Miss Elsa Svenson

Spanking & Caning in London with Miss Elsa Svenson

 

Penge Penal Institute, 11 October, 10–30 am

Penge Penal Insti­tute, 11 Octo­ber, 10–30 am

 Three 17-year-old youths from East Penge dealt with sum­mar­i­ly by the Senior Cor­rec­tion Offi­cer, on the unan­i­mous rec­om­men­da­tion of the local mag­is­trates’ court. Offence: pet­ty pil­fer­ing in the green­gro­cers on the high street.

Youth A (male), the ring­leader, received 18 strokes of the birch, admin­is­tered on his bare but­tocks at 30-sec­ond inter­vals. Took pun­ish­ment well and thanked the SCO afterwards.

Youth B (male) received 12 strokes of the birch, also admin­is­tered on the bare but­tocks at 30-sec­ond inter­vals. Had to be held down by Deputy Cor­rec­tion Offi­cer Pren­der­gast for the last three strokes and received an addi­tion­al three strokes for refus­ing to thank his pun­ish­ers. Left the room in obvi­ous distress.

Youth C (female) was sen­tenced to 8 strokes of the cane. She was spared a birch­ing by the court as it was accept­ed that she had been, in part, an unwill­ing accom­plice. Burst into tears when it was explained to her that the cane strokes would be admin­is­tered full force on her bare but­tocks and begged to be allowed to retain her knick­ers. Request refused. Yelled her head off from the third stroke of the can­ing, but kept her posi­tion brave­ly, hav­ing been warned of seri­ous con­se­quences if she moved. Was picked up from the Insti­tute by her moth­er, who thanked the cor­rec­tion offi­cer for doing her duty and not being lenient with Youth C on grounds of her sex.

Signed: SCO RODWELL

LOG-BOOK OF THE PENGE PENAL INSTITUTE

LOG-BOOK OF THE PENGE PENAL INSTITUTE

Those of you who have read the Head­mistress Diaries on this web­site will know that we left the redoubtable Miss Black­stock in 1953, the time when she resigned as head­mistress, mar­ried a Mr Rod­well and moved south of the riv­er. I spec­u­lat­ed that she may well have been the same Mrs Rod­well whose name appears in the reg­is­ter of employ­ees of the Penge Penal Insti­tute in the late 1950s. Mrs Rod­well was an SCO, or Senior Cor­rec­tion Offi­cer, and in the days when it was almost uni­ver­sal­ly accept­ed that noth­ing did juve­nile delin­quents more good than a sound thrash­ing, the skills she had learnt at her old school must have stood her in good stead.

I have across a log-book of the long-defunct Penge Penal Insti­tute in the local library and cau­tious­ly con­clud­ed that the entries signed SCO Rod­well, span­ning sev­er­al years, may well be the work of our old friend Miss Black­stock. I will be intro­duc­ing a selec­tion of them here, start­ing with this eye-open­ing entry from 1958.

No Laughing Matter

No Laugh­ing Matter

By Claris­sa

She could hear the hub­bub from halfway down the cor­ri­dor – a groundswell of noise punc­tu­at­ed by the occa­sion­al peal of out­right laugh­ter. It was of course com­ing from Miss Har­g­reaves’ Latin class. Miss Har­g­reaves was new to the school, in fact new to teach­ing, and her lack of class­room con­trol had been the talk of the staffroom for weeks. Despite her out­stand­ing aca­d­e­m­ic ref­er­ences, it seemed she could not han­dle the class­room sit­u­a­tion – well, one class in par­tic­u­lar, and one girl.

Miss Sven­son lis­tened at the class­room door a few moments: she heard a few muf­fled nois­es then an abrupt ‘Sit down at once!’ from Miss Har­g­reaves, fol­lowed by a pause then anoth­er peal of rau­cous laugh­ter. Miss Sven­son pushed opened the door and stepped swift­ly into the class­room – a stiff silence fell instant­ly on pro­ceed­ings. One look at a flushed and dis­tressed Miss Har­g­reaves, and a tall blonde girl still stand­ing, said it all. Miss Sven­son threw a fero­cious glance around the room then barked ‘Miran­da Spears, fol­low me!’ Miss Sven­son turned on her heel as the tall blonde girl made her way slow­ly out of the class. Miss Sven­son kept ahead of the girl, past the geog­ra­phy room, the his­to­ry room, down the main stairs with their gleam­ing mar­ble balustrades, along anoth­er cor­ri­dor to a fine oak door marked ‘Head­mistress’ in shiny brass let­ters. Miss Sven­son entered her study, keep­ing the door ajar, and wait­ed for the school­girl. Against her bet­ter judge­ment, she was furi­ous – she knew she shouldn’t take this out on the girl (even though she had had to deal with her before) but it would be dif­fi­cult. After a few moments Miran­da Spears appeared at the door. ‘Come in’ boomed Miss Sven­son. The girl entered and stood silent­ly in front of the Head. Miss Sven­son didn’t look up imme­di­ate­ly, try­ing hard to com­pose her feel­ings. After a short while, ‘Do you have any­thing to say?’ The girl didn’t respond. Miss Sven­son stood up – ‘I am going to give you six strokes of the cane, but I want you to know I will repeat the stroke if you don’t respond to me dur­ing the pun­ish­ment – do you understand?’

 

The girl looked a lit­tle non­plussed, but didn’t reply. ‘You’ve been here before,’ con­tin­ued Miss Sven­son, ‘assume the posi­tion!’ The girl took off her blaz­er and bent her body care­ful­ly over Miss Svenson’s pol­ished wal­nut desk. Miss Sven­son pulled back the girl’s blue pleat­ed skirt then made her way to the cor­ner cup­board, from which she pro­duced a long, crook-han­dled cane. A few prac­tice swish­es then wham, down on the girl’s exposed behind. ‘Do you think it’s fun­ny to humil­i­ate peo­ple?’ she demand­ed; no reply from the girl. Down came the cane again, and again, the same ques­tion. Still no response. The cane again, then a sti­fled ‘please’. ‘Please what?’ demand­ed Miss Sven­son. No response. The cane again, this time hard­er than ever – ‘Do you think it’s fun­ny to humil­i­ate peo­ple?’ This time Miss Sven­son paused; she could already see the can­ing had inflict­ed some seri­ous marks and, although angry, she did not wish to thrash the girl with­in an inch of her life. She raised the cane again; then heard a qui­et ‘No’. ‘No what?’ demand­ed Miss Sven­son. ‘No, I don’t think it’s fun­ny to humil­i­ate peo­ple’ from the girl. The cane again – five strokes now. The girl gasped then buried her head in her arm. ‘So you will apol­o­gise to Miss Har­g­reaves?’ the cane one more time, and anoth­er gasp from the girl, fol­lowed by a muf­fled ‘Yes.’ Miss Sven­son looked at the girl, her head was still buried in her arm, her behind, although obscured by her knick­ers, still revealed the tell-tale ridges of a good hard can­ing. ‘Get up and adjust your dress’ com­mand­ed Miss Sven­son. The girl got up, and pulled down her skirt. ‘Face me’ con­tin­ued Miss Sven­son. The girl turned round – her hair was dishev­elled and, for the very first time, she looked on the verge of tears. Miss Sven­son couldn’t help smil­ing to her­self at this; after all, it was no laugh­ing matter.

Late…

Late

by

Claris­sa

Late again, yes, she knew she was late again; and it was for dou­ble maths, with Miss Prim. She was bound to get a tongue-lash­ing at least, she thought to her­self, as she laboured up the school dri­ve and start­ed across the rose gar­den. She glanced at her watch: five min­utes late had become ten, and she still hadn’t reached the block. She sighed, find­ing her­self flop­ping down on one of the orna­men­tal seats that lined the path. The ros­es were in full bloom: whites, yel­lows and the occa­sion­al splash of flam­ing crim­son; it was a beau­ti­ful sight. Twelve min­utes late now. What was she to do? If she wasn’t going (which, she realised now, she wasn’t) her best hope was that Prim wouldn’t miss her. Was that pos­si­ble? Or maybe she could pre­tend she had been sick? But for that you need­ed to go and see Matron, and that wasn’t going to happen.

She stood up: she had bet­ter get her­self out of sight, she thought; it would be too bad to be caught by a teacher or sixth-for­mer now.  She head­ed across to the main school build­ing, then up the back stairs to the old art room, right at the very top. No one went there now – in fact, strict­ly, it was out-of-bounds.

She looked around the art room – what had once been a hive of activ­i­ty had now fall­en silent; dreams and ambi­tions cov­ered in dust sheets. She paced the floor­boards, rehears­ing pos­si­ble excus­es in her mind, the clock tick­ing relent­less­ly on. She looked again at her watch – quar­ter to one. Gina and Emma would be out of lunch now for sure; maybe she should go and see them?

She found them near the hock­ey pitch. ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘how’s things?’

Where the heck have you been?’ demand­ed Gina cross­ly, though her expres­sion denot­ed relief.

Just out and about,’ said Roz; ‘how was maths?’

Ter­ri­ble as usu­al,’ respond­ed Emma.

Did Prim miss me?’

She did ask if any­one knew where you were,’ con­tin­ued Emma, ‘and we said “No”.’

That was it?’

Yup.’

After­noon French went pret­ty much as usu­al: Roz enjoyed read­ing du Mau­pas­sant, and liked Made­moi­selle; she start­ed to for­get about what had hap­pened in the morn­ing. As the clock approached half three, how­ev­er, her stom­ach start­ed to tighten.

There was the bell; she was so close now. She grabbed her bag and made for the door.

One moment please, Ros­alind’; it was the voice of Mademoiselle.

She stopped in her tracks and turned round, as her friends filed past her.

Miss Prim wants to see you,’ con­tin­ued Mademoiselle.

What, now?’ said Roz.

Yes, now please,’ said Mademoiselle.

Roz sim­ply nodded.

Miss Prim was a woman in her thir­ties, but she dressed like a six­ty-some­thing librar­i­an – Prim by name, Prim by nature, thought Roz.

Why weren’t you in class today, Ros­alind?’ demand­ed Miss Prim, sur­vey­ing the school­girl with pierc­ing blue eyes.

Roz had of course antic­i­pat­ed this ques­tion; but her mind drew a blank.

Were you sick?’ con­tin­ued Prim.

Here was her chance; she could pre­tend she had been silent­ly retch­ing behind the bike sheds, but no, she couldn’t do it.

No.’

So?’

I’m afraid I was late,’ blurt­ed out Roz.

So you thought if you didn’t come at all maybe I wouldn’t notice – is that it?’

Yes,’ con­tin­ued Roz, then ‘sor­ry.’

Well,’ con­tin­ued Prim, ‘you have been a very fool­ish girl.’ Roz dropped her gaze.

If you had been late, I would of course not been very pleased,’ con­tin­ued Prim, ‘but,’ and now Roz felt her eyes burn­ing into her, ‘I would have dealt with it myself.’ A slight pause.

How­ev­er, as you have cho­sen to miss a les­son – and a dou­ble les­son at that – I have no choice but to send you to Miss Svenson.’

Roz’s stom­ach hit the floor; sure­ly not the head­mistress – that could only mean one thing, and it was not good.

Please,’ she found her­self say­ing, ‘I won’t do it again,’ and now hot tears start­ed spilling uncon­trol­lably down her cheeks.

I’m sor­ry,’ con­tin­ued Miss Prim, ‘but Miss Sven­son is already expect­ing you: I’m afraid it’s just too late.’

A difficult customer

A dif­fi­cult customer

by

Claris­sa

She didn’t enjoy using the cane, Miss Sven­son remind­ed her­self as she stood at the study win­dow, watch­ing the rain­drops course down the goth­ic arch­es. No, for her, the cane was the weapon of last resort; the weapon you used when all oth­er sanc­tions – tellings off, lines, stand­ings, nose to the wall in the cor­ner, had not worked. Still, when she did use it, she intend­ed to make it hurt. After all, this was for the good of the girls: this was not just about pun­ish­ing past bad behav­iour, this was about encour­ag­ing future good behav­iour, even if this was accom­plished through fear. And most­ly it worked; most­ly, girls would leave her study, tears flow­ing hot­ly, and promis­ing not to come to her atten­tion again. But, and she sighed, this was not always the case: there was some­times what she referred to as ‘dif­fi­cult customers’.

She turned from the win­dow and sat back at her desk, upon which sat the file of fifth for­mer Miran­da Spears. She opened the file, the wind now howl­ing incon­solably out­side, and took out the note from Miss Thom­son: ‘Dear Elsa, I would be grate­ful if you could deal with Miran­da Spears. As you know, she has a gen­er­al inso­lent atti­tude towards staff, but this morn­ing her insub­or­di­na­tion reached new heights when she refused point blank to com­plete her lines. I would be very grate­ful if you could deal with her severe­ly. Yours exas­per­at­ed, Helen.’

Exas­per­at­ed’ was a heavy word, and ‘severe­ly’ left no doubt in her mind that Miss Thom­son was call­ing for the cane. And so it would be. Here came the knock.

Come in,’ boomed Miss Svenson.

A tall, blonde-head­ed girl walked in and stood before her desk.

I won’t take long over this,’ Miss Sven­son con­tin­ued, ‘as I’m sure you know why you are here.’

No response from the schoolgirl.

This lev­el of insub­or­di­na­tion is not to be tol­er­at­ed: do you understand?’

Still no response.

And it’s not the first time you have come to my atten­tion,’ Miss Sven­son now remov­ing a sheet of paper from the file. ‘I had hoped you had learned your les­son from last time.’

Still no response, not even a waiv­er from the school­girl. Miss Sven­son stood up.

Take off your blaz­er off and bend over the desk; I am going to give you six strokes of the cane – and I intend it to hurt very much.’

With­out a mur­mur the school­girl removed her blaz­er, hung it over the back of the chair by the door, and stretched over the desk.

Lift up your skirt,’ – the girl com­plied. ‘Don’t move!’

Miss Sven­son wait­ed a moment, then walked across to the cor­ner cup­board and select­ed her weapon; she had already decid­ed on the senior cane.

She stead­ied her­self, remind­ing her­self that this was a nec­es­sary – though painful – part of her duties as head.

She slammed down the cane, right across the schoolgirl’s blue school knick­ers. A slight jerk and gasp, but noth­ing more from Miran­da. Was she real­ly going to sub­mit to this with­out response?

Anoth­er stroke, then anoth­er in quick suc­ces­sion, allow­ing no time for recov­ery. By the end, Miss Sven­son was slight­ly sweat­ing, but the school­girl remained impas­sive across the desk.

Get up, and adjust your skirt.’

Up stood the school­girl, and turned to Miss Svenson.

Thank you, Miss Sven­son!’ demand­ed the head.

Thank you, Miss Svenson.’

Do you have any­thing else to say?’

An apol­o­gy would be nice; but noth­ing came. Still, Miss Sven­son was pleased to note, Miran­da did at least look some­what discomposed.

I want 100 lines from you by this time tomor­row young lady, and heav­en help you if you disobey.’

Miss Sven­son looked at the 15-year-old in front of her: ‘”I will not be insub­or­di­nate in class” – 100 lines by tomor­row!’ she went on, although some­where deep inside her she wished they could be ‘I will not be so brave when caned’!

 

 

 

Get punished by two very strict ladies… next date 31st of August!

 

 

I will yet again offer this spe­cial ser­vice with the love­ly Clara Hewitt. Please con­tact me for book­ings and info.

 

2012 Story Competition — The Winner…

 

.…..is James !  Well done James!   You may report to My study where  miss Pren­der­gast and I will teach you a les­son…    The two run­ners up get a vouch­er each for half price on an hour ses­sion which must be used by the end of August.   The run­ners up are Ver­i­ty and Thomas.  Con­grat­u­la­tion to all.

Olympic spanking.…

Com­ing to Lon­don for the Olympics?  Per­haps time to get that spank­ing you always dreamt of.… I will be in Lon­don dur­ing the Olympics and look for­ward to see­ing naughty boys from all over the world get­ting what they deserve. New­bies are very wel­come as I offer an intro­duc­tion to spank­ing tai­lor made for you. Of course I also deal with the more advanced span­kee who need it hard and ultra­strict ! You can book your ses­sion now so what are you wait­ing for?

 

2012 Story Competition is now closed!

Win­ner will be annonsed in two weeks and will be invirt­ed to vis­ite Miss Sven­son’s study for a free spank­ing ses­sion with Two strict ladies. The judges Miss Pren­der­gast and Mike Cane from Mikes Spank­ing Boot also seen on Sexorama.

 

 

 

2012 Story Competition eleventh entry by John!

The Last Laugh’  by John James

Out­side the door of the head­mistress’s office Eleanor Dod­son stood ner­vous­ly antic­i­pat­ing the con­se­quences of her actions. Miss Sven­son was known to be a strict dis­ci­pli­nar­i­an and Eleanor knew full well that yes­ter­day she had crossed the line of what could gen­er­al­ly be expect­ed from a mod­ern pub­lic school teacher.
As Eleanor was busy straight­en­ing her skirt, a voice from from the oth­er side of the door called for her to enter.  Miss Swen­son seat­ed on a leather chair behind a sol­id oak desk cut an even stern­er fig­ure than usual.
Seat­ed on the oppo­site side of the desk was Eleanor’s neme­sis, twelve year old John Jones.    And he was smirking.
“Do you know why you’re here Miss Dod­son?” Elsa Swen­son asked.
The smirk on Jones’ face widened.
“I think so”, Eleanor said nervously.
“Then would you care to remind me of what it is you have done?”
“John had been behav­ing bad­ly all through the morn­ing,” Eleanor protest­ed vainly.
“So how did you deal with this provocation?”
Out of the cor­ner of her eye Eleanor could see John Jones’ cheeky grin grow­ing even wider.
“I put John over my knee, pulled down his pants and spanked his bare bot­tom until he begged for for­give­ness. I would do the same again.”
Miss Swenson’s expres­sion hard­ened.  “But you are aware are you not that as head­mistress I am the only mem­ber of staff per­mit­ted to admin­is­ter bare bot­tom spank­ings to the children?”
Eleanor felt on the brink of tears. “I just want­ed to teach him a les­son”, she protest­ed weakly.
“Nev­er­the­less, you have bro­ken school rules, and as such must be pun­ished accord­ing­ly.” Elsa rose to her feet.  “Please assume the posi­tion miss Dodson.”
Head bowed and tears welling, Eleanor stood up slow­ly. .“Does John need to wit­ness this?” she asked meekly.
“Jus­tice needs to be seen to be done Miss Dod­son”, Elsa Sven­son replied with­out com­pro­mise. “Now bend over.  It will of course be a bare bot­tom spank­ing. Jones bring me my cane from the cupboard”.
Not wish­ing to lose her job Eleanor obe­di­ent­ly bent over the desk while Jones, the lit­tle brat who had report­ed her, went glee­ful­ly to fetch the cane.
Even though she knew what was com­ing it still came as a shock for Eleanor to feel the hem of her skirt being raised above her waist by the strict head mis­tress, and her crisp white knick­ers pulled down below her knees.  It came as an even greater shock to feel the sting caused by the first stroke of the cane. Sev­er­al more strokes fol­lowed, each hard­er and caus­ing an even sharp­er intake of breath than the last.
It was so humil­i­at­ing for Eleanor to be spanked bare bot­tom in front of one of the pupils she taught but she just had no alter­na­tive but to take each swish­ing stroke as it land­ed.  There were six in all.  Six of the best.
After the can­ing was done Elsa con­tin­ued the pun­ish­ment by putting Eleanor over her knee and using the palm of her hand and then a leather strap to red­den the cheeks of her bot­tom still fur­ther.  Just how red her bot­tom was becom­ing Eleanor was able to see in the strate­gi­cal­ly placed mir­ror, a sight which only served to deep­en her grow­ing sense of humiliation.

 

You may rub your bot­tom now Miss Dod­son”, said Elsa after the spank­ing was over.  “I won’t ask you to stand in the cor­ner with your pants around your ankles, as you are staff, but I will next time.”
Feel­ing total­ly com­pli­ant now, Eleanor mas­saged the cheeks of her sore bot­tom and pulled her knick­ers back up.  John Jones who had been watch­ing this entire exhi­bi­tion with a great deal of amuse­ment was turn­ing to leave, already plan­ning what he would tell the rest of his class mates.
“And where do you think you’re going Jones?” Elsa said sharply.
Eleanor took great delight in see­ing the smirk dis­ap­pear abrupt­ly from the lit­tle brat’s face.
“But Miss..”
“No buts child,” Elsa snapped, “It still falls upon me to pun­ish you for your class­room mis­be­hav­iour. Now bend over.  Miss Dod­son please pass me the cane.  You may not be allowed to do the spank­ing but you can assist me, and I think a red bot­tom for you to show  to  John’s class mates might be just the tick­et. Isn’t that right Miss Dodson?”
“Yes, Miss Sven­son”, Eleanor replied.
And then down came John Jones’ trousers and under pants, expos­ing to the two ladies the twin globes of his bare white bottom.
And Eleanor could not dis­guise her look of tri­umph as the first stroke swished down on his quiv­er­ing but­tocks.  After all, it was she who was going to have the last laugh.