor manners and disrespect are never acceptable’ should get me in just the kind of mood I’m after. And, thinking about it, I can turn a negative into a positive – and intensify the effect of the punishment tasks I undertake – by imagining that I’m grounded. BAD Penny.

Spanky sports: real-life edition

I (and many others) like to write about school: about schoolgirls, and teachers, and detentions, and spankings. Of course we do – it’s a fun, sexy thing to write about! But real school life, at least in my case, didn’t really compare to the fantasy versions found in spanking fiction.

For a start, I was never spanked as the practice had been discontinued by the time I might have been a candidate for it. But that didn’t mean I didn’t think about it. I’ve written before that, even while I was a girl at school, I envied those pupils of earlier times who received corporal punishment. And I really, really did. I often secretly fantasised about being punished by my teachers (and sometimes by my classmates); being spanked in my uniform with my knickers yanked down, the archetypal naughty schoolgirl. But it never happened. The closest I came was with an Art teacher who threatened – in an ‘is she kidding or not?’ kind of way – to spank me. (The beginning of ‘Long Overdue’, one of the stories in Back to School, is actually a semi-autobiographical version of this episode, with the student’s gender switched to male. I wish to this day that I’d been brave enough to find out if that teacher really was kidding or not).

Yet despite (or perhaps because of) the absence of CP in my school life, as time went on the desire to be spanked only grew stronger. By the time I was a teenager I was desperate for a spanking. My only realistic option to satisfy that urge, as far as I could see, was self-spanking. But where and when could I do it? That question, dear reader, had a rather unlikely answer...

As part of our PE (Physical Education) classes we would occasionally go on cross-country runs. These were runs of a few miles around the land surrounding the school: through fields, over stiles, down country lanes, all very muddy. (And very cold, as they were only ever done in the depths of winter, so your fingers would be frozen by the time you got back to the changing rooms. But then the PE teachers were all sadists). And I couldn’t have cared less about them. Winning was never important to me, especially when it was at something as uninteresting as running.

The runs were entirely unsupervised: we would be untidily assembled at a vague starting point, told to set off, then left to make our own way round. Not that I minded this lack of supervision. Quite the opposite, actually, as it transformed the run from a pointless drudge into an opportunity. As someone who was a) developing as a spanko and b) entirely unfussed about actually racing, the cross-country seemed (to my pubescent mind at least) to present a rare chance to grab a little kinky ‘me time’.

And so it was that, one winter’s morning, I took my opportunity. I dawdled and ambled away from the start, deliberately letting everyone else get ahead. (I remember thinking how annoyingly slow some girls were!) The course was always the same, and I knew that after about half a mile it went through some woods and over a stream: it was in this secluded spot that I stopped. Glancing around to make sure I was alone, I knelt down on the cold earth, pulled my shorts and knickers down and, well, spanked myself. It felt so very strange and daring and naughty to be spanking my own bare bottom, out in the open – in the elements, as it were, cold and wet and muddy beside a babbling stream – and moreover to be doing it in direct opposition to what I should have been doing. It was thrilling. Of course, that exciting feeling was mixed with one of anxiety: I was very aware that I would be immeasurably embarrassed, simply mortified, if anyone was to stumble across me and spot what I was doing, but I couldn’t resist doing it all the same. And any anxiety I might have felt couldn’t compete with the compulsion to continue. If anything, it was subsumed into an overall sense of naughtiness: an intoxicating feeling that simply made me more aroused and made me spank myself harder. My other hand, I will confess, did slip between my legs before very long.

I spanked and masturbated for several minutes, guiltily revelling in my own depravity, until I heard what I assumed to be someone approaching. I pulled my knickers and shorts back up and set off again on the run, miles behind the pack and almost certain to come last. I can’t remember if I did finish last or not – I might have caught some stragglers up, as I was quite fast when I wanted to be. But I honestly couldn’t have cared either way.

Now, I’d like the story to end with teenage Penny getting a ferocious scolding and a spanking from an infuriated teacher, like the fantasy spankings I get from the strict Miss Sharapova, but that didn’t happen. To be honest, I hardly think the PE teachers knew (or cared) that I existed at all, as I wasn’t one of their chosen ones. (The feeling was mutual: I didn’t care for PE or its teachers so I didn’t try). I guess they just thought I went round slowly because I was useless. If only they had known how to motivate me...

This is the first time I’ve ever told anyone this particular tale from my school days, by the way. If any readers have opinions on what should have been done with me (or if you have any similar experiences to recount yourself), please share!

Back, sort of

I'm going to start posting again, though probably not at the same rate I had been in March. (I really got on a roll there, huh). The medical situation is ongoing: the family member in question, my Mum, is out of immediate danger but is still in intensive care and will be for some time. My thoughts are of course with her; I just feel that writing on my blog will be a nice distraction, and I'm sure that Mum would understand.

I like to think of myself as a writer, but I could NEVER express how much I love that beautiful woman. I'm sure you all have people you feel that way about.

My genuine thanks to all those readers kind enough to leave supportive messages.