by B.Y. Parsons
London has a certain tawdry appeal for North American spanking enthusiasts. The Soho porn shops are chock full of spanking mags, books and videos. The phone booths are plastered with sex-ads inviting Headmasters to attend to naughty schoolgirls who are waiting for them, bent over their desks, any time of the day or night. Ann Summer's sex-shops offer mini-skirted uniforms for would-be maids and nurses, head-to-toe PVC outfits for budding Superwomen, and all manner of leather-goods for men who would worship at their feet.
These venues aren't buried down back alleys; they're cheek-by-jowl with mainstream British culture. The major bookstore chains have more D/s paperbacks on open display than can be found in the restricted sections of Adult bookstores in my home town. London boasts several of the greatest bookstores in the English-speaking world: Dylan's, Blackwell's, Foyles and Waterstones. On several floors, you can pore over the latest titles from the top academic presses, then wander down to the Erotica section to check out your favourite bedtime reading...
In Britain, erotic discipline is firmly ensconced in the bosom of the body politic. The French dubbed it 'le vice anglais' and they weren't joking. Many analysts have speculated that Margaret Thatcher's popularity as a righteous scold was based in part on the fantasy of being sent to the Headmistress' office for a tongue-lashing - or worse. Her mantra was 'no pain, no gain', and her most ardent supporters were upper-class men who attended elite schools where, in their student days, the cane was in regular use. Thatcher derided Cabinet Ministers slightly to her left as 'Wets'. Two have written memoirs in which they recall incurring the Iron Lady's wrath and having to report to Whitehall for verbal thrashings that went on for an hour or more. Despite such humiliations, they remained loyal to the bitter end. Might their unrequited fidelity be explained in part by the enthralling appeal of the strict Matriarch for wayward bourgeois lads?
The combination of sexual prurience and ruling-class moralism creates a culture in which erotic discipline flourishes, in which the synapses of pleasure and pain become fused and confused. It dates back a long way. From Swinburne on, flagellation themes have always figured prominently in English pornography. Today, the country's tabloids keep the home fires burning. Their stock-in-trade is the sex-scandal, where they make the traditional Christian connection between "sins of the flesh" and their public expiation. The tabloids are modern-day equivalents of stocks, ducking stools and whipping posts in the town square - scourging and titillating the public simultaneously. The kinks of the high and mighty are ruthlessly exposed. Aristocrats, vicars, novelists, sports stars, Cabinet Ministers, and half the House of Lords, it seems, have all found their illicit affairs and erotic predilections splashed across the front pages of the mass-circulation dailies. When such cases end up in court, they provide the editors with another opportunity to boost circulation by feeding a voyeuristic fascination with public shaming rituals. Sordid stuff, admittedly - but also riveting.
In the summer of 1991, I happened to be visiting London at the time of England's Test-Match against India. As well as extensive coverage of the games themselves, the tabloids carried a story, complete with pictures, concerning the exploits of a voluptuous black-haired beauty in her mid-twenties. Somehow evading security, our gal strolled out onto the roof of a block of flats surrounding the famous Lord's cricket ground and stripped down to her "knickers" (as the English say), suspender belt, stockings and high heels. Waving her bra over her head, she gave the leering crowd a bodacious greeting before being engulfed by red-faced bobbies who were no doubt wondering, as they took her in hand, how the brazen hussy had managed to sneak past their security lines. As she was being covered up and carted off by Britain's finest, the exhibitionist informed inquisitive reporters that she had done the deed on her boyfriend's dare.
Ashley Winters was arrested and charged with public mischief. Three weeks later, on Thursday July 25th to be precise, she had her day in court. The Crown entered several pictures into evidence taken by photographers covering the match. One showed her bent over a railing, peering over her shoulder with a grin on her face as she administered a fulsome slap to her upturned bottom. The prosecutor thought it revealed her "cheeky insolence". I should say so.
After reviewing the photographic evidence, the presiding Judge developed a bulge in his trousers. Sir Geoffrey Hale was relieved to be seated behind the Queen's Bench. Focusing all his above-the-waist energy on the task at hand, he peered down his patrician nose at the comely young woman standing before him, head bowed, hands clasped behind her back. Glancing up shyly to meet his stern gaze, Ashley Winters was wowed by Sir Geoffrey's 6'2" frame, broad shoulders, square-set jaw, piercing brown eyes and wavy black hair flecked with grey at the temples. Resplendent in the black-and-scarlet robes of his office, the Judge exuded gravitas, sending nervous butterflies and libidinal tremors coursing through her tummy. For the second time in a month, the "cabaret artist" (as she listed her occupation for the court) was caught in a public spotlight of her own making. But this time, her audience felt personal.
"Now young lady," the Judge asked the wide-eyed winsome lass in his deep, resonant voice, "we have seen the photographs. The citizens of the United Kingdom - whether they wished to or not - have been treated to your titillating side-show on national television. Would you care to explain yourself?"
"I... I'm sorry Sir, but I don't know what came over me."
"Well then, perhaps you can tell us what came off you, so as to leave you in the state of undress in which we find you in these pictures."
"Um, my dress, Sir."
"This petite white frock, Exhibit C, recovered from the roof by the police?"
"Yes Sir."
"Did it just fall off as you climbed over the railing to get a better look at the match?"
A wave of mirth rolled through the crowded courtroom. Feeling mortified, Ashley didn't appreciate the Judge's humour one bit! "No Sir. I took it off."
"Whatever possessed you to do that, young lady?"
"I... um... I was excited, Your Honour."
"Was the match so close that you were swept away with the drama of it all?" He'd done it again! He knew perfectly well that the Indian side led the match by a country mile that day.
"Well no, Sir. I got swept up in the spectacle."
"Whose spectacle, Miss? Your own?"
"No, I mean the crowd. To be seen by all those people and hear them applauding me. It was rather exciting. I know what I did was wrong, Sir, but the fans seemed to enjoy it."
"Oh, I'm sure they did Ms. Winters. But the law is not designed to encourage the gratuitous stimulation of crowds, is it."
"No, Your Honour."
"In this country, we believe in free speech, but also in public decorum."
"I understand, Sir."
"But you wanted to stage your very own spectacle."
"Um... yes, Sir." Ashley lowered her eyes, feeling ashamed of her brazenness. If her father were alive today...
"Did you think it would be a good publicity stunt for a would-be starlet?"
"Um, I guess I did."
"Did you plan the caper in advance?"
"Yes, Sir."
"So you weren't carried away by a sudden impulse. Your exhibitionism was rather more calculated than that." Then he brandished the photo where Ashley's hand was poised over her backside. "Perhaps you might inform the court as to what you were about to do when this picture was taken."
Blushing deeply, Ashley replied, "Um, I gave my bottom a pat, Sir."
"A pat?"
"Well, a bit of a smack."
"Constable Pattison testified that she heard three distinct smacks - 'cracking sounds' was the phrase she used. That's what alerted her to your presence on the roof."
"Yes, Your Honour."
"A self-administered spanking?" Ashley's face flushed. "Strange behaviour indeed," the Judge mused, stroking his chin.
"It was a prank, Sir."
"Were you beckoning the crowd to 'come and get it'?"
"Not exactly, Sir. More like: 'have a look. Here it is.'" Once again, titters wafted across the courtroom.
"Yes, and here it is today, requiring my decision. What am I to do with you, Ms. Winters?"
Judge Hale drummed his fingers on the bench, gazing off into space. Finally, he turned and glared down at the anxious defendant. Court reporters waited with bated breath, notebooks at the ready.
"I find you guilty as charged. As for sentence..." Ashley shivered as the Judge paused. A 'hypothetical' (in legal parlance) took shape in his mind. "What if I were to usher you into my private chambers and have you bend over my desk as you did over the railing at Lord's. Then I could finish off that spanking you began to give yourself on July the 3rd. I'd wipe the silly grin from your face that we see in this photograph, replacing it with a grimace and perhaps a tear or two. Would that be a fitting sentence, Ms. Winters?"
There was utter silence in the courtroom. Everyone was shocked - especially Ashley. Unable to look at the Judge, she muttered. "I... I don't know what to say Your Honour. I guess I deserve it."
"Well unfortunately, Ms. Winters - fortunately for you - I am not at liberty to administer such a punishment. This is not the Seventeenth Century, although it might be fitting - given that you have made a perfect ass of yourself. Your cheap publicity stunt will not go unpunished however. I am fining you two hundred pounds. Have you anything further to say, Ms. Winters?"
"No, Your Honour."
"Very well. The court stands adjourned until two o'clock."
Predictably, the papers had a field day, especially with the Judge's summation: Spanking Suggested for 'a Perfect Ass' - Judge Slaps Fine on Test-match Show-off - Old-Fashioned Justice - Spanks and "a Tear or Two".
The lead on one tabloid's article read: "Ashley Winters, who stripped off at Lord's recently in front of an appreciative Test-match audience, is feeling rather fortunate today that she doesn't live in the Seventeenth Century."
As it turned out, the tabloid's surmise was wrong. On a Wednesday evening three weeks later at precisely 10:20, Ashley rang the front door bell of Sir Geoffrey's residence in a posh suburb of London. The good judge was in his den reading a legal brief on admissible evidence. His housekeeper had retired for the evening, so he answered the bell himself. Opening the door, he was startled to find Ashley Winters standing there, looking sheepish but positively ravishing. She was discreetly dressed in a light coat, which opened slightly as she greeted him. He noted that she was wearing Exhibit C, which had evidently been cleaned since being discarded at Lord's.
"Judge Hale?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, Sir, but I..."
"Come in, Ms. Winters."
"Ashley, Sir. You can call me Ashley," the girl breathlessly exclaimed as she entered Geoffrey Hale's front vestibule.
"May I take your coat?"
"Thank you Sir."
"How did you find me, Ms. Winters," the Judge enquired as he hung her coat in the closet.
"I told the court clerk I wished to write you a personal letter. He gave me your office address, so I went there. Your secretary, Louise, was very friendly. I explained that I wanted to seek your advice about some rather personal matters, and she thought it would be fine for me to write you at home. She gave me your address."
"And you were lying to her."
"Not really, Sir. At the time, I wasn't planning to visit you in person but I was writing you a letter. I have it right here." With trembling fingers, she fished it out of her purse and gave it to him.
He tore it in two and handed the pieces back to her. "As long as you are here in person, young lady, I might as well hear from your own lips whatever it is you feel you must tell me. Shall we adjourn to my den?"
"Yes Sir," she said, feeling weak at the knees.
"Please be quiet as we go. My housekeeper has just gone to bed and she is a light sleeper."
Following her down the hall, Geoffrey Hale studied her gorgeous bare back, topped by a swishing pony tail. The brief sundress was cut right down to her trim waist, and it occurred to him that if the spaghetti straps crisscrossing her shoulder blades had snapped, the dress might well have fallen off as he had facetiously suggested in court.
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