Sunday, October 24, 2021

Victoriana part 2

Saturday morning I was wide awake before my radio alarm clock. It told me that it was 6 AM. I realized that I wouldn't be sleeping another Z. I got out of bed and prepared a toast with slices of French goat cheese. I mused, Imagine France, that goat cheese will be cheaper, and you will have an expat allowance.

I had decided last night. I was going to visit the Ecole Ecarlate. I of course, knew that écarlate means scarlet. What a strange name for a school. I also wondered about that promise of guarantied results. I further mused, What about the méthode traditionnelle, and the school uniform? The little wheels between my ears teased. It adds up, you will be spanked till you are fluent!

I shrugged. I am not afraid of a spanking. Daddy spanked me till I got my O and A Levels, and continued till I graduated from my banking school.

With a second cup of coffee, I searched on my cellphone for that Birchwood Manor at Switchingham Village. Once I had found it I tried 3D, but I got a "Private Property" message. TomTom said that it wouldn't be more than a 20 minutes bike ride.

After a long shower and having dried my hair, I pulled up my new white cotton knickers. I also selected a very conservative matching bra. The Victoriana white blouse and the shortish tartan pleated skirt followed with the black sweater. Next were the knee-high socks and I selected a pair of black brogues. In my tall mirror, I smiled for having traveled back in time. 'Back to school naughty girl!' To be safe with the cloudy weather, I added a lightweight hooded raincoat.

It was a leisurely ride, and before the village, I took the long private alley leading to Birchwood Manor. I discovered a lovely old stone house with a superb English garden. I parked my bike and gently tap-tapped the door with the old brass knocker.

A middle-aged gentleman with an impressive mustache and an elegant tweed suit opened.

"Good morning Sir, it is about the French lessons."

"Indeed! Compliments for the uniform. I am Monsieur Maurice.

He led me into a small office with two comfy chairs in front of an old wooden desk. I immediately noticed the magazine on his desk. Its name of Janus meant nothing for me, but the picture on the cover confirmed what I had imagined about the méthode traditionelle.

"We shall begin with a test. We have to assess your level to decide if you have the basics for turning you into a fluent French speaker." He showed me an antic school desk with an attached seat.

The test took one hour, it was written and oral. With that cover of Janus in mind, I did my best, but he grimaced for my accent. While he corrected the written part, I prayed that he wouldn't reject me.

 Finally he gave his verdict, "C minus, a barely average grade."

I blushed, "I am sorry Sir. Does it mean that I don't have the minimum requirement?"

"Hahaha! Why is it that important to be French fluent?"

"Its about a promotion and a great position with our agency in Calais."

"It will take 3 months, alternating 3 weeks with us including weekends, and one week back at your bank."

"Phew! Thank you Sir!" I beamed. I was elated.

"How many years of French have you had?"

"Seven years, Sir."

"Such a poor grade after seven years of French. You should be ashamed of yourself."

I lost my smile.

"It is evidence that you were lazy. You deserve to be punished."


"As a lazy girl you will be severely spanked on your bare bottom."


I couldn't say that I was surprised when he stood and pulled me over his knees. It was nonetheless quite embarrassing to be pulled by the ear as a ten-year-old. 

He swiftly raised my skirt. I expected that much, but he lowered my knickers. Daddy had never pulled down my knickers, he only pulled them up. I felt a hot flush and knew that I was blushing as red as a peony. 

He spanked my bottom and thighs. I tried to keep my legs tightly closed. He had callous hands, probably from maintaining that lovely garden. He spanked hard and counted the smacks. After forty smacks, I started pedaling my legs and no longer cared what I was showing. He pinned one of my arms behind my back, and had one of his legs locking mine, and continued.

"Repeat after me for your first French lesson. Les paresseuses sont toujours fessées cul nu !"


"OH! AH! AIE! AIE! Les paresseuses sont toujour fessées cul nu. OUCH! AIE!"

I got one hundred smacks. I had never received such a long and severe spanking. My bum and thighs were throbbing.

He helped me stand up and ordered, "Don't rub! Stand in that corner with your knickers still down and holding your skirt up." I was quite contrite. "Sniff!" I was indeed back in school and already spanked, well spanked.

While I was in the corner, he asked for my full name, age, address and more as he completed my file. "You will be boarding, sharing a room with 3 girls. The next term starts in a week. Your bank will have payed my fee by that time. There's no refund if you quit before the end of the term. If you quit, your bank will be made aware of that. You will return to Victoriana for a full kit."

"Yes Sir."

"I promise that you will be fluent, as if you had a French mother. Pull your knickers up, adjust your skirt and give this invoice to your bank. You will notice that my methods aren't mentioned. You may, if you want, tell your colleagues that you will be spanked as a naughty schoolgirl till you are fluent."

"Oh, I won't, Sir!"

"Very well, run along."


To be continued...

NB : Les paresseuses sont toujours fessées cul nu = Lazy girls are always spanked bare butt.

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Saturday, October 23, 2021

Sunday, October 17, 2021

Victoriana part 1

The dream had taken me back in time, Daddy had pulled me over his knees, raised my pleated school skirt, pulled my knickers deep into my valleys and vigorously spanked my bare bum.

I had a long cooling shower before getting dressed for my day at the bank.

After a short bike ride to the nearby market town the tellers of the local Barclay Bank greeted me with courteous, "Good morning Miss Alicia!" I returned their greetings with a warm smile. They again seemed to compete as to whom would wear the shortest miniskirt. At 22, only a few of years older, I would have loved to join the competition, but I am their supervisor.

I dropped my bag on my desk and climbed the stairs to poke my head into the office of the manager's secretary. As usual she was having coffee with the deputy manager. I was offered a cup. A few minutes later we were joined by our manager. He poured himself a cup and point blank questioned me, "How's your French Alicia?"

"Average... Sir."

"You are due a promotion and London is offering the position of deputy manager of the Calais branch."

"You would have a leave to beef up your French. Your language coach or whatever program would be paid by the bank. You have a week to think about it."

On the way back home I was milling over that proposition and almost missed the opening of a newly renovated shop. A rare occurrence with the local supermarket having killed most of the small shops of our residential suburb.

The name and the purpose was interesting, Victoriana Vintage Fashion and Haberdashery. I attached my bike to a nearby lamppost and examined the window. There was of course plenty of haberdashery supplies and a strange mix of dress patterns from the 70s  and a number of Enid Blyton's books. I also spotted inside the shop a mannequin dressed with a lovely tartan pinafore.


I pushed the door, a small bell chimed, I was welcomed by a middle aged lady behind a very modern sewing machine. After a polite exchange I asked if I could have a look around. "By all means! Please don't mind me, I already have plenty of work."

The shop was set up so that visitors could browse without being under the eyes of its owner. I could discreetly satisfy my curiosity. The tag on the pinafore read, 'Made to measure, £107' That wasn't cheap! There was a wooden bookcase with more books by Enid Blyton and an assortment of school like cotton knickers and woolly knee high socks. Several clothes racks offered a selection of dresses and skirts similar to those pictured by the patterns in the window. Most tags read, "Made to measure, please ask for a quote."

Those dresses and skirts weren't as short as those of my bank tellers, it was only the fashion of the 70s, the start of the miniskirt revolution. I suddenly remembered my first mini, Mom had smacked my thighs, "Now you have a choice, wear that brazen skirt showing that you were spanked or wear a proper one!"

I did wear it a few years later when they retired by the sea after having sold their business. I did also wear it at the bank as it isn't too short contrary to Mom's ideas.

I spotted a cute set of a short tartan pleated skirt with a white long sleeve blouse and a black sleeveless sweater. The tag said that it came with white cotton knickers and knee high socks for £70. Somehow it reminded me of my old school uniform. Although I didn't know if I will ever dare wear it, I tried it on. The stretch waist was an easy fit, and the lady asked how short I want the skirt, "Not to short please."

I collected it Thursday late afternoon on the way back home. I tried the skirt on. I loved that it was quite short without being too short. It felt flirty. I imagined testing it on a few dishy guys at the local coffee shop. I again remembered Mom having smacked my thighs.

Then I was surprised to find a small leaflet in the pocket within the waist band.

"Would you like to learn French ?

Old fashioned method

Guarantied results !"

There was no address, no telephone number, nothing. With the Calais offer in the back of my mind, and the intriguing promise of guarantied results I was very curious! I returned to the shop to show that leaflet to the seamstress and she gave me a card,

Ecole Ecarlate 

Enseignement tradionnel du français

 Birchwood Manor

Upper Switchingham

There was an address and no telephone number. I didn't know that manor, but I knew the picturesque village. With a beguiling smile the old lady said, "You already have the uniform." I raised both eyebrows, and she added with a somewhat admonishing tone, "Be sure to wear it when visiting."


To be continued...

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Sunday, October 10, 2021

Whippingham Fitness Camp part 6

I had done well with my weight loss program. I only had two more pounds to shed. There was salmon with sliced potatoes in a creamy Parmesan sauce, I felt I deserved a break. I reasoned, its Saturday, and we weren't weighted on Sunday. I didn't resist a second helping.

I could have more or less remained on track, maybe earn no more than an embarrassing bare bottom spanking, but in for a penny in for a pound. The dark chocolate mousse was devilishly tempting, and I surrendered. June watched me spooning it with saucer like eyes. On Sunday I was kinda worried about my indulgence, and ran a few extra miles on the treadmill.

Monday morning for the weighing ceremony the verdict was terrible. "April, you have regained two pounds. You are taking off your buruma, and going to cut a couple of switches."

A few girls, who had seen me with envy spooning that rich, dark, scrumptious chocolate mousse, giggled as I was taking off my buruma.

A switching was the ultimate deterrent.

With a blush, I exchanged my gym knickers for a pair of shears. With nothing more than my curls, I stepped out of the mansion to cut a couple of switches, from the well known shrub. I couldn't help feeling my cheeks burning with embarrassment when more girls teased me.

I selected my two switches, and sat on cold paving stones to clean the leaves off. With butterflies fluttering in my tummy, I reflected on the price, I was going to pay for my silly indulgence. I already felt sorry for myself.

In front of the mansion with everyone watching our coach ordered me to grab my knees, and she switched my bum and upper thighs. It was sizzling streaks of fire. "OH! AH! AIE! OUCH!"

It was even more severe than the welcome strapping I got from Miss Principal. It was searing, scorching, incandescent, with zippy sounds instead of resounding whacks. I stammered as I promised. "OH! AH! OUCH! OUCH! I am very sorry Miss. Sniff! I will be back on my diet. Sniff! I promise. Sniff!"

She gave me back my buruma, and there was no time for after spanking treatment from my friends. Next was the morning run on the beach. I ran with my streaked buns and thighs. The usual joggers were there, and they cheered.

I would never again forget my diet, even after having left Whippingham! A few days later, I had lost all of my extra weight, and I was as fit as a marathoner.



With June we retook our dance exams. The Academy's leotard couldn't hide the fading pattern of my switching. June teased. "The jury will never imagine that you were given a switching, for having stuffed your face with chocolate mousse!"

My answer to her teasing was non verbal. "Grgrgrgrgr!"

Modern dancing allows more freedom than ballet, and I had fun with the wheels and steps learned at Whippingham. I flew!

I got a 9.1 average from the judges. June got 9.2. We were congratulated by the jury for the best scores for a second chance, and offered a tall glass of champagne. We didn't have a second one!

The lady co-president the jury cheekily teased. "I have a feeling that you have been at Whippy." We both blushed crimson, but we proudly answered. "Yes Ma'am!" She smiled, and whispered. "It will be our secret!"

Later we emailed our Whippingham coaches and Miss Principal. "9.2 and 9.1, we are back on track! Thank you!"

April and June

 PS: There is for sure one Whippingham village, somewhere...

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