The Girls' Boarding School Spring Term 2022
Two weekends ago, at last, the season was upon us again to don our uniforms, and get into the right headspace for another glorious, fully immersive weekend at the Girls’ Boarding School. In this blog I shall attempt once more to give you a flavour of the weekend. Of course, everyone will have had his/her own recollections and I can only give you a description of mine. There were around 30 of us participating - a much bigger group than last time, and we will all have our own, unique, overlapping memories of the Spring Term 2022. Again, I will attempt to be as accurate and detailed as possible, while being discreet about individual identities to protect the ‘innocent’. Here is my account, as Matron:
On the Friday late afternoon, as my train pulled in to the tiny, rural station, I saw 2 girls exiting the train, dragging suitcases, and intuitively knew they would be 2 of ‘our’ girls. In the car park, we introduced each other, with much muted excitement, and were given a lift by another participant- down the country lane, up the driveway and into the stunning grounds of the Victorian cottage/farmhouse that was to be this Spring Term’s School. We were ushered through the pantry and kitchen, meeting and greeting people all the way, who had also just arrived, and the Prefect showed us to our rooms. I was impressed to see mine had a printed ‘Matron’ sign on the door. After unpacking, the first evening was spent chatting, catching up with old friends, meeting new ones, running through protocols and rules at the staff meeting, then straight into the main room for our ‘consent and communication’ workshop.
The workshop organiser had a very interesting take on the difference between giving prior consent and managing to communicate effectively in the middle of a scene without breaking role. He described how, when in dom-space, and specially subspace, we go into the primal part of our brains, and then to tunnel back up and communicate verbally can be very difficult, so we discussed and then practiced ‘scratching’ techniques from his LARPing (Live Action Role Playing) experiences. This is where you are saying/role-playing one thing: “Oh please don’t spank me, I didn’t do it, it wasn’t my fault, it’s not fair, I don’t want a spanking!’ and communicating the opposite, non-verbally, thus accelerating the punishment: (spank me harder, I really want a good thrashing, yes you absolutely can punish me!) by scratching gently with your fingertips- on the spanker’s forearm for example. We lined up- teachers/tops on one side of the room and students/spankees on the other, as if at a Bridgerton ball about to break into a formal dance. After discussing and trying these techniques together, we rotated one person to the left- a great idea to interact with each other/break the ice, and also to give the brain some ‘muscle-memory’ so that it’s easier to recall than mere theory. The second technique was ‘tapping’ which works as a ‘safe-word’ and can be used either against the spanker’s leg, for example, if OTK, or if bent over a table and not closely connected physically (like during a caning scene) can be done on the table top. So far so good. Some people liked the techniques, others weren’t sure, but the important thing was to have this discussion and introduce the idea that, despite having detailed notes provided by all participants, as tops we are not mind-readers, and spankees are active participants in their discipline and will be listened to. A good thing to mull over as you fall asleep, preparing for a whole day at the School on Saturday.
I am not a natural early riser but I was wide awake at 6,30 in the morning, excited for the day ahead. Out of my window, with a backdrop of rolling English hills, cows strolled nonchalantly, munching the grass a few feet from the house, bathed in the lemon light of the early morning. As I walked down the staircase, I had to clutch the bannister as I was greeted by a defaced portrait of Churchill: googly-eyes had been attached during the night! On further inspection they were everywhere- on bronze busts, plaster cherubs, on the piano, staring comically from framed photographs… Our chef also informed us he’d found a fake cockroach in the kitchen. It seems this year’s return to school had been accompanied by some high spirits. Fake roaches began appearing all over the house before breakfast. While the girls were having their coffee and cereals I made my way to the kitchen, my heels cracking on the flagstone floor in the corridor, loudly announcing my arrival, and announced to the girls that whoever was responsible could come and confess to me after the second class, in my room. I added, ominously, that unless the culprit confessed, I would find out by hook or by crook, and she would find the fake roaches in her bed.
Finding those responsible proved tricky. I was informed by one of the teachers of a possible ring-leader regarding the cockroach prank, so I found her on the terrace, tapped her on the shoulder and led her to my room during break time. Standing to the right of my chair, about to go across my knee, scolded and interrogated about her naughtiness, she pleaded with me, and insisted the cockroaches were not her fault. She was so spooked, and so sincere in her denial and she eventually cracked, and confessed ‘But I was involved in the googley-eyes joke, that was me…’ so down came her white regulation knickers and she got a spanking on her bare bottom. I assured her I believed her, and sent her back to class. Not much later that morning, 3 girls, twiddling fingers and scuffing the toes of their shoes, came to confess that they had also been involved in this prank, and didn’t think their friend should take all the punishment for it. Very noble, I thought, as I lined them up in my room and gave them each a hard hand spanking while the other two watched nervously. ‘But she didn’t do the cockroaches and neither did we!’ they assured me, as I sent them back to the school room for classes. Shortly later, I went into my room to fetch something and found my bed strewn with more fake roaches. Also, weirdly, a plastic dinosaur. This is where having a ‘matron’ sign on the door perhaps has its associated dangers. I vowed to catch the sneaky perpetrator somehow. After the next class break I found a line of fake spiders crawling across the threshold of my door. The little terror had struck again! I had to think like a teacher. I hatched my plan and waited, patient as a spider.
In the break between classes I knew she would strike again, so when I heard the floorboard creak quietly, I was ensconced behind the closed door, and flung it open, catching her in the act. With a squawk of surprise, she dropped a handful of spiders. I dragged her over the threshold and into my door.
‘Got you! No denying it now, young lady, caught you red-handed!’ She had the cheek to protest that I had given her the idea by suggesting putting them in the bed, and was still arguing as her knickers came down and I tanned her bottom. She got extra hard smacks for not confessing, and I made sure she was wriggling and gasping before letting her off my knee. But this naughty girl’s punishment was not over yet. Later, I discovered she’d been advised by other girls to confess, and had chosen not to, even when teachers had been spanking other girls for her prank, on inaccurate information, so I picked up my white school ‘plimsoll’ and went to find her. I took her into the library, explained that she was not following the rules of the school or the behaviour expected of a GBS girl, and that she had brought this upon herself by failing to confess. I instructed her to pull up her skirt and bend over and hold onto the library steps. Leaving the door open, so that any passing student or teacher could see her punishment, I peeled down her knickers and gave her 12 hard whacks with the plimsoll on the bare, making her count each one, and say ‘Thank you, Matron’. For the final 3, Headmaster happened to be walking past, along with another teacher, and the both came to witness her thrashing.
As usual, the standard of the classes given at the School was excellent: covering a wide range of topics, from Victorian schooling and punishments, business success, leadership, music appreciation and dance, to the Viking invasion of the UK, protocols and etiquette at a formal dinner, and Australiana. The girls paid attention and were not too naughty in class, albeit a little more than at the previous GBS. Fake moustaches appearing during a practical part of the etiquette class, for example, when the girls were stepping forward to attempt sipping soup correctly. The Prefect informed me there was some doodling in exercise books when they were supposed to be taking notes, so I was happy to demand they hand over their books to be inspected, and flip through, scowling and tutting at the rude caricatures of the teachers, and sending them to see that teacher after class. Saturday had been a raging success. The entire house, by the afternoon, rang with the sound of clapping hands on cheeks, from the Headmaster’s study, the library, the main classroom, the teachers’ studies and often the kitchen, where our formidable chef, in between preparing delicious meals, dealt with cheeky girls skipping class, not performing their kitchen duties properly, or stealing food. He made the most glorious cinnamon buns at one point, and there is a spectacular photo of him, in the foreground a plate of these plump, tasty treats, (see on FL) and chef, imposing at over 6 foot, in his white chef’s coat, against the dimly-lit, antiquated kitchen, with a a naughty girl slung over his knee toasting her buns in the background. A wonderful kitchen for photoshoots- not so good when it came to opening cans (no can-opener, I came across him vigorously stabbing cans with a blunt knife), to tackling an actual Aga, or the retro oven that broke down that evening, causing a last-minute rush for takeaway pizzas. Always a solution to any problem at the school, with such resourceful staff.
And so, after our ‘dark academia’-themed cocktail party, it was time for bed, ready for the next day at GBS.
Sunday morning, the wake-up gong had long been rung, and barely a soul was stirring in the house, apart from the teachers and the occasional sleepy girl. I decided to rectify this and make sure they were awake after the partying the night before They were still expected to attend breakfast in uniform. Healthy girls must eat and stay hydrated, and are not allowed to skip meals. I spent ten minutes in the kitchen chatting to chef and trying to find a school bell sound effect on my mobile phone. It seemed the house was trying to teach me a lesson- we were, after all, in an immersive role play weekend, stepping back in time a few decades. After a fruitless succession of bleeps and whistles, and screeching school bells, I turned around in the pantry to find a perfect brass hand bell with a satisfying ‘kerang-ker-klang!’ ring. It was just sitting there on the shelf, waiting for me to locate it. Listen, the house was saying- put down your mobiles and devices, and drop your compulsion to go online. Look around you. Leave the 21st century for a little while and go analogue.
The kitchen began to fill with girls, in various stages of uniform. The second day, girls seem to be less bothered about hair-style regulations (no long hair below the collar, must be tied up with ribbons etc), and there seemed to be some sloppiness around socks and blouses. I decided to carry out a uniform inspection before class. One girl was being extremely cheeky- provocatively so, in fact, to the governess, answering her back- almost as if she was angling for a spanking! The Governess and I discussed whether it would be appropriate to turn her over the kitchen table right here and now, in front of her friends, and smack her bottom, and, given her continued cheek, that’s exactly what we did. A group of girls coming in to breakfast stopped hesitantly, and huddled in the doorway, watching, and giggling, as she was spanked. The Governess took over and gave her several resounding claps to the bottom. My, that’s a firm, no-nonsense hand, I thought admiringly.
For the rest of the morning I found I was very busy as the girls began to turn up for class, asking each of them to bend over a chair or table as they filed through, so I could lift their skirts and check they were wearing regulation knickers. They all were, although some of them failed the cuffs inspection- nothing worse than grubby cuffs, and two girls were given a brisk hand-spanking and sent off to put their long hair up. The rules are clear, no excuses. It was the head girl who managed to arrive late for class, and was held back by myself and the teacher, to be disciplined, and ended up going across his knee and then mine. When her skirt was lifted we discovered she was wearing a lacy thong! What an abomination! dental floss of the bottom. She spent her break time in corner time with her hands on her head, the back of her skirt tucked up, and her red bottom on show as a warning.
The rest of Sunday passed in an absolute blur- too many snippets to mention everything here- littles play time in the nursery upstairs, where the girls lost themselves constructing an elaborate wooden train track system, bridges and junctions and little metal steam engines, a couple of manic hours in photo shoots- lining up the girls in front of the fireplace, knickers at half-mast as they were spanked one by one by the headmistress and governess, then into the bathroom with its free-standing bath and beautiful tiles, light streaming in through the windows, enacting a mouth-soaping and then spanking 2 naughty girls, perched on the edge of the bath. Myself and the headmistress giving a pyjama spanking in the littles bedroom, leaving 2 glowing bottoms, the girls lying face down on the beds, one of them asking plaintively as we left: ‘Who’s bed is this? Do you think she’ll mind that I have my vagina on it?…’ And the official school portrait, followed by the naughty one where the student stick out their tongues and make very unlady-like gestures behind our backs. Then another ‘unofficial’ school photo (can be viewed on FL) of all the girls arranged in rows, kneeling, head down, white-knackered rumps facing upwards like sunflowers chasing the sun.
There is one fantastic experience I haven’t mentioned yet- the Prefect’s formal caning. This was a superb event on the Sunday, arranged meticulously by one of the teachers, who asked us to assist him in setting the scene. I handed the girl a note during class, formally requesting her to wait in her room and the time of her appointment and reason for her disciplinary. After classes we cleared and arranged the main room and made sure there were no people milling around. It was important to have a quiet, calm, and serious environment ready for her. 2 girls were stationed at the door and told not to let anyone in, and to explain that there was a formal punishment taking place. I took the vintage first aid box from the kitchen (for effect- a prop) and found her waiting in her room. I inspected her, found her fit for a caning, and asked her to follow me. The girl had been caught flinging her hockey stick on the pitch in a pique of rage, and it had hit the new games mistress in the head. She was a promising student and head of the hockey team, and was to be given a chance to take her punishment, or be immediately suspended. I took her into the room, and the teacher interrogated her and laid out her choice- 6 of the best, or exclusion from the school. The headmistress sat sternly to one side, another teacher to the left. You could have heard a pin drop in the room. The atmosphere was electric. With the rising anticipatory tension and as the seriousness of her situation dawned on her I was sitting close enough to see her hands trembling. She made her choice to take the cane. She was instructed to bend over the back of the chair. I was asked to lift her skirt and raise the hems of her knickers. The caning was measured, hard, beautifully spaced, and left firm red lines. Her legs remained rigidly straight and she braced herself with her hands against the chair between every stroke. She called out each number with quiet fortitude. The authenticity was enhanced by the distant sounds of girls in other parts of the school, a hush descending as anyone approached the door and was shooed away. The beautiful room with its persian rug, leather sofas, wood panelling, elaborate fireplace, high windows and antique furniture played as much a part as all of us, in making this a truly immersive school disciplinary meeting.
Sadly I had to leave that evening. I had a long session booking the following day and could not afford to turn up unprepared and straight off the train. I packed my bag, marvelling at how few of my implements I’d managed to use- there simply had not been time! I also realised I had hardly taken any photographs as I had been so busy immersed in my role as Matron. Ah well, next time.
With a sigh of relief I wriggled out of my matron’s uniform and shape-wear, and stepped out of my sturdy heels. It was nice to put on civilian clothes again, after a whole weekend in heels and tight corsetry. You could argue that I’m missing the opportunity to wear so many nice outfits at a weekend like this: pussy-bow blouses and tweed skirts and the like, but somehow I find my Matron’s uniform fitting- it gives me a role and a purpose, clearly-defined to all the girls (it even has ‘Matron’ stitched on the breast pocket). It sends the message that I am smart, practical, no-nonsense, and not here to preen but to take care of the girls and make sure they get the discipline, support and firm guidance that they need. I head to the main room where diplomas are being handed out, and goodbyes said, and make my announcement that I regret having to miss games night and the last dinner, and must say goodbye to everyone. My departure was met with a collective ‘Awwww…..’ from the girls, which was very touching, followed by a hug from many of them as they left. And then I made my way through the kitchen, hung with its copper pots and pans, the Aga squatting in the corner, the scrubbed trestle table now empty of giggling girls, plates of food and glass ware, through the pantry and out of the back door, trudging away with my suitcase to the country station down the road, trundling along the gravel, past the hedge-rows, with my head spinning and my right hand stinging.
The Girls’ Boarding School is run by @strictandcaring, and you can follow him on Fetlife and see his photos of the events here:
You can follow the Girls’ Boarding School page here:
You can follow me on FetLife (@MIssIceni) and see some more images here: