In early 1984 I got a job as a secretary/receptionist in an architects’ office in Holborn. It was the best-paid job I’d had so far, and I loved it. The place was old-fashioned even by the standards of the day, and the roles were clearly defined stereotypes; the architects were all men, and the people who performed the supportive tasks were all women. But for some reason I liked it that way. The boss was a very handsome man in his early 40s, and I had an idiotic crush on him from the very beginning. He was always kind and fair, but he was commanding and forthright, and intolerant of even the slightest mistake. Naturally, I took great care in everything I did. And, equally as naturally, I fantasised about being spanked by him. I dreamed of being summoned to his office, dragged across his knee and smacked on the bottom like a silly little girl. And afterwards, as I stood there in a daze, he would stare into my eyes, pull my knickers back up and straighten my skirt, and send me on my way with some kind and reassuring words. I would be forgiven and cherished once more, just as I was at Malory Towers. Of course, it never happened. But I still wonder what I would have done if he’d actually suggested it, perhaps as an alternative to losing my job. I might have run a mile, but on the other hand I might have grasped the nettle and taken my first real punishment. In the first few weeks I  felt an intoxicating mix of fear and excitement every time he raised his voice. But after a while the fear subsided, and the feeling became simply one of  excitement. It was a stupid, girlish fantasy that I took home with me every night, and I don’t think I’d ever been so happy, or so frustrated. But fate was to deal me a very different hand. I’d been in the job for six or seven months when a new ‘junior’ architect joined the firm. His name was John, and within a  year we were married.

John was from an island off the west coast of Scotland, and for me he personified maleness in its most beautiful form. He wasn’t particularly tall, he wasn’t particularly handsome, and he was chronically shy when he had to ask me to do something for him. But suddenly he blossomed, and at that point I became the shy one. He told me later that he fell in love with me at that very moment. I, of course, was already besotted. It seemed inevitable that one bright February morning, I was in a taxi with my mum and my uncle heading for the Register Office at Chelsea Town Hall. John wore a kilt. I wore a pink dress. A new life had begun, and I was the happiest woman in the world. John’s salary was more than enough to keep us both, so I gave up working and devoted myself to building a home and being a doting wife. My fantasy world faded into the background, as it didn’t seem quite so important anymore. If John had wanted to spank me it would have been the icing on the cake, but the cake was quite sufficient by itself. In any case, I wanted to leave any kind of decision about that subject to him. I didn’t want to raise it myself.

A few weeks later, we were invited to a ‘schoolgirls and headmasters’ party  at a friend’s flat. Finally, I had a chance to show off my uniform. I remember John being rather puzzled to discover that I had this perfect outfit folded neatly in a small suitcase, but he stared at me intently as I got dressed and clearly liked what he saw. I didn’t think much of it at the time, because a lot of men seemed to like the ‘sexy schoolgirl’ look, but I was nevertheless very pleased. John had hired a gown and mortar board, and we set off in a taxi hidden under long coats. John said later that he was very proud of me that night, but it was for reasons that I could never have predicted. We arrived at about 9pm, and there were maybe a dozen couples already there. I looked around at the other ‘schoolgirls’ and immediately felt like a fish out of water. They were all wearing a kind of ‘fancy dress’ uniform, with creased shirts, ties and buttons undone, short black skirts, suspenders, torn stockings and stilettoes. It was a ‘punk’ schoolgirl look, and it could not have been more different from the approach I had taken. I was dressed immaculately in a painstakingly ironed  blouse with the top button done up (of course), a real school tie tight around my collar, a real pleated games skirt, proper school knickers, white knee-socks, flat shoes and, last but not least, my prefect’s badge pinned on perfectly straight. I was really confused at first, because I couldn’t understand why they hadn’t made the same effort. And, of course, I felt like a bit of a fool, like I’d ‘missed the point’ somehow, and had taken it all far too seriously, which I  obviously had. But I couldn’t take it any other way than seriously. This was my Janus outfit, and I was very proud of it. Anyway, John loved it and that was really all that really mattered. We understood each other. We understood what was important.

And then one day my dream began slowly but surely to become a reality. We’d been married for about six months when we had a letter from John’s parents announcing that they were coming down to London for their wedding anniversary and wanted us all to have dinner “somewhere posh”. We settled on the Café Royal in Regent Street (which I noticed recently is no longer there), and I started a frenzied search for something nice to wear. I eventually chose a Laura Ashley floral dress which was very pretty, and eminently suitable for an evening with  the in-laws. The day arrived, and I felt uncharacteristically nervous. I fussed with the hem of the dress thinking it was too short. I agonised about what underwear to put on. I washed and dried my hair then thought it looked awful and did it all again. I’d bought a new lipstick and decided it was too red, too garish. Frankly, I was in a state. This meant that we were dangerously close to being late, which also meant that my temper flared and I became increasingly upset. John, of course, in that infuriating male way, had been ready for at least an hour. He looked effortlessly beautiful; I looked a complete mess. He said I looked lovely; I told him he was a liar. I screamed in frustration, and then my life changed forever. John took hold of my arm, turned me round and gave me a hard smack on my knickers. Suddenly I was back in my mid-teens in a frenzy  of anger and embarrassment. It was what I’d wanted all my adult life, yet I was furious with him for his presumption. I span round and tried to slap his face, but he caught my wrist before I could strike. Then he kissed me very  passionately and said we were leaving in five minutes. I was utterly speechless and just stared at him, bright red in the face and trembling with emotion. But here’s the thing: within five minutes I had slipped on my dress and shoes, taken one last look at my hair and make-up, and was ready to go. That single smack had calmed me down and made me aware of what I had to do. It scared me a little too, because it had hurt much more than I had expected it to, but mixed with this was the blissful understanding that John had done it because he loved me and cared  for me. He had also, of course, taken a huge gamble.

We got into a taxi and sat there in silence looking out of opposite windows. When we got to Pall Mall the traffic was awful. John told the driver to stop, and said we would walk the rest of the way. On the pavement, he turned to me and took my hand. The conversation is etched on my memory:

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“There’s no need to be sorry.”

“Yes there is.”

“No there isn’t. I deserved it. You can do it again if you want to.”

We had a lovely evening, and it wasn’t till the next day that we talked about what had happened. He told me, rather tentatively, that the smack seemed to stop me fussing unnecessarily and to galvanise me into action, and I could do nothing but agree. If I was being honest, it had worked wonders and I told him so. I apologised for losing my temper with him, and promised that I would never try to slap his face again. Then suddenly he popped the second most important question I’d ever been asked: was I being serious when I’d said he could do it again. I  didn’t hesitate to say ‘yes’, but I had to impress upon him that it was, for me, a serious business. I didn’t want a frivolous spanking before going to bed. It had to be real, it had to be for a good reason, and it had to feel like a punishment. And I told him that I would prefer it to be formal, i.e. not just a single smack but a proper spanking over his knee. He said he understood exactly what I meant and, silly as this may seem, we shook hands on it.

Nothing happened for quite some time, mainly because I was very careful not to provoke John. I was still ignorant about the reality of taking a proper spanking, and that made me nervous. That one smack had hurt. What would potentially dozens of smacks be like? Could I bear it? Would it make me upset that John could do something to me that caused so much pain? I simply didn’t know. Then, one glorious day, I found out. Oddly enough, it involved John’s mum and dad again. They were coming to Sunday lunch, and things weren’t going too  well in the kitchen, to put it mildly. John was incapable of boiling an egg, so I was doing everything and trying to get ready as well. The signs were all there, I realised later, but I just couldn’t stop myself. We started having a blazing row, during which I dropped the roasting pan and watched in horror as the chicken skidded across the kitchen floor like it was making one last bid for freedom. At that point I lost it completely and screamed at John: “Why do I have to do everything? They’re your f**king parents!” The implications of my outburst took about a millisecond to sink in. It was exactly the situation we’d discussed, and John had to act. He knew that and I knew that, but we stood there for a moment staring at each other not quite knowing what to do next. The  strange thing was that I was no longer afraid, but I had certainly become defiant, and eventually I yelled at him: “Well?”

It was all he needed. He took my arm, sat down on a kitchen chair and pulled  me over his lap. Within seconds my slacks and knickers were round my knees and I was being properly spanked for the first time in my life. It hurt terribly at first because I was resisting it. I screamed, I thrashed about on his lap, I  kicked my legs, I called him all manner of dreadful things. And then something changed. I still don’t understand exactly what went on in my silly little head, but after what can only have been a minute or so my feelings changed and I began to accept what my husband was doing. I closed my eyes and let him do it, and at  that point I was liberated. A huge weight was lifted from my shoulders. All  those years of dreaming seemed finally to have a point, and I began to cry, not  because I was upset but because I was deliriously happy and more deeply in love with John than I had ever been. It was undoubtedly one of the most fulfilling and beautiful moments of my life, and it brings a tear to my eye as I write it down. I felt like I’d been tamed, but in the most positive way. I felt chastised, but again in a positive way. Most of all I felt loved and cherished by a man who was everything to me. Eventually, John let me off his lap and pulled my knickers and slacks back up while I stood helplessly in front of him. It was something he was to do every time he spanked me, and I adored it. We cuddled in silence for what seemed like ages, then set about rescuing the chicken. I hosted my first Sunday lunch for the in-laws with a glowing bottom and a glowing heart.

And so began a regular pattern. Whenever I did something stupid or behaved  badly John would take me over his lap and spank me until I calmed down. We played games occasionally too. Sometimes I would turn him into a quivering piece of jelly by dressing up in my school uniform and taking a punishment from the ‘headmaster’. But mostly it was for real, and I loved it. All this sounds as though being punished was the only fulfilling aspect of my marriage, but that would be far from the truth. We were happy in many other respects, but I still  believe that the disciplinary element was the glue that held it all together so beautifully.

Sadly, John died five years ago, bringing the happiest time of my life to a close. But things have moved on since, and I’m happy in a different way. I have a new job, a new flat and a gentleman friend I met a year ago who is very good  to me. He knows my history, and has offered to ‘help’, but his heart isn’t in it and neither is mine. In any case, John’s spirit lives on, and I rarely, if ever, lose my temper. Looking back, it’s been an extraordinary adventure, from a  youthful dream, to my first smack, my visits to Old Compton Street and an ecstatic happiness with my husband. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss John’s strong arm round my waist holding me down on his lap, but nothing lasts forever. I have left ‘school’ and must fend for myself. Continuing that metaphor, I feel pretty sure that, if schoolgirls today were spanked when they misbehaved, some of them would miss it when they passed through the gates for the last time to face the real world. It’s an interesting thought, and one that I will cherish forever.

And in many ways, I have Janus and its ilk to thank for opening my eyes to this beautiful world. They were commercial enterprises designed to make money by feeding a hungry cognoscenti, but they were also a quintessentially British form of entertainment, and they deserve a place in this country’s pantheon of  sophisticated erotica. Of course, in the age of the internet, it is splashed across a thousand easily accessible websites. But, for me, nothing will ever come close to running for the 24 bus on Charing Cross Road clutching a paper bag that contained my dreams.

I would like to express my deep gratitude to Jon Rayworth, the wonderful Janus archivist, without whose help and encouragement this memoire would not have been written. Thanks Jon.

The second part of Fiona Lewison’s true story about her journey into the world of spanking. You can read part one here.

DEAR JANUS … 

I’d quit nursing by this time, and was working as a temp with the Alfred Marks agency. I was young and single and keen to experiment and, as my fascination with punishment grew, I felt a need to be more involved. What I wanted more than anything else was to appear in Janus. I knew I would make a good schoolgirl. I knew I could look scared and submissive just how the other  models did, and I knew I could take a few whacks on my bottom if necessary. In fact, I wanted to take a few whacks. I wasn’t the prettiest girl on the block, but I was slim and petite and I knew I had a nice figure. I went to Peter Jones on Sloane Square and bought everything I thought I might need. A ridiculously short pleated games skirt, a white blouse, a real school tie, huge tight-fitting gym-knickers, white knee socks and a pair of very boring flat shoes. I even found a ‘Prefect’ badge in a shop on the King’s Road. I bought a pinstripe two-piece with a short skirt and some pretty underwear in case I had to be a ‘secretary’, and a flowery dress in case I had to be someone’s daughter or niece. I wanted to be ready for anything.

Buying the uniform was an interesting experience, to say the least. This was about 1980, and Peter Jones was a pretty stuffy department store in those days. I think the woman who served me knew exactly what was going on, or thought she did (i.e. dressing up for a boyfriend), but she was very helpful nonetheless.

“Are these for Madam?” 

“Yes.” 

“Is Madam going to a fancy dress party, perhaps?” 

(I panicked at this point): “Yes, that’s right. A fancy dress  party.” 

When I got outside I felt a strong urge to go back and tell her the truth:

“Are these for Madam?” 

“Yes.” 

“Is Madam going to a fancy dress party, perhaps?” 

“Actually, I’m going to be a Janus model. Do you know what Janus is?” 

“I’m not familiar with the publication, Madam.” 

“It’s a spanking magazine. You know, pictures of girls having their bottoms smacked.” 

“How enlightening, Madam.” 

I resisted the urge.

I went back to the Janus shop about a month after my first visit, and began to go quite regularly. Now, I felt confident enough to march straight in. I was ‘out’ and proud of it, or so I thought at the time. I didn’t have much money in  those days, and couldn’t always afford to buy something, but I was happy just being there, soaking up the pictures and enjoying my ‘membership’ of this club. It was around this time that I saw another woman in the shop for the first time.  Two women, in fact. They were about my age (22/23), expensively dressed and supremely self-confident. One of them led the other straight to a particular magazine, opened it and pointed to a photo. I stared unashamedly, and listened to their every word. The conversation went something like this:

First woman (indicating the photo): “How about this? What do you think?” 

Second woman: “Not sure.” 

First woman: “Too full-on? Yeah, maybe you’re right.” 

They then left as quickly as they had arrived, leaving me with a million unanswered questions. I hadn’t been able to see what magazine they were looking at, so I couldn’t even begin to imagine what it was about the image that was “too full-on”. Perhaps they were after something that suggested, rather than showed, a girl being punished. Something more subtle. But the shop was full of such pictures. That was the art of so much of that material, especially the covers. What did they want it for? What had driven these two successful-looking women into a shop that sold spanking magazines? I’ll never know, but it intrigues me to this day.

The next woman I saw in the shop was even more of an enigma. She was very young, perhaps 18 or 19, and her face was bright red with embarrassment. She smiled nervously, then took a cane from its hook and handed it to the man on the counter. It wasn’t the same man who’d been so good to me, but he didn’t bat an  eyelid. He simply bent the cane into a circle (which surprised me as I thought it would snap), secured it with a bit of Sellotape and popped it into a bag. She paid and scurried out onto the street. I was open-mouthed with astonishment.  What did a young girl want with a cane? (OK, I was still quite naïve back then!) Had she been sent to buy it? Had she bought as a gift for her boyfriend? Was it perhaps needed for a perfectly innocent photo-shoot? There were, and still are, lots of photography and film production companies in Soho. Lots of reasons ran through my mind, including a naughty thought that her boss had instructed her to bring a cane to work so that he could give her a good hiding for her spelling mistakes. It occurred to me that my spelling wasn’t all that good either …

This continued for about a year. I bought a magazine whenever I could afford  it, and rushed home on the 24 bus to get back into my lovely dream world. Then one day I wrote what I still refer to as ‘The Letter’. It was addressed simply to: Janus, 40 Old Compton Street, London, W1, and it was an application to be considered for a Janus photo-shoot. I enclosed a head-shot taken in a photo-booth  in Victoria Station and an out-of-focus snap of me in a bikini taken on a beach  in Greece. It could not have been more amateurish. I put a stamp on the envelope, and left it on the table by the front door so that I wouldn’t forget it in the morning. I still have it, which tells you that I didn’t summon the  courage to send it. Here it is, word for word:

Dear Janus 

I would like to be a Janus model. I’m 23 years old and my measurements are  32D/23/29. I’m not a professional model, and I don’t have any experience of spanking, but I’m quite good at acting. I know I’ll have to take some real  smacks, and that’s OK. I have a school uniform and a secretary outfit. I can be  reached most evenings on [XXX XXXX]. 

It seems naïve and girlish when I read it now, but I still get a pang of sadness every time I think about the missed opportunity. For all I know, the editor might have turned me down as ‘unsuitable’ or ‘lacking in experience’, but in any case my ambition to become a Janus star was not to be. I regret it to this day, although it might have caused all sorts of complications in later life.

Then I started going out with a guy called Steve, and my life changed dramatically. He was adventurous in everything he did, particularly in bed. I hadn’t had much experience with men, and the experiences I had had were not always happy ones, but Steve opened my eyes to all sorts of things I’d never done before. I felt happy and liberated. We didn’t do anything outrageous, but they were things I wouldn’t tell my mum about. And that was the point, really. I felt grown up at last. One day he asked if he could spank me. Now, you’ll have  to bear in mind that, although I’d fantasised about this moment for years, I’d never actually been spanked. It was still an unknown. I said ‘yes’ straight  away, partly because I wanted to please him, but I was very nervous about it.  Would I feel stupid, or embarrassed? Would it hurt too much? What should I do or say? Would I be any good at it? I simply didn’t know. I asked whether he would like me to wear my school uniform, and I don’t suppose it will surprise any of  you to learn that he jumped at the idea. So there I was, dressed very smartly and lying over the lap of my first ‘teacher’. I was back at Malory Towers in an agony of anticipation. For Steve it was a sexual act pure and simple, but for me it was something infinitely more important. I can still remember closing my eyes and breathing deeply as he lifted my skirt and took my knickers down and began to smack me. It should have been the happiest moment of my life, but it wasn’t. In fact, as is so often the case after such a long build-up, it was a huge disappointment, and for one simple reason: he didn’t do it hard enough. It was entirely understandable. He was a nice guy and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt me. For him, it was largely, if not entirely, symbolic. But I felt nothing but sadness. My only consolation was that 10 minutes later I was ravaged by an uncharacteristically rampant tiger. It had clearly turned him on, and that’s what it became for us: a sexual hors d’oeuvre mainly for his pleasure. I told him that he could do it harder if he wanted to, and he did, but the difference was marginal. I don’t blame him in the slightest, but he just wasn’t capable of satisfying me in what had become the most important of my needs.

We split up about a year later, and I drifted back to my fantasy world. I went back to the Janus shop a few times, and the magazines comforted me in my solitary existence. But I was becoming increasingly frustrated just looking at  pictures and reading fictional accounts, despite the fact that they still seemed quite real to me. I envied the models, and wanted desperately to take part somehow. What I really wanted, of course, was a man to spank me properly, to give me a punishment that hurt and made me come to terms with aspects of my  behaviour that were becoming self-destructive…

The final part of Fiona’s story, ‘To Love, Honour and Obey’ can be read here.

The first part of Fiona Lewison’s true story about her journey into the world of spanking.

PILLOW FIGHTS AND MIDNIGHT FEASTS

“My journey into the world of spanking began when I was a spirited schoolgirl at a special place called Malory Towers. I was generally studious and diligent, but I could be naughty too and that meant a punishment from the house captain. But this was only fair, and I was, in any case, madly in love with the house captain, even when she bent me over the end of my bed and I felt the sting of a hairbrush on the seat of my pyjamas. Punishment was justified and necessary, and a girl’s bottom was the best and safest place to suffer that retribution. The house captain was just doing her duty. She was looking after me. She loved me too. I knew this because she was kind to me afterwards. I had paid the price for my naughtiness, and the slate was wiped clean. She cuddled me, and I was safe and happy again.”

This was a recurring fantasy as a young girl, and I’m sure I’m not alone in blaming Enid Blyton for a lifetime’s interest in the subject. In my daydreams under the bed covers, I was spanked frequently, always by older girls and always with love. It was this combination that I found so profoundly attractive, even though I had no idea why at that tender age. It is still the case 45 years later. In between those times, my feelings have swung wildly. I have had spankings that were exhilarating and erotic, but the best and most rewarding (and the most useful) were those that had driven my imagination as a child: the elements of love and discipline combined in a punishment administered for my own good. This, for me, is perfection. Of course, the motivations and implications of such an intimate act are very different as an adult. The ‘house captain’ didn’t want to punish me, and she certainly didn’t enjoy doing it, unlike the men I’ve encountered since, but the result, for me, is much the same.

I grew up in central London, just my mum and I, and my childhood was a happy one. There was no formal corporal punishment at either of the schools I went to, and the worst you could get was lines or detention. I suppose I was in trouble about as often as anyone else. Pretty normal, really. My first real experience happened sometime in my mid-teens. My mum and I were staying at my uncle’s house in Worthing. I had behaved atrociously one afternoon, and my uncle lost his temper and gave me a single smack on the seat of my dress. It caught me completely unaware, and I remember being so shocked that I just stood there in disbelief. Then I was overwhelmed with embarrassment, and ran to my room where I burst into tears. My mum was very cross with my uncle, and I could hear a heated discussion downstairs as he tried to defend his actions. But as an adult, I believe that he was right to smack me. I was young and stupid and I’d been deeply offensive. Such methods are unacceptable now, according to most advice on the subject, but this was a very different time.

I still think it taught me a valuable lesson, mainly that I never wanted my bottom smacked like that ever again, or so I thought at the time. It was, of course, the beginning of everything.

In 1977 I was a student nurse at Westminster Hospital, which is now posh flats. I shared a room with a girl called Sarah in what was nurses’ accommodation on Rochester Row near Victoria station. The circumstances of the next shock I was about to receive are still shrouded in mystery, and perhaps deceit, but one of the nurses had somehow come by a rather risqué magazine. It was called Swish!, and it was full of pictures of girls being spanked. I was aware of the concept; I’d been smacked playfully by a couple of boyfriends. But I had absolutely no idea that you could buy a magazine devoted to the subject. They certainly weren’t for sale at WH Smith or John Menzies. Suddenly it all seemed a lot more serious. I leafed through it quickly, feigning a complete lack of interest. I joined in the general chorus of dismissive comments. It was “silly”. It was “perverse”. It was for “dirty old men”. One girl said indignantly: “I’d never let a man do that to me!” We felt a collective sense of virtuousness in our disapproval. Yet someone had bought it, or found it, or borrowed it. I still don’t know the truth.

My ‘problem’ – and I did consider it a problem back then – was that I was deeply fascinated by what I’d seen. The irony, of course, as I learned later, was that Swish! wasn’t a great example of the genre. In fact I thought it was rubbish, and still do. But it was my first, which puts it on a kind of pedestal. It did the job of awakening me to something that had obviously lain dormant for some time. I’m sure it found an audience and enjoyed some success, but for me Swish! just didn’t cut it. It was like looking at a saucy seaside postcard, or watching an end-of-the-pier pantomime. The girls were either giggling throughout their ‘ordeal’, or had an absurdly melodramatic expression reminiscent of an amateur dramatics production. And there was always the suggestion that being spanked was just a bit of fun; an act of foreplay before the ‘main event’, which in those days seemed to be sex with a stupid looking man with long hair and a straggly beard. For me, Swish! missed the point entirely. It belittled what I felt had to be a serious subject.

The next stage in my awakening took place in a newsagents somewhere in south London. I can’t remember exactly where it was, but it would have been sometime in the early 1980s. I was 22 or thereabouts. Alongside the usual top-shelf magazines was something different. I now know that it was Janus 12. I was so captivated by the cover that I lost all sense of reason and bought it. It was the most shocking thing I’d ever done, and I know I was blushing deeply as I handed over the money. The shopkeeper just smiled at me, and slipped it quickly into a brown paper bag. I’m grateful to him to this day for his discretion. I’d had visions of his holding it up and shouting across the shop to a colleague: “Just sold another of those spanking magazines, Fred!” I like to think he was a Janus fan too.

I rushed home to my little flat in Pimlico, poured a glass of wine and sat down to immerse myself in this new treasure. It was everything I’d anticipated. This was not a bit of ‘fun’, this was serious punishment. The girls weren’t enjoying it, they were hating it. They were frightened and embarrassed. It seemed completely real to me. As I expect everyone here knows, the model on the front was Gilly Norton and I thought she was wonderful. I believed in her as a schoolgirl, I believed the look of fear on her face, I believed the pain she seemed to suffer as she was spanked and caned by a man, someone who would obviously be interested in the contents of a young girl’s knickers. I could imagine the shame and humiliation. It was wrong, it was dreadful, it was delicious. And, of course, I wanted to be Gilly Norton.

Not long after this, I discovered, quite by chance, the Janus shop in Old Compton Street. I’d met a girlfriend for a drink, and saw the sign from the other side of the street. It was like a bolt of electricity down my spine. A week later, on a rainy Saturday morning, I was standing in that same spot across the street wondering if I’d ever have the courage to go inside. I imagine I’m not alone in having walked past the door several times doing an absurd circling of the block, trying desperately to suppress my fears. Was there someone I knew behind me, or in front of me? Worse still, would there be someone I knew inside? I was shaking, and thought a drink might help. A stiff gin and tonic later, I took the plunge. It was like an Aladdin’s Cave, and I remember a sense of fear and enchantment at the same time. There were maybe five or six men leafing through the magazines, and they all looked up to see who had come in. This, as you might imagine, was not ideal. To make matters worse, one of them hurriedly walked out. He was embarrassed, I suppose, and that made me feel awkward and guilty. The last thing I wanted to do was spoil anyone’s enjoyment, because I was there for the same reason. I was also very conscious of causing the shop to lose a customer. I considered leaving, but I just couldn’t. It had taken every shred of my courage to enter, and I was determined that it wouldn’t be a waste of effort. In any case, I was drawn to the shelves like a magnet. I quickly discovered that Janus wasn’t the only magazine that took the subject seriously. There were copies of Roué and Blushes that seemed impossibly naughty to me. Like Janus, most of the covers didn’t have images of anyone actually being punished. It was implied, very cleverly I thought, rather than in-your-face. These were covers that resonated directly with the intended audience without explicitly communicating the subject matter. It was sophisticated and compelling: a girl looking down, or into the distance, or over her shoulder at the viewer; an unhappy looking girl taking a cane from a cupboard. It was abstract to the point of obscurity, but I knew what was inside. I felt like I’d joined a secret club, and that I was hugely clever and knowing. It was an exhilarating and emotional moment.

Eventually, I picked two magazines that featured school punishments (I’m afraid I can’t remember what they were) and practically ran to the counter at the front of the shop. It was only then that I noticed a selection of canes hanging up by the door, and for a moment I didn’t know where I was or what I was doing. I’d never seen a cane before, and it forced me to realise that this whole thing was even more serious than I had imagined. I must have been staring at them, because the next thing I knew the man behind the counter was saying (and I remember this vividly): “Just those two, love?” He was a big chap, but he spoke gently and quietly and put me at my ease. Most importantly, he treated me with equality, just like any other customer. No innuendo, no winks, no inappropriate remarks. I was simply a woman buying a couple of spanking magazines. Nothing remarkable about that. If he’s reading this and recognises himself, I would like to thank him very sincerely for being so kind and helping me on my journey.

One of the magazines contained a photo-story about a schoolgirl being punished by her teacher. Nothing unusual in that in the world of spanking magazines, but to me this was in a different class (as it were). It had an atmospheric foreboding that really quite frightened me. The ‘punishment room’ was cold and austere, the teacher brisk and business-like, yet indicating by a glance and a lascivious grin that he enjoyed this aspect of his job perhaps more than he should, and the girl seemed genuinely apprehensive. It almost felt like I was looking at some stills from a documentary on corporal punishment in schools. One photo stood out as encapsulating the awful reality of such an act. The girl is kneeling on the seat of an old school desk, and the teacher is in the process of pulling her knickers down. She is looking round at him with a mingled expression of fear and resignation. Her bottom is a private and very personal place, and it is being stared at by a man. It is horribly exposed and vulnerable, and the reason it’s so powerful is that there’s absolutely nothing she can do about it. There is no alternative, there is no escape. The photo has remained in my head ever since, mainly because I found it abhorrent and stimulating at the same time. From that moment on, I knew something very important about my sexuality.

The second part of Fiona’s story, ‘Dear Janus…’ can be read here.