Having read several stories, both on here and on other sites, I have decided that now could be the time for me to share my corporal punishment experience. My interest in spanking and corporal punishments far precedes the Fifty Shades inspired current fashion.
Having said that, what I mean is, I am going to share my “defining moment” as it were. Relating to the incident that fired up my fascination with all things spanking, or at least brought that fascination to the surface of my psyche.
It was 1979, as part of the Cultural Exchange Program between my home state of Georgia and the North East of England. I was one of the lucky college students to be sent to Co Durham for three months of British University life.
The program had come about as a result of president Jimmy Carter's very popular visit to England. As quite a bit of his highly publicised tour centred around the North East of England, instead of being London-centric, links between Georgia and the depressed North East were quickly forged.
For the life of me, I still to this day can't think why I was picked to be part of the program. My academical skills were adequate, though I was no genius. But, by the same token I was not struggling in any of my subjects, in fact, I was a solid B student, majoring in classical music.
I was not from any of the states big hitting families or part of the Democratic political machine. In reality, I was just your average American southern girl working her way through college. Perhaps it was my very averageness that fitted into the criteria.
Whatever the reasons, I was more than glad to take up the offer, of what, in fact, was pretty much a three month long free vacation.
The North East of England in the late nineteen seventies was indeed a strange place, a land full of contrasts. Beautiful countryside vied with ugly industrial landscapes. It was a land of sweeping golden beaches, but it was also a one of gloomy black scarred pit heaps.
In the cities of Durham and Newcastle, you had architectural wonders, mixed in with the current town planners obsession with creating “modern-day” concrete grotesques.
The people were also an enigma; harsh sounding voices in what at first seemed to be an impenetrable dialect. Once my ears were attuned though I felt the genuinely warm, friendly, nature of the locals come through. Each time I went into a shop, or a bar, where my accent could be heard, I immediately became the centre of well-meant attention. I was quite often referred to as a Yankee, and rather than correct anyone, I happily went along with the affectionately said misnomer.
All of that involved the general public, my new fellow students were a different matter entirely!
I had found myself housed in the magnificent Durham Castle, as castles go for the area, it was in no means magnificent when compared to Bamburgh or Alnwick castles. But, however, as a hall of residence, I doubt there are any more spectacular in any place in the world.
The castle sits at the top of a steep hill, with the river Wear snaking underneath its vertiginous walls, opposite the portcullis entrance to the castle is the magnificent Durham Cathedral over the Palace Green. Walking around the green, was like going back in time rambling in the times of Robin Hood or Richard the Third.
But, I digress as it was the student body I meant to talk of, not the surreal surrounding of my stay. You see, for all that the locals were open and friendly; the students were aloof and standoffish. As most were not from the area, with Durham being on par with our Ivy League establishments, they for the most part were of a different stamp. Or rather, I should say stamps.
There seemed to be two distinct types staying at the castle; snobs that were well aware of being snobs, and the more annoying pseudo-socialists.
Of the two, the latter was the worst.
I knew their type only too well, as I had experienced similar in the US. Kids from rich middle class families, who fool themselves into thinking that they are liberal and socialist. Whilst it only takes the slightest of scratches, to uncover their inherent feelings of superiority and the elitist views of self-entitlement held in their hearts.
The ones in the castle were easy to spot, black and yellow Rock Against Racism badges, pinned to their invariably black jackets, seemed to be their ad hoc uniform. They looked upon me as being a cross-burning racist, just because of my accent. Not because of any inter-personal conversation, just because I sounded like a what I was, a southern girl.
So, instead of socialising within the castle walls, I tended to go to Dunelm House the students union building across the river. This building was one of the aforementioned concrete grotesques reached by an equally ugly concrete footbridge. However, the company in the union bar was much more palatable than the snobs on the hill.
It was there that I met Veronica, a local girl who was studying English Literature at one of the university's other colleges. We became friends almost straightaway; she was well grounded, and also very amusing, all in all, pretty good company. So we tended to meet up at the union most nights after our classes were over.
That fateful Wednesday when I entered the bar, Veronica was not alone, sitting next to her was a guy who I guessed to be around twenty-five-year-old, who I assumed to be Veronica's boyfriend. I was wrong on both counts.
“Sue-Lynne! Over here!” Veronica shouted, smiling and waving at me, clearly not realising that I had already seen her.
I grabbed a half of lager at the bar and joined them both in the alcove where they were sitting.
“This is Paul; he is one of my old school mates.” Veronica said by way of introduction, “Paul; this is Sue-Lynne.”
“I am charmed Ma'am to meet such a stunning Southern Belle!” Paul said, in an exaggerated impersonation of a southern drawl, at first I felt slightly piqued, then he winked at me. I could not then but help to reciprocate his greeting.
“Why thank you good sir,” I said in an equally exaggerated manner, “but you are running in danger of making this young belle blush!” With the ice now well and truly broken, and the three of us settled down into the great English tradition of drinking to excess.
“So what are you studying?” I asked Paul, after we had more or less exhausted the subject of the current music charts, and our favourite albums and artists.
“Me? I'm not a student, I'm one of the local oicks, I'm a plebian who has to work for a living!” He said this loud enough, for all of the surrounding tables to hear him, he gained a couple of raised eyebrows, but nothing by way of the reaction that he was obviously trying to garner.
He was, like Veronica very amusing, though not the sort of guy I would normally go for; he was tall, but also a little too slim, gangly in fact. Fair hair cut in an odd way, long at the back, but short at the sides, and combed back over causing the top of his head to look like a groundhog.
But hey, I was in a foreign land, and very drunk, he may not have been Mr. Right, but he was certainly Mr. Right-Now.
About nine thirty, Veronica made a big fuss about having to get the last bus back home, evidently expecting Paul to be accompanying her.
“Paul, I've got to get home before eleven...you know that!” She said, starting to look a little distressed.
“I know, but we can't just leave Sue-Lynne here on her own can we?”
“So how do you intend to get home, a taxi will cost us a fucking fortune?”
Paul didn't reply, he just held up his left hand making a fist, and then put his thumb out and smiled.
“No way am I going to try and hitch hike back from here. We could end up standing there for hours, I have to be in by eleven!” Veronica said, now she looked to be almost to be on the verge of tears.
“Right, we'll walk you back to the bus station. Then I'll see Sue-Lynne back to the castle. I'll just hitch hike back on me tod later, OK?”
Before Veronica could reply I interjected, “On your what?”
“On me tod, it's rhyming slang for on my own,” Paul replied, grinning at my confusion, “Todd Sloane, alone, get it?”
Both myself and Veronica shook our heads at Paul, both for very different reasons.
The three of us then walked across the city centre to the bus depot, Paul and I waved Veronica off as she left for home; the relief on her face was palpable.
“Come on, we'll go to the chippie, then we can grab a pint before last orders.” Paul said, indicating to a fish and chip shop next to the bus depot. “Then I'll see you back to your castle My Lady!”
British fish and chip shops in the nineteen-seventies were truly weird and wonderful places. The proprietor's willingness to batter almost anything - pizzas included - was more than equalled by their customers eagerness to consume their wares.
Paul ordered two “bags and batter” which was thickly cut french fries wrapped in old newspapers, sprinkled with a large amount of burnt bits of batter that had accumulated in the huge fat frier.
I know it sounds disgusting, but tasted fantastic, more so with a liberal covering of salt and vinegar!
We ate our greasy supper in a shop doorway, then dived into the pub opposite us, in a rush to catch the ten-thirty last orders.
Once sat down, at a table by the window overlooking the river, I asked the question that had been nagging me for the last hour.
“Why was Veronica in such a state about getting home? It's not like that was even the last bus that she got?”
I could tell straight off by the look on Paul's face that I had somehow hit a nerve.
“It's complicated.” Paul eventually said, apparently not wanting to be drawn further on the subject.
Of course, now I wanted to find out more, because of his evasiveness only fired up my curiosity even more.
“That's fine; I like complicated. I'm quite a smart girl you know; I can understand loads of complicated stuff.”
“OK, but you have to promise me that you won't mention any of this to Vee?” Paul said, and of course I nodded, “If you do tell her, she'll be wearing my balls for earrings!”
I laughed out loud at that image, and assured Paul that whatever he told me, would indeed go no further. He then took a large gulp of lager, and started to tell me all.
“Veronica's parents are very old fashioned, her mam especially...she is sort of strict with her, you know what I mean?” Paul said, evidently feeling awkward about having to spell it out.
“You mean she gets spanked!” I asked, or rather almost shouted out in surprise.
“Shh...keep your voice down man. Yeah, she gets spanked and stuff.” Paul replied, his face now blushing as he looked about the room to see if anyone had heard my exclamation.
“At her age? And, what do you mean by stuff?”
“Well, I don't know all of the details, you know this isn't a subject that Vee likes to talk about too much. Age doesn't come into it, as far as her parents are concerned university is just an extension of going to school. She is not working, so in their eyes she is not an adult. Let's face it, it's not unknown for sixth formers to get caned, fair enough it's not common, but like I said, it's not unknown.” Paul said shrugging his shoulders.
“Sorry, I forgot you have a different education system to us. Senior High, I think is your equivalent...you know, eighteen-year-old students?” Paul asked, and I nodded for him to continue.
I don't know if he had sensed that he had hit upon my little kink, or he just wanted to alleviate the weight of knowledge, either way he now continued almost with relish.
“Her mam has like a tariff system for Veronica. She gets spanked for minor things, untidy bedroom, not helping around the house. University related stuff, like not devoting enough time to her studies, she gets a whacking with a ping-pong bat,” at this point Paul must have been able to see a look of confusion on my face, “ping-pong, its what we call table tennis over here?” I nodded, eager for him to continue.
“Then, for what her mam deems to be serious stuff, she get the cane. Being home before eleven on a week night is 'serious', so if she had been late tonight. It would have straight up to her bedroom; jeans and knickers down, over the end of the bed and six across her bare arse!”
“Bare?....She gets all of that on her bare butt?” I whispered, my voice now starting to crack.
“Yeah, did I not mention that earlier?” Paul asked, his eyes twinkling, a trace of a smile now on his lips.
Paul was definitely Mr Right-Now, and you know, I think he knew it!
We rushed back across town to the Palace Green; we both knew though that I wasn't going back into the castle, at least not for a good while. As we walked, all I could think of was Veronica's punishments. Thinking what it would be like to taste a caning, what it would be like to wield the cane upon Veronica's bared full womanly bottom. These thoughts were affecting me physically, I knew I was getting wet. Also, my nipples were erect and aching as they rubbed at the captivity of my bra.
I practically marched Paul across the green, not towards the castle though, but in the direction of the cathedral, towards the river. This dark secluded section of the green would be ideal, or so I thought.
Paul kissed me with urgency, forcing me back against the stone wall, I sucked hard on his invading tongue, wishing that it was his cock that was in my mouth. “That will come later,” I thought to myself, as I felt my light summer dress being lifted clear of my hips. Then I felt Paul's exploring fingers inside my panties, feeling through my light patch of pubic hair, searching out the damp fleshy folds of my sex. His head was now resting on my shoulder; I could both feel and hear the hotness of his breath as he whispered.
“I want you?”
“Yes!” I gasped in reply.
A wave of tenderness had now seemed to have engulfed Paul, as he ever so gently tugged my panties down my thighs, he then knelt in front of me, pulling them lower towards my ankles. I was sure that he was about to kiss and tongue my pussy. When suddenly I was blinded by a bright light, and heard a voice say.
“Right you two, let's be having you!”
It is truly amazing, how quick you sober up when you are arrested in a foreign country.