Wednesday, 31 October 2012

Cupcakes that go bump in the night

It’s probably the wrong day to admit it but I’m not really all that big on Halloween. My family didn’t do anything for it when I was growing up (I’ve never known the joy of hollowing out a pumpkin, but I did bob for apples at school once) and it’s just not as big a thing here in England as it is in America. I did try Trick or Treating once, aged about nine, on a friend’s insistence... got all dressed up as a cute little witch, aww... and got a bucket of cold water chucked over me at one house for my trouble. (Wa-ah!) But all that’s not to say I don’t understand the appeal of this kooky, spooky day or that I’m not envious of you lucky Yanks, going to town on it :)

And I did buy a spooky cupcake today (pictured above, haunting my mantelpiece).

So I wish everyone a Happy Halloween! May your spines be tingled and your broomsticks stay nice and stiff. And do give Spank or Treat a pop if you haven’t yet!

P.S. Here’s something to freak you out: my ghoulish cupcake has mysteriously disappeared since that photo was taken, leaving just the wrapper behind. Very spooky. I think it must have spirited itself away to a ghost convention someplace.

Monday, 29 October 2012

Miss Hasler's English Class: Recess

All right, children, you can put your pencils down now. Play nicely: remember you are still in my classroom.

Is that a new doll, Julie? She’s very pretty. That’s it, you brush her hair, dear.

Harry! Chasing Andrea round her desk is not playing nicely!

Now, I know it’s raining and horrid outside so I have an activity some of you might enjoy: colouring-in pictures! There are several on my desk for you to choose from, and a big pot of felt tips. Take whichever picture you like best and see how nicely you can colour it in.

There’s a pretty little pony:


Wonder Woman:

And a scary old haunted house, just in time for Halloween:

You can show me your drawings when they’re finished if you like. I might give a little prize for the best one.

Timmy! Don’t think I can’t see you poking Ana with that ruler! Keep it up and I’ll be colouring your bottom red, young man!

Sunday, 28 October 2012

Three in a bed

Just a little ‘me’ post today. Well, me and the two others I share chez Hasler with.

Poor Doggie hasn’t had much walkies fun today as it’s been cold and raining all day. I just tried and failed to get him outside now, but he stood on the doorstep, looked at the rain for a few moments, then turned and went back inside. It was dark too, which he doesn’t always like because it’s firework season at the moment.

Apart from the negative effect it has on walkies, I have to say I don’t mind the weather being cold and the nights drawing in. It makes me feel all snug and cosy in my little nest. And it’s good for writing. And making soup.

So why the post title? Because I have a confession. Almost every night I share my bed with not one but two males. Gasp! Who are these two studs? BH and Doggie, of course! I inherited Doggie when my Dad died last year, as my stepmother couldn’t look after so many dogs on her own (she has three dogs minus Doggie and Mrs Doggie, who sadly died earlier this year). I was chosen to look after him because he was always my favourite, and me his. (Dogs are just the best, aren’t they? I could write a hundred posts with cute stories about mine). At fourteen he is pretty settled in his ways, and one of those ways is that he sleeps with his owners. So that’s what he does with us. On the covers or under them, at the top, middle or bottom of the bed, the little guy is free to go wherever he likes. And that’s alright with us. He’s just so affectionate and smart, and I figure he just likes to be close to his loved ones. It’s amazing how much bed a little dog can take up sometimes, though!

BH and I got snuggly a couple of hours ago. No kink for once: BH wanted vanilla so that’s what we did. It was very gentle and sweet. But we weren’t alone at first... moments after we had started getting amorous a certain dawg thought he would come and see what we were doing. Just picture it, if you will: me, lying on the bed in my bra and panties; BH on top of me, kissing my neck; a cute little Jack Russell suddenly at my shoulder, putting his head between BH and me and his cold wet nose on my chest. It was so cute and funny, but we had to stop and put him downstairs – even I’m not that kinky!

I have to go and make dinner now. I hope you have all had pleasant weekends, and I hope my dear readers on the East coast of America are all right.

Thursday, 25 October 2012

24 going on 6

I had intended to put this post up yesterday but I had to quickly get ready post-work and go back out as BH surprised me with a meal out. Aww. Still, at least no post meant that Bonnie Appreciation Day lasted for two days here :)

And the idea of a day making a difference (not to mention a day of celebration for a special girl :D) is quite apposite for this little musing, as it happens.

I was born on February 28th, 1988. Things got started at about 10.30 in the morning, to be exact (I apparently interrupted my Mum’s shopping trip... typical me. I was a little bit early, hence her unpreparedness).

And this matters why? Because 1988 was a leap year, so if I had been a little more patient (say, by one day) I would have been born on February 29th. And that day only occurs once every four years.

As a nearly-leap year baby I have often wondered what that would be like. I know I would get older by a year like everyone else, but, officially speaking, I would only get a birthday every four years, as Feb 29 would disappear from the calendar for the other three. And that would make me officially six right now, rather than twenty-four.

Which would probably explain a lot.

Little Penny says: bein six is great an I got a cake on my birfday an it was pink an I wore my faverit dress an I can count to six all by myself but I need to use bofe hands cos six is...

... more than five. I dunno how menny twennyfour is but it sounds ain-shunt!

Tuesday, 23 October 2012

Bonnie Appreciation Day

What a lovely idea: a day in honour of Bonnie, the Queen of spanking bloggers! I’ve put my party dress on, put bows in my hair, and I wish everyone a very happy BAD!

Like many bloggers I owe a lot to Bonnie, and I really appreciate everything she does for this wonderful community. I can’t bake a cake so I’ve wroted a poem speshly. *bows*

To Bonnie

There’s one gal around these here parts
Who has a place deep in our hearts.
Where would we all be
Without that lady:
Dear Bonnie, of My Bottom Smarts!

Thank you, Bonnie! xx

Saturday, 20 October 2012

Miss Hasler's English Class: 5

There are many words and expressions from other languages that we use in English. The two that we are going to look at today come from Latin and are typically used in the form of abbreviations. Does anyone know what an abbreviation is? Julie?

I doubt the answer is hiding in your pencil case, dear. Yes, that is a pretty pencil topper, but it isn’t quite what I was after. Yes, I suppose it does look a bit like Harry.

Abbreviations – watch the spelling on the board – are shortened versions of words or phrases. Sometimes they are shortened right down to the first letter of the word(s). Abbreviations are similar to contractions – words like don’t and isn’t – but they differ in that they don’t need apostrophes to be added to represent the letters we have taken out.

The abbreviations that we are concerned with today are e.g. and i.e. Notice the dots after each of the letters: these show that we have taken the endings off each of the words. It doesn’t matter that the words we are abbreviating are from Latin; we do the same thing with abbreviations of ‘ordinary’ English words like prof. (short for professor) and Rev. (short for Reverend).

An interesting side note: in American English, abbreviations almost always have dots put on the end (as in Doctor = Dr. or Mister = Mr.), but in British English dots are only used when the end of the word is cut off (as in Rev. = Reverend). Doctor is shortened to Dr, without a dot at the end, as the only bit of the word missing is the middle.

Now, back to e.g. and i.e. These are two often-used Latin expressions that are often used incorrectly by being mixed up. The key thing to remember is that they have distinct meanings and are not interchangeable.

e.g. is short for ‘exempli gratia’, which means ‘for example’. It should be used just as its English equivalent would be, to introduce an example (or a number of examples) of whatever it is you are writing about:

Many animal species (e.g. the red-backed frog) are endemic to South America.
There are lots of playground games that girls can play, e.g. skipping, hopscotch, tag.

i.e. is short for ‘id est’, which means ‘that is’ or ‘in other words’. Just like its English equivalent, it should be used to introduce an explanatory point:

The temperature at which the triple point of water can occur is 273.16 Kelvin, i.e., 0.01 degrees Celsius.
Bella likes to go extreme ironing, i.e., doing her ironing in unusual or dangerous situations.

A good way of testing whether you have used e.g. or i.e. correctly or not is to put the English equivalent in instead:

My satchel is carmine, e.g., red.
My satchel is carmine, for example, red.

Does this sound right? It does not! We should use i.e. here, not e.g.:

My satchel is carmine, i.e., red.
My satchel is carmine, that is, red.

Remembering which of e.g. or i.e. to use is made easier by the Latin word exempli and the English word example being so similar. For example = e.g.

A similar trick can be used to remember that i.e. means that is.

See? Good.

Write a sentence using e.g. and another using i.e.

Knackered little writer

Phew. What a week. Told you I was busy. If there’s anything I want and need right now it’s a good long soak in a nice hot bath.

Hope you’ve all been well!

Hopefully a bit freer to write now, so the supply of Pennyish nonsense should return to normal. First up I reckon it’s time for another English lesson, so sharpen those pencils and I’ll have it up soon.

Monday, 15 October 2012

Richly deserved and badly-needed

Bit snowed under at work right now, so apologies if I go a bit quiet. I think work are trying to see how much I can cope with before I flip and go on a nude rampage through the office. (Something for you to picture, there...)

On a funner note, I was a very lucky girl on Friday night because BH gave me just what I wanted and needed. Not a meal out; not flowers; not an expensive present. What he gave me couldn’t be bought in the way that a box of chocolates could be, but it was still unquestionably a gift: one that I would have gladly traded any other for. On Friday night I was given a sound, and agonising, beating with the riding crop.

BH really does indulge me. I had been itching for a taste of the crop for ages, with my anticipation primed further by a sexy BDSM story a reader has been treating me to by email, and during this past week I have been quite simply desperate for it. As is my wont I had the whole thing envisaged exactly, right down to the sort of things I wanted BH to say, and as we lay in bed on Thursday night I told him every last detail of my sordid wish. Of course he was free to take or leave my suggestions as he liked: I’m not that much of a control freak. The only thing I absolutely insisted upon was for him not to hold back; I asked him to really let me have it.

On Friday night I got it.

Unusually for our play, there was no roleplay scene-setting or preamble: we just set ourselves up and launched straight into it. Setting me up involved stripping down to my panties and lying face down on the bed, my hips propped up by pillows. My wrists were tied to the bedposts with school ties, the ball gag was popped into my mouth and fastened securely and my panties were pulled down just past my bottom. One naughty girl, bound and helpless, ready and waiting for her thrashing, heart pounding with overwhelming anticipation.

The thrashing had three sections, as per my choreography. (Bless BH!) The first began with BH scolding me whilst teasing me with the crop, running it over my body, castigating me for my wickedness and letting me know that I would be a very sore and very sorry little bitch by the time he had finished with me. He told me that I deserved what I had coming… that I was his to do with as he pleased... all manner of wonderful, strict things that made me wild with excitement. And then, just when I was ready to burst with anticipation, WHAP! – the crop was applied to my right cheek, very hard. A long, delicious interval, with more scolding, more denigration, then WHAP! – my left buttock was scorched. Another pause, another stroke to my right cheek. The same electrifying interval, filled with BH’s scolding and my muffled whimpers, and the crop returned to my left cheek. Everything was done so deliberately and authoritatively... I was in heaven. I felt so fantastically naughty, and wretched, and horny, and owned: a wanton slavegirl being given her richly deserved and badly-needed punishment. That I was precluded from speaking by the ball gag was wonderful, and added incalculably to the intoxicating feeling of abjectness. Usually I whimper apologies and pleas when I’m spanked, but with the gag in I could only moan incomprehensibly... and BH even scolded me for doing that! (YUM!)

I was given a couple of dozen in this deliciously erotic, slow-burning manner, and then it was onto phase two.

This part dovetailed with the first in that, before that beating was over, BH calmly informed me that he would presently be inspecting my pussy... and that I would be in dire trouble if I had become aroused without permission. When the time for inspection came, without a word, but with plenty of strict authority, he yanked my panties down my thighs a few inches further and slipped his hand between my legs. A gasp of outrage – I was wickedly, shamefully wet! What a filthy little slavegirl!

As was quite proper and correct the crop was taken to me with vigour, at a much faster tempo, and the tops of my legs (freshly exposed by my panties being lowered) were treated to plenty of coruscating strokes of their own. Whereas I had remained fairly still and quiet during the first sequence, now I bucked and squirmed and pulled at my bonds and moaned with desperation into my gag. Again, I was scolded for my wickedness at doing so... (:D) It was not lost on me that, had I suddenly changed my mind and actually wanted BH to stop, I wouldn’t have been able to tell him... I was quite literally helpless and had no choice but to take whatever he saw fit to give me. Just like the wicked little wench I was pretending to be.

And I loved that. Total subjugation; total immersion into a state that I fantasise about so often. No safety net, no escape. It was thrilling.

The third and final part of the thrashing was where, just as I had asked him, BH really let me have it. No holding back, at all. Every stroke was as hard as hell, and they came very fast. It was a fearsome, pitiless thrashing. And I ABSOLUTELY LOVED it. Writhing, weeping, howling into my gag, my master caring nothing for my distress (quite the opposite, in fact: he upbraided me for my wantonness in making such a display, ohh!) I knew nothing but pain and ecstatic, transcendent, lustful delight for the entire time I was beaten. And that was, as far as I could tell, an interminably and agonisingly long time.

And then it was over.

It would of course have been ecstasy if BH had taken me there and then, while I was still bound and gagged, his hard body slamming against my agonised behind, my muffled shrieks a depraved mixture of pleasure and pain. But I had already been treated to so much, and it was time for me to treat him. I was released from my bonds and ungagged, and ordered to pleasure my master. And I did just that, with pleasure. I kissed every single inch of him, slinking round and over him like an animal. I massaged him. I licked him. And I took his big, hard cock in my wicked little mouth and gave him the best BJ I possibly could.

And then he took hold of me, laid me down on the bed, pushed my legs apart and fucked my brains out. Maybe he should have put the gag back on me, because I howled up a storm.

Lying curled up with him afterwards, utterly blissful and content, my ass quite simply glowing, I thought how I wouldn’t have swapped places with anyone in the world.

Saturday, 13 October 2012

Penny's Masquerade at the Boys' School: Chapter III

Penny might be a plucky gal but she is really up to her chestnut curls in it this time. Caught in the act of ransacking a boy’s study and curtly exposed as a girl masquerading as a schoolboy, she must explain herself to the entire Fifth Form... whatever will become of her?


“CORKS! A female! A girl – a real one!”

There came exclamations and chuckles from all sides as Penny stood there, feeling near to tears now.

She had hoped so much that she would clear Jimmy’s name, but now she had failed – hopelessly. And what would be the consequences for herself when uncle learnt of this masquerade at the Boys’ School?

Would it mean the end of her stay in Greenvale; the end of all her hopes at the agency with Uncle Mark?

And Jimmy – what would he think?

She became aware then that Stringer had fallen back now, a look of utter surprise on his thin face. Another boy, a boy with crisp brown hair and rugged complexion, stepped forward, taking command.

“Somebody close that door – and shut up, you asses! Do you want to bring Woody here? We’ve got to find out what this is all about.”

Penny faced him knowing that here was a boy she could trust.

“What’s your name?” he asked. “And what were you doing dressed up like that? If Stringer had been stupid enough to hit you, then you would have been in trouble. What were you doing in Stringer’s study?”

Penny squared her shoulders and, with a cold glance at Stringer, she turned again to the other boy.

“I’m Penny Dale – I’m helping matron out for a few days. I-I had to go to the detention room and –”

“Ah-hah! So Jimmy’s in it, is he?” breathed the other boy. “Yes; go on.”

“Well, I found Jimmy trying to get out of the window.” And now she kept her gaze fixed on the pale face of Stringer as she spoke. “He told me he was innocent of that silly trick of painting the statue and that someone had tricked him into getting blamed. He had a clue to the identity of that person – and he was going to search for something that would help him prove it.”

There was a mutter from the others, but the brown-haired boy nodded.

“Is that why you were here?” he asked slowly. “You were searching in here for that something?”

“Yes. Yes, I was,” Penny told him, and looked straight into Stringer’s pale eyes. “But it seems it’s hidden somewhere else.”

“Well, Stringer, I guess she means you, and I’m not surprised,” the other boy said, turning to Stringer, whose face now had assumed a dull flush. “We all know you and we all know your nasty ways. I must say I couldn’t believe it of old Jimmy himself. By the way, Penny, I’m Bob – Bob Danvers. What exactly was it that you were looking for?”

Again Penny met Stringer’s gaze and she saw that light of fear momentarily flash into his eyes.

“A pair of shoes,” she told him steadily. “A pair of shoes with pink paint on them, where the trickster had accidentally stepped into the paint he upset.”

And then she saw, with a quick feeling of disappointment, the relief that crossed Stringer’s face.

“You can search till Doomsday, you won’t find any shoes like that in here,” he told her. “Ford spun you a yarn, right enough. I bet he was trying to run away when you caught him.”

Penny saw Bob Danvers look curiously down at Stringer’s feet.

“Wait a minute; they’re not everyday shoes you’re wearing,” he said slowly. “That’s the pair of weekend shoes you bought recently –”

Involuntarily Stringer bent down and Penny saw the flush on his face deepen. At the same time his top pocket spilled its contents on to the floor – pen, pencil, rubber and – a box of matches.

“So what?” he returned. “I’m having the others repaired.”

Penny bent down, picking up the box of matches before Stringer could get his fingers on it. Curiously she looked at them, noticing the faint white dust on the box; and the faint aroma of –

“Wood smoke,” she murmured, and then slowly looked at Stringer. “I wonder – is it possible –” a sudden memory had flashed through her mind. “I believe I know where –” she began, and then trailed off as, meeting his frightened gaze, she knew he knew what she had guessed.

“Boys! I believe I’ve got it!” she cried suddenly.

Without further thought she was at the door; had wrenched it open. There was no time to be lost now. She could hear Stringer’s footsteps pounding after her, followed by the rest of the form.

She tore down the stairs, almost charging into the tall, stout figure of Doctor Woodstock at the bottom. With a hurried apology she raced on, ignoring his command to stop.

Now she was in the open and without waiting to see if she was being followed, made off in the direction of the kitchen garden.

The faint aroma of the bonfire she had smelt in matron’s room grew stronger till, rounding the corner of the gardener’s shed, she came upon it – a great pile of smouldering rubbish. Arising from the pile wafted that smell – of rubber.

Frantically she looked round for a stick; found one and, even as the whole of the Fifth came racing up, an angry Doctor Woodstock now in tow, she was raking the bonfire.

And then, with a feeling of joy, from the centre, she brought forth what she had been looking for – a pair of smouldering shoes – the tang of burning coming from the rubber soles, the whole of the sole and uppers of one shoe completely covered with bright pink paint!

She lifted the shoe up on the end of the stick, as Doctor Woodstock pushed his way through the staring throng.

“What is going on here?” he demanded. “You, boy – no, by ginger, it’s Miss Dale! What on earth do you think you are doing?”

“I’m trying to right a wrong,” she told him forcefully. “Look, sir – see the pink paint on the sole of this shoe? These shoes belong to the real culprit who painted your statue. He threw them on here, hoping they’d burn and never be found, that he would get away with it – while an innocent boy was unjustly suspended from the school. The real culprit’s name should be inside these shoes!”

She peered into the shoe, and there, visible though very faint was a name – printed in marking ink:

“Leslie Stringer!” she cried triumphantly. “That’s the boy who did it!”

As Penny prepared to leave the school that afternoon to return home she grinned to herself, though a little wistfully. From the direction of the tuckshop came the sounds of a bumper party to celebrate Jimmy’s freedom from the detention room.

She had not had the chance to see him herself and felt a little disappointed that she had not been able to congratulate him.

She mounted her cycle and moved off towards the gates. And there, to her surprise she found a figure waiting – a figure who stood, tall and smiling, hands behind his back, directly in her path.

She pulled up beside him, meeting his blue eyes.

“Hallo,” he greeted, and she was conscious of a sudden shyness. “I-I’ve been looking out for you. I couldn’t let you go without thanking you. If it hadn’t been for you I’d probably have been on my way home by now.”

“I’m glad I was able to – to help you, Jimmy,” Penny said softly.

There was an awkward little silence, then he smiled.

“Well, I suppose I’d better get back to the party,” he said, and then suddenly brought his hand from behind his back, and her eyes widened as she saw the big box of chocolates he was handing her. “Please take it,” he said quietly. “It – it’s just a little present – with my thanks. I-I’ll never forget.”

And while she stared at him, dumbfounded, conscious of the mistiness in her eyes, he was gone, striding back along the path towards the tuckshop.

For some moments Penny gazed after him, then, with a little warm feeling inside, she remounted and cycled out of the school gates.

Wednesday, 10 October 2012

Penny's Masquerade at the Boys' School: Chapter II

What a pickle silly Penny has got herself into this time... whoever would have thought that sneaking around a boys’ school in disguise to solve a mystery and get a crush out of trouble would lead to more trouble?

Everyone except Penny? Oh.


“YOU! Boy!” the voice came again. “Didn’t you hear me?”

Penny’s decision came without a thought for herself. She had to bluff her way out – for Jimmy’s sake.

Swiftly she half turned and, in the deepest voice she could manage, answered: “Sorry, sir. Going up to the study.”

“No time now, boy. Come along – out in the quad – the rest of the boys are on their way already.”

Penny felt rooted to the spot. What to do now?

“Come along, boy! What’s wrong with you? Down at once – and join the others. You’ll be late – don’t keep the professor waiting!”

There was nothing for it. Penny turned and retraced her steps slowly down the stairs, keeping her head down. The master stood at the bottom but, now that he knew she was coming, he turned away slightly, and Penny hurried quickly past him and outside into the quad.

And there she pulled up in surprise and dismay.

Instead of a deserted quad, there was now a line of boys in green blazers moving off towards the school gates, an elderly, white-haired man bringing up their rear.

He glanced at Penny curiously and Penny felt a wild desire to run. She turned and found herself looking at the master, who was now standing by the door.

“Come along now. We mustn’t waste time.”

The old gentleman called her snappily and, with one last despairing glance, Penny had to join him.

This, she gathered, as she walked along beside him, was the professor, and the boys were going to nearby Stanfield Abbey for an archaeological lesson. Fortunately the professor was slightly short-sighted and, to Penny’s relief, was much more interested in what he was saying than in whether the boys were listening. He did not seem to notice her, let alone suspect.

But she was dreadfully conscious of the stares of the other boys and when at last the professor left her to speak to another boy, she found herself beside a tall, fair-haired youth.

He gave her a dig in the ribs, making her wince.

“New boy, eh?” he sniggered unpleasantly. “Crawling round the masters, eh?”

Penny did not reply, but felt her spine tingle as he gave her another spiteful dig in the ribs.

“Hey, Stringer, leave the kid alone!” came another voice and for a moment the boy beside her moved away, only to return a moment later.

So that’s Stringer, thought Penny. What a horrid type – I can quite believe that he’d let Jimmy take the blame for what he’d done! But he won’t get away with it – not if I can help it! she told herself.

Somehow, she thought, she’d got to get away – she must get back to school and search the fair-haired boy’s study while she had the chance. If she could find that shoe in his study –

It was difficult to find the opportune moment however, for Stringer himself kept his eye on her and was never far away, casting disparaging remarks. But at last, when the professor had drawn the form’s attention to some particular point, she seized her chance. She slipped behind a stone pillar and a few moments later was sprinting back towards the school.

She went in through the main gate and noticed for the first time the statue of Doctor Wallice, painted a bright cherry pink.

A wooden barricade guarded it now and Penny just had time to spot the footprint Jimmy had mentioned. There was only one print, she noticed and guessed that the owner of the shoe had realised it would give him away and had taken the shoe off.

Penny hurried on to Winton House and this time reached Study 5 without attracting attention.

She lost no time in making a search of the cupboards, trying to read Stringer’s mind. Where was the obvious place to hide a shoe? After five minutes’ careful searching there was still no clue. Had she made a mistake after all?

She straightened at last with a feeling of hopelessness; a feeling that she had let Jimmy down. She started towards the door, but even as she did so she stopped dead, breath caught in her throat.

There were voices outside; footsteps. And then without warning, the door was thrust open and Stringer, a crowd of Fifth formers on his heels, came racing in, only to pull up dead in front of her as she faced them, heart racing, face pale.

“So!” Stringer stood towering above her, hands on hips. “So the new boy likes to pry, does he? I thought you weren’t to be trusted! I think the new boy will have to be taught a lesson, don’t you?” he asked of the others.

Penny’s breath came fast as there came a general assent.

“The new boy will have to learn that that sort of thing just isn’t done,” he went on silkily. “Come along – get your jacket off!”

He was already peeling off his blazer, rolling up his shirt sleeves.

Penny stood as if turned to stone. She was utterly transfixed.

The boys looked at her; there was a mutter. Insolently Stringer stepped forward.

“Come now – not a coward, are we?” And with a quick flick of his hand he sent her cap flying.

Penny bit her lip, her hands clenching as the chestnut curls fell round her ears.

There was a gasp; dead silence. Then –

“Jumping firecrackers! It – it’s a girl!”

Sunday, 7 October 2012

Penny's Masquerade at the Boys' School: Chapter I

Would you Adam and believe it? There I was, tucked up in bed reading awfully super and exciting vintage girl’s own stories, when – gosh! – I came across one in which a plucky gal with a certain name goes undercover in a boys’ school to help save a poor wronged chap from suspension. As one does. Lawks!

Needless to say, it’s wonderful. I’ve transcribed the text and will post each of the three chapters for you to enjoy here, including the illustrations for extra atmosphere. Feel that 1950s boarding school goodness!


“THIS is going to be fun,” chuckled Penny Dale, her grey eyes sparkling. “Fancy going back to school for a few days – even though it is only a boys’ school.”

Penny was busy sewing new buttons on a small pile of green blazers in the matron’s room at Greenvale Boys’ School, while matron, a plump, motherly woman, sorted bundles of school clothes fresh from the cleaners.

Matron’s usual assistant had suddenly been called away home and the headmaster, Doctor Woodstock, had phoned Uncle Mark, who ran the “Can We Help You?” agency in Greenvale, to engage a temporary assistant for a couple of days until her return. Penny, to her delight, had been asked to fill the vacancy.

Matron, humming a little song to herself, was checking that the boys’ names were on all their garments. After a while she paused, sniffing the air. Penny looked up too.

“Good gracious, someone’s burning rubber,” matron remarked. “It’s probably the gardener – he’s always got a bonfire going at the end of the kitchen garden. We’d better close the window.”

Penny needed no urging. The smell, though faint and far distant, was distinctly unpleasant.

Then she put the finished pile of blazers on one side.

“What do you want me to do now?” she asked.

Matron thought quickly.

“You’d better go up to the detention room and ask Jimmy Ford how his knee is. He hurt it yesterday during football.” She paused. “Poor Jimmy,” she said softly, then went on quickly. “By the time you come back I shall have gone down to the kitchens to supervise the dinners. I’ll be some time – you can get on with some mending, if you would.”

Penny nodded half-heartedly. It didn’t sound much fun after all!

She made her way up the broad oak staircase to the upper floor, turned into a long corridor and at the far end came upon a door, ominously lettered “Detention Room.”

Matron had given her the key and she slipped it quickly into the lock; turned the handle. The door opened and Penny stepped inside, only to pull up with a little cry of amazement.

The lower half of the windows on the opposite side of the room was barred, but the upper part, a wide fanlight, was pushed open, and half way through it, his legs dangling outside while he frantically tried to squeeze out, was a boy.

“What on earth are you trying to do?” Penny could not help the grin that spread over her face. “Are you coming or going?”

“Ass,” the boy growled. “Here – give me a hand – I’m coming back! It’s no use!”

Quickly Penny stretched out her hands to grasp his wrists and, with a few terrible grunts and groans, the window seemed to release its hold and he stood before her, eyeing her quizzically.

“Well! Well!” he smiled, brushing his jacket. “What’s this? A girl? And I’m leaving the school – gosh! What I’ll be missing!”

Penny flushed, conscious of the admiring softness in his blue eyes. He ran a hand through his thick, black wavy hair.

“Now I suppose you’ll have to report that I was making an escape,” he sighed. “I don’t know who you are, but –”

“I’m Penny Dale – I’m helping matron out while the other girl is away,” Penny began, then flushed again as an amused gleam flashed into the boy’s eyes and he chuckled: “Hm! Lucky for us if she doesn’t come back, eh?”

“Be serious,” Penny chided. “What were you trying to do? I shan’t report you – I wouldn’t do anything like that. But what’s it all about? Matron was talking about ‘poor Jimmy.’ That’s you, of course?”

“That’s me,” he nodded. “I’m Jimmy Ford, Fifth Form – and a first class prize ass at the moment.”

“Why? What have you done? Why are you here?” asked Penny curiously, finding herself instantly liking this black-haired Fifth-former.

“When you came in this morning – did you come in by the main gate?” he asked.

“No. By the side gate on the Greenvale Road –”

“Then you didn’t see the founder’s statue – painted pink!” he told her, and his voice was grim. “Some fool did it last night, then I got tricked – clot that I am – and turned up at the statue expecting to meet someone, and old Woody himself turned up. I’d found the pot of paint there and picked up the brush, not thinking and – well, you can guess! Woody’s convinced I did it – and here I am. I gather the Head’s been on to my dad – wants to suspend me.”

“Oh, golly, how awful!” Penny sympathised. “And you didn’t do it! But where did you intend to go, just now?” she asked.

“The chap who did it stepped into the paint, because it had been upset on the ground and I noticed a footprint. I was going to find out where that shoe was and expose the real culprit.”

“But had you any idea where to look?” Penny wanted to know, and Jimmy nodded his head.

“Yes. My guess is that it was Stringer who did it. I was going to look in Study 5 in Winton House. Stringer’s had a down on me for weeks now, and yesterday was the final straw. I was picked for the school football team and he wasn’t – except as a reserve. I reckon he cooked up this latest trick hoping I’d be detained for a week, or something – but instead the Head’s taken it more seriously.”

Penny’s sharp eyes caught the sudden clenching of his hands.

“This is going to be a blow to my father, too,” he said softly. “Greenvale is his old school, and he wanted me to make good.”

“Well you wouldn’t help yourself much if you got out of here and then got caught,” Penny told him and, even as she said it, an idea occurred to her. She instinctively liked Jimmy; she felt he was telling the truth, and she wanted to help him. “Look here, you tell me where to look and I’ll find that shoe for you!”

Jimmy’s eyes opened wide. He gazed steadily down at her.

“You – you believe me, then? You’d help me – just like that?” he asked softly, and Penny, conscious of her burning cheeks, nodded.

“Yes. I believe you, and – and I’ll help you if I can,” she told him.

But suddenly he turned away, breathing deeply.

“Oh, what’s the use, anyhow? You’d never be able to get away with it!” he said. “A girl wandering about Winton House – no, you’d be in trouble yourself in no time, and I wouldn’t have that.”

Penny’s eyes suddenly sparkled, and she caught his arm.

“Perhaps they’d notice a girl – but they wouldn’t notice a – a boy, would they?” she asked him gleefully.

For a moment he smiled.

“What plan have you got whizzing round in that curly head of yours?” he demanded. “Come on, out with it – tell uncle.”

“Matron has just got a load of clothes back from the cleaners,” Penny told him. “I’m going to borrow some – disguise myself as a boy and then wait my opportunity and look around for those shoes.”

“You can’t! You’ll never get away with it!” he gasped.

But Penny was already at the door.

“You can’t stop me,” she grinned. “Gosh, what fun!”

“But if you’re caught –” he broke in. “The trouble –”

For a moment Penny wavered, thinking what would happen if she were sent back to Uncle in disgrace. But she thrust the thought to the back of her mind. Jimmy must be cleared!

And before the boy could say another word the door was locked and Penny’s footsteps were fading.

Minutes later Penny reached matron’s room. Matron was away supervising lunch and quickly Penny changed into a pair of grey flannels, slipped a green blazer over her blouse, found a scarf to wind round her neck and then pushed her chestnut curls under a cap. A glance in the mirror brought a chuckle to her lips.

Swiftly, knowing that there was no time to lose, she hurried from School House and crossed the quad to Winton House. All was quiet; the boys were at lessons. Jimmy had said the shoes would probably be hidden in Study 5, she remembered.

She made for the stairs and silently crept up them. She had reached the top when, down below, a door opened. A voice, stern and imperious, reached her ears.

“Hey, you, boy! Where do you think you are going? Come down!”

Penny, heart turning cold, stood stock still. What was she to do now – would she be caught? Would this mean disgrace – an end to Jimmy’s hopes?

Thursday, 4 October 2012

Goodbye, Mr Whacker

I fear that my Kinky Links have to shrink by one.

I clicked on the link to the Mr Whacker blog today, as I often do, hoping to find a new post, and was greeted by a page that simply read “Sorry, the blog at has been removed.”

If this really is the end, it is a sad day for spanking blogs as a unique voice will have been lost.

Mr Whacker the blog was one of the first spanking-related sites I discovered and linked to when I started timidly venturing beyond my own little lair. And the moment I found it I felt right at home. Quite beside the many hours of pleasure his posts gave me as a reader, it was a big confidence-booster to know that there was someone else out there writing about the things that I myself liked. The unmistakably English tone, and the lovingly close and constant focus on grown-up schoolgirls, their uniforms, and their punishments, were just my cup of tea and somehow felt like a bridge between the disappearing world of printed spanking magazines and the ever-expanding world of online kink.

Mr Whacker the person was i) a really nice guy and ii) the first blog author I had an online collaboration with, he very kindly agreeing to play headmaster to my naughty schoolgirl in a cross-blog fantasy that I just came to him with out of the blue one day. I was so happy that he agreed to take part, and I think that the three pieces of writing that resulted make for a cute and original little moment of TTWD erotica; I will always be proud of them and grateful to Mr Whacker for helping create them. They are all three amongst my all-time most read posts: this fact, like Mr Whacker’s site itself did, reassures me that I am very far from alone in my love of school fantasy.

If you ever happen to read this letter, Mr Whacker, I would just like to offer my thanks for all the sexy school fun you provided me with, and I hope that everything is all right.

Thank you, Sir.

Tuesday, 2 October 2012

A day out with Maria

It’s official: I am a dimwit. What? No!

Yes. Because, despite being madly in love with the incomparably delicious Maria Sharapova, and despite painstakingly accumulating many, many photos of her, it had never actually occurred to me to look for videos of her until today. And it only occurred to me because a very kind reader (an anonymous knight in shining armour) posted a comment on this sporty post with a link to just exactly that.

The video in question is one of Maria and Novak Djokovic doing various sporty things in a light-hearted ‘challenge’ bankrolled by their mutual sponsor, Head (snigger).

It’s billed as a ‘behind the scenes’ piece, and of course it isn’t really, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is seeing Maria off court having fun and smiling that beautiful smile and bouncing around happily. She and Djokovic make a cute double act – I know that Djokovic is renowned as a bit of a joker on the men’s tour – and she just comes across as really down-to-earth and likeable. And utterly gorgeous, of course. It’s just a really sweet little film. Here are some stills I took (with Djokovic occasionally snipped out of the pic; sorry Novak!)

Drool. Maria will never know just how much I want to kiss every last inch of her. If you can take your eyes off her lovely legs or her adorable face in this pic (not easy), see if you can spot the subtle product placement:

Double drool. Oh, the things I imagine when I look at this:

No pink shorts here; just extreme hotness:

Maria bounces happily after getting a strike at bowling (sort of):

Maria laughs her ass off, having just served a tennis ball into Djokovic’s man bits. Naughty Maria! :D

It’s too cute not to share, so here’s a link to the video. Thank you again to my anonymous benefactor – you have made my day funner, brighter and a whole lot sexier!

Monday, 1 October 2012

Brats love company

Today’s post is brought to you by the letter B and the number 2. That’s because I’m a Sesame Street freak (:D), and also because I am proud to link to two lovely blogs, both of which begin with the letter B. (Stop me if I’m going too fast).

First we have the wonderful Banjo’s BBS (Bare Bottom Spankings!), online home of the very talented Banjo, a young man who creates fantastically sexy F/M digital spanking art and stories. I have been meaning to link to this great blog for ages, and I am a wicked, bad, naughty Zoot for not doing so earlier.

Second is the blog of fellow spanking fiction author – and self-confessed sassy brat – Adaline Raine! Adaline’s blog is titled ‘Bratty Adaline: Discipline as Needed’, which sounds rather like an instruction to me, as in ‘season to taste’... ;) There are lots of clever and creative writings to be found within, so do please pay her a visit.

Hugs to both of you! xx

P.S. In true Sesame Street spirit I am wearing Cookie Monster panties today. My yellow ones, to be exact. (I have more than one pair. But then doesn’t everyone?)