The Bottom Drawer

Story from Privilege Plus 12.

The Bottom Drawer
by Sarah Veitch

Ryka smiled as she selected the nightgown she would wear on her impending honeymoon. It was three long days till she married Thomas. Three days until her traditional English wedding took place! Again the Russian girl looked at the book on marriage customs which she'd bought, and read of lucky horseshoes and rice and confetti. It was all very different to the Russian village where she'd been raised.

"What are you thinking, dear?" Thomas asked her now. He was a mature, intelligent man who, at thirty five, was fifteen years her senior. He'd been her boss at the translations publisher where she'd worked since coming to Britain two years before. Now she hoped he'd also be her boss in the master bedroom, for that was what she suspected she would most enjoy. Her mother had told her little of such intimate matters. So far Thomas had kissed and caressed her but he hadn't presumed...

"I'm wondering which of your English customs you'll want to adopt on Saturday, and thinking of Russian wedding customs," she said, loving the strict smart lines of his formal suit. She so wanted to please.

"I've heard of one old Russian custom," Thomas said slowly. His gaze seemed to become more assessing. "On her wedding night, the Russian bride would be told to choose from a pair of shoes which her bridegroom had left peeking out from under the marital bed. One of them was empty, the other contained a coiled whip." He smiled, then kissed the top of her head in an avuncular gesture. "If she chose the shoe with the whip, she got a taste of it right away."

"And have you bought the shoes?" Ryka murmured, aware of a slight blush colouring her usually pale strong features.

"I have," her fiancé murmured. "So now you must buy the whip." The next day Ryka shyly set off with a very special shopping list. Thomas had written down all the details. He walked determinedly by her side. "I will blush all the time that I'm doing this," she said.

"But it will also excite you," Thomas answered. He took her hand and pressed it lightly. "I'll consider it an act of pure love."

The first two words on the list read 'Riding Shop'. Thomas drove Ryka there and they entered the premises.

"My mare's being skittish. I need a whip to calm her down," he said.

The man behind the counter raised an eyebrow. "Obviously we're not in favour of excessive punishment."

"Nor am I, sir," Thomas replied.

The man brought a selection of whips and placed them in turn in Thomas's hands. He flicked each through the air, then handed them to Ryka. She fingered the knotted cords of nylon braid and new-cut leather. Finally she chose a fibre-glass dressage whip.

"Shall I wrap it?" the assistant asked softly.

Thomas ran the riding crop through his fingers. "No, I'll be using it very soon," he said with an anticipatory wink.

The next item on the list read 'Cook's Store'.

"At least they'll just think I'm going to be baking!" Ryka murmured. "Your bum will be baking if you're naughty," Thomas replied. Ryka blushed and dipped her head for a moment, then gave him a loving little kiss. She knew that men sometimes lovingly chastened their women as part of a consensual erotic arrangement. But hearing him talk like that – and imagining such discipline – still made her go red.

The Cook's Store held everything an amateur chef might need. It also contained the implements which Ryka had been ordered to buy for her own small bottom. Nervously she selected a long wooden spatula and a paddle-sized wooden spoon. Again, Thomas said that there was no need to wrap the thick smooth punishers. "This gives a whole new meaning," he said, "to a girl setting up her bottom drawer!"

Thirdly, Thomas drove her to the maths department of a large scholastic store. There Ryka examined wooden and plastic rulers. When no one was watching, Thomas swished first the plastic and then the wooden one against her skirt-clad cheeks.

"Which hurt the most, love?" he asked consideringly.

"The second one, I think!" Ryka stammered, thrown by the public nature of the lash. Her soft high bottom tingled and the curve between her legs gave an answering lurch. She put the plastic measurer back on the shelf then turned towards the counter.

"Remember," he added, "that when you next feel the ruler you won't be wearing a skirt or underslip or pants."

Finally they made their way to a very adult shop. The two men serving there obviously recognised Thomas.

"Not got Liz with you?" one of them asked.

"We broke up last year," Thomas said.

"So what can we do for you?" the man continued.

"Liz took all our equipment with her. Ryka's here to buy new stuff," Ryka's fiancé replied.

And buy new stuff she did! Ryka dipped her head prettily as the men brought out long whippy canes and Scottish tawses and razor strops and laid them out on the long glass counter. The assistants whisked the thin rattans through the air to show her how they'd sound before they made contact with her completely bare bum. "This one leaves a thin red line, whereas this type creates a wide pink band which glows for longer," the oldest man said with relish. No wonder they called discipline the English vice!

"I think we'd like this rattan," Ryka said nervously at last. She noticed Thomas looking longingly at the leather instruments. "And a four-tailed tawse," she added haltingly, glad to see lust and gratitude entering his eyes. Thomas put his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him.

"I'll be firm with you," he whispered, "but I'll also be scrupulously fair."

The wedding went well, and at last Ryka's honeymoon night began in earnest. She walked to the hotel's large bridal suite, wondering what awaited her therein. She'd never had full intimacy or even undressed before the opposite gender! And she'd no idea if she could bear the whip or ruler or the tawse.

Thomas was already in the room, putting his suit jacket on a hanger. He rolled up his sleeves then smiled at her expectantly. "Ryka, would you like to choose a shoe?" he asked, indicating his new bride's side of the bed. Ryka looked down. Two black glossy toes peeped out at her. There was no way of telling which was empty and which was full.

"I'll take the right one," she murmured, drawing it out.

She saw immediately that it contained a small coiled whip, a sort of lightweight riding crop. Taking it from its lair, she handed it to Thomas then stepped back.

"You can taste the whip or choose whichever implement you prefer," he offered. Remembering how he'd obviously liked the leather goods, Ryka opted for the four-tailed tawse.

"Fetch it from the suitcase now, and bring it to me," Thomas ordered. He smiled more gently. "When we get home we'll keep such implements in your bottom drawer."

"And will we use them often?" Ryka whispered, her trepidation increasing as the moment of her punishment drew nearer.

"We'll use them whenever the situation warrants it," Thomas said. Then he smiled. "For now you're to be disciplined to maintain the old Russian custom. That is, because you chose the shoe with the disciplinary implement in it you'll get a taste of the tawse." He looked thoughtful, as if remembering her transgressions. "And I'm also going to chasten you for hesitating when it came to buying these self-same punishment tools."

"I was shy about approaching the shopkeepers," Ryka murmured, with an apologetic wince. "I was uncertain."

"Perhaps you'll be more certain when you've a hot sore bottom to sit on," her new husband said.

Ryka looked nervously at him. Next, she looked down at the leather tawse she was still holding.

"Hand me the implement and then lie on your tummy on the bed," Thomas bade. The Russian bride did so, her movements jerky. She wondered how she'd feel about what came next.

"Lift your dress up above your waist," her spouse continued. Ryka reached her small ringed hands back and pulled at her hem until the ankle-length brocade skirt moved away from her haunches. She knew that her equally long petticoat still remained in place.

"Now raise your underskirt," Thomas said. Ryka did so, then felt her husband adjusting the material so that it would stay folded over her back. "Which garment do you think comes off now, Ryka?" he murmured exultantly.

"My panties, sir," Ryka said.

There was a pause. Ryka reminded herself that she was married now, that such acts were allowable. Still she felt very vulnerable and a little scared. "Oh dear, I requested a bare bum and I'm still looking at a fully clothed bum," Thomas said softly. "I'll have to redden it more fully for failing to obey."

"Please don't! It's not that I don't want to... It's just..." After a few more moments of internal struggle, Ryka slowly pulled down her lace-trimmed pants. She lay there on her tummy, knowing that her new husband was staring down at her newly-bared bottom. A bottom that had never before been tawsed or paddled or whipped.

"Good girl," Thomas murmured. She felt the mattress give as he knelt on one side of the bed and pulled back one arm. Ryka knew without looking that that arm contained the tawse. "Would you like to count each stroke out loud and thank me for it?" he asked softly. Ryka nodded into the pillow, but didn't speak. "I'll have a verbal answer, if you please," her new spouse continued. "Good communication is vital between husband and wife."

"Yes, sir," Ryka answered, her feelings of desire and degradation increasing. She pushed her legs more tightly together and waited for the lash to fall. Suddenly heat sizzled across both twitching buttocks. This was a veritable brand! This was lightning in the form of leather! Ryka gasped loudly and started to scramble up from the bed.

"Going someplace?" Thomas asked.

She looked at his face. It showed both sadness and disappointment. "N...no, sir," she gasped out.

Slowly the girl flattened herself to the mattress again. Her hands fluttered by her waist, half wanting to cover her bare bottom.

"Perhaps it would be easier if you gripped the lower rung of the headrest," her thoughtful spouse said. The Russian bride did. The tactile certainty of the wood somehow helped her to control herself. Still, she sucked in her breath as she waited for the second searing stroke.

When it fell, it went lower than lash one. It licked the tender crease at the top of her thighs, and seemed to reverberate through to her belly. Ryka groaned and shook her hips from side to side.

"Only four more to go," Thomas said, "then we'll move on to the second stage of your punishment."

Registering his words, Ryka groaned again. She tried to avoid her next sore taste of the tawse.

"I've accepted the tawse to please you, sir. Can't we go on to the Russian whipping custom?" She hoped that the whip would sting much less.

"We probably could have," Thomas replied. "If you hadn't failed to obey me when I told you to take down your panties. That's why you're due six hard strokes of the tawse."

Ryka nodded into the pillows. She knew that this thrashing would ultimately make her less coy, would help bring her womanly urges to the surface. Her fantasies had always been of dominant older men. That said, it still took lots of willpower for her to ask her spouse nicely for the third tawse lash. When it came, it scorched across the centre of her naked globes. All four leather tongues seemed to flicker out their smarting impact.

"Aaah! Aaah! Aaah!" the Russian girl whimpered. She rolled wildly on to her back, both palms cupping her reddened bum.

After rubbing her tender flesh for a few moments, she recovered herself and peeked curiously over at her man. He was still holding the tawse and was looking down at her impassively.

"It hurts," Ryka said in a plaintive little voice.

"Of course it hurts. It's punishment," her beloved answered.

"But it's our wedding night. We should have... we should have pleasure," Ryka cut in.

"And the pleasure will be all the more strong due to this bum-based stimulus," Thomas replied knowingly. He touched her in her most intimate place till she almost swooned with yearning. Desperate once more to please him she rolled back on to her tummy, presenting him with her hot red arse.

Her husband fondled that same arse for a moan-making moment whilst she forced herself to grip on to the bed's wooden headboard. Then he picked up the tawse and brought it down across her tendensed underswell. Before Ryka could cry out, he'd raised the punisher again and whacked it further up her jerking bottom. Then he placed the final stroke nearer the top of her heated bum.

"Aaah!" Ryka gasped out. Her hands flew back to massage her rump cheeks, but her husband caught her wrists and held them away.

"No, no, my dear. I want you to contemplate how vulnerable your bum is after it's felt the lash. You mustn't protect it."

"Couldn't I just hold it for a second, sir?" Ryka whispered throatily.

"No, but you can come and look at it in the mirror before it receives its whipping," Thomas said.

Curious, Ryka started to rise up from the bed, obediently keeping her hands away from her bare buttocks. As she moved, her skirt and petticoats started to fall down. Helpfully, Thomas took hold of the hems and put them between her nervous fingers. "Keep them up above your waist, sweetheart. We want to be able to see the bottom that we're still chastising," he said.

"Yes, sir," Ryka murmured hesitantly. Part of her wanted to see how crimson her virgin haunches were, to admire her own courage. The other part felt flustered and ashamed.

With Thomas's hand on her upper arm, she marched towards the full-length mirror. There she turned so that her bare bottom faced the glass. Then Ryka took a deep breath and peeked over her shoulder at the chastened orbs.

"They're really red, aren't they?" she whispered, feeling a sense of pride and self-discovery as she surveyed both scarlet hemispheres.

"These little cheeks are about to get even redder," Thomas said.

He walked over to where the whip lay coiled on the floor. Its clean dark lines looked sleek and almost pretty. "Would you like to kiss it, my dear?"

Ryka nodded and pressed her lips slackly against the slender braid. "Shall I hold on to the bedrail again?" she muttered huskily.

"I think so. But we'll put a pillow under your tummy first to make your bottom a more obvious target," her husband said.

Ryka held her breath as he pushed a pillow in place. It tilted her body slightly so that her bum felt even more vulnerable. "Let's see how this works out," Thomas said. The Russian girl felt the bed move and the air currents change and knew that the first whip-stroke was imminent. She wondered how it would feel on already sensitised buttock-flesh.

A moment later she knew that it felt incisively sore! She yelled and rubbed at her cheeks and shoved her belly into the bolster.

"Oh dear. You touched your sore bum without permission; now I'll have to use another pillow," Thomas told her, voice holding a frown. Again the mattress moved, then the girl felt a second pillow being added to the first, raising her globes still further. A moment later she felt the whip connect with her tenderised rump again.

"Aah! How many more?" she gasped out plaintively.

"You mean, 'How many more, sir?'," Thomas corrected. "Respect goes so quickly from a marriage nowadays!"

As if in answer, he applied the riding crop for the third sore time. Ryka howled and drummed her feet against the bed and puckered up the main muscles in her bottom. "Untense that bare arse! I like to whip a nice smooth canvas," her husband said.

Pleasing him would ultimately mean more pleasure for herself so, with difficulty, Ryka obeyed him. She forced her bum to lie still, if not exactly relaxed. God, it was hot! She wanted to smooth cool body lotion into her twin rotundities. She wanted her man to kiss the pain away.

But the kisses would come after the olde worlde Russian whipping. Ryka reminded herself that she'd agreed to this chastisement for their marriage's greater good.

"Please use the whip on my haunches again, sir," she said raggedly.

"Haunches is too coy a word for a married woman," Thomas said.

Ryka twisted her head back to look at him. "I don't understand. What words do you... which words are proper?"

"Say 'I've been a disobedient young wench, sir, and I deserve to get a red hot arse for causing trouble'," Thomas bade.

Eyes downcast, Ryka repeated the words. They set up a fluttering in the secret core below her belly. She so wanted the initiation into womanhood to begin!

"Yes, you're a naughty girl who won't escape whipping," Thomas continued, raising the riding crop. He flicked it against the crease where bum meets thigh. "Where do you think you should get the next lash?" he continued in a conversational voice.

"Anywhere but there, sir!" Ryka replied fervently, still feeling the newest line of erotic anguish. Obligingly, Thomas applied the lash further up. At last he set down the whip and fondled her glowing small buttocks.

"What should I use on you," he whispered, "the next time that you fail to please?"

Ryka thought of the implements they'd bought so far and imagined their effect on her bare bottom. "The wooden spoon which doubles as a paddle, sir," she said excitedly.

"And how will you be displayed for your punishment?" Thomas continued.

"With a..." Ryka writhed about on her tummy, still loath to say the words. "With a completely bare arse."

She felt Thomas's lips brush her hair. "That's not what I meant," he said. "I meant will you lie on the bed or bend over the dressing table or...?"

Ryka envisaged various punitive options which all involved pulling down her pants. "Over the kitchen stool, sir," she said a little breathlessly, remembering the whipping-stools they'd seen in the adult shop.

"And will you count each swish of the paddle out loud after you've received it?" her man continued.

"Yes, sir. And I'll ask nicely for the next!" Ryka said.

"Good girl," Thomas murmured. He turned her over and took her into his arms, his fingers caressing. And Ryka knew that she wouldn't have to ask for anything else.

Pre-War Spanks

Story from Swish Vol.5 No.3.

Pre-War Spanks

Was it really so different in the 30's. We think it was. So does the author of this – because she was really there, and has her birth certificate to prove it – though not the marks!

* * *

I don't remember crying ever when I got the strap across my bottom. I wasn't the only one anyway. Sometimes I think that all girls – and many women, too – got it in those days, in the thirties. It was all so different then. Skirts were longer then. I think they created more of a mystery. Everyone wore stockings, and knickers were (let's face it) caressably silky. They covered your whole bum and it was somehow very sensuous to be caressed like that with a roaming hand right up under your skirt.

When I look back it seems that spankings were always on Sundays. Maybe they weren't, but it was truly a day when the devil found things for hands to do. Nothing on the wireless on Sundays in those days – only dull music. No TV, of course, unless you were very well off and then the screen was tiny and dull like the programmes.

The gramophone was the main thing. All those Crosby records, and the dance bands playing. Houses seemed more closed-in, too. Sure – I know that millions of the same houses still exist – but they DID have the feeling. It was something to do with brown and green paintwork, I suppose. There weren't many other colours then – or if there were they didn't get used in our house. The washing smells (all soapy) and cabbage smells added to it all. Darker stairs, too. More secrecy.

Yes, there was – I'm sure there was more secrecy. One afternoon I went out to see a friend on a Sunday. She was the same age as me and we were both in jobs. She wasn't in, so I came back. I didn't mean to let myself in quietly, but then I heard the sound – a sort of whoo-hoooing sound coming from upstairs, and in between the little cries the noise of well-worn leather meeting a naked bottom. Yes – I knew all right.

I inched my way up, all ready to cough at any moment. I needn't have bothered. It was my Aunt Helen – in the front bedroom. The door was almost wide open. Thinking it all safe, you see. I saw her naked bottom projecting over the edge of the double bed where she was kneeling, brown silk knickers wreathed around her ankles. I saw the rolled-up shirtsleeves, the arm rising and falling. I'd had that strap myself – a thick broad one. It came down lazily and it took you SMACK-CRACK! right across your bottom, and sometimes just under it where the bulge dips right in to the thighs. "Oh-woh, woh!" she was sobbing, as if her heart were fit to break. I could see the backward and forward movements of her hips as the leather surged in, lazy and burning.

"Come on, Helen," I heard him say or sort of croak, rather. "No-oh-OH!" her moans came, but she wasn't making any movement to get off the bed or really avoid the strap. Then his voice went into a bark that I'd heard often before. "Yes – come ON!" he growled. "Ow-er! Ow-er! Ow-er!" came her response. She was about thirty then, Aunt Helen. Nice and round. Attractive. SLAP-CRACK! SLAP-CRA-AAAACK! "I told you I was going to, Helen, didn't I?" – "YEHESSSSS! OW-OOOH! You're doing it too hard, you are, OH!"

I could only see her bottom in profile, though sometimes when it swung I could glimpse the cleft. Really I couldn't imagine her doing this or having her knickers down. It seemed impossible. What had she done? And why was she kneeling up and letting him? I mean, I was that naive, and old enough not to be. Blimey, I'd left school four years ago. I'd been strapped. Not like that, though.

Her quivers, her shudders, her cries went on as that heavy strap curled full across her bottom. Real peaches and cream she looked. "T....T....Tom, you shouldn't............... sh....sh.....shouldn't...... stop now............. stop!" "I told you, I told you, Helen, I'd make a woman of you, the way he never will. You need it burned into you like this – LIFT IT!" "WHA-HA-HA-HAAAA!" her voice sobbed out. Every SLAP-SPLAT! sounded louder, but it always did with that strap. I'd had it across my knickered bottom a few times. The SPLAT! was worse than the sting, but it did burn. I was always wriggly for half an hour afterwards. They used to grin. They always seemed to know when I'd had it. My skirts used to crease easily, too. He always lifted them right up over my bum, saying if my stocking seams were straight or not. Things like that.

The way it was, you see, in the house, was that I was able to creep up the stairs and, before I got to the top, turn almost right round and looked along the floor of the landing into the bedroom. Like I was doing now.

I never had it so hard as she was getting it, nor for so long. It seemed impossible to me then. I could hear the bedsprings sighing and singing under her knees, on and on, SPLAT! CRACK! SPER-LATT! "YOO-YOOO-YOOO-YOOOOOH!" she was sobbing. Real sobs from deep down in her. Her bottom was really red – not an angry red, but burnished and polished. All the things I was going to learn about I was listening and seeing. Including what I couldn't believe.

"All right, Helen, all right," he said in a quick tone. I saw the strap slide to the carpet and his hand go to his fly-buttons. Well, no – I didn't believe that at first. I hadn't exactly looked for a bulge there. "No, Tom," I heard her moan, she made to look round, to slide back off the bed (beds seemed higher in those days) but he gave her bottom a rare smack with his hand and she yelped and sobbed all in one voice. Then he got it out.

I almost hid my eyes. Well that's a fib. I'm sure I didn't really. It reared up, all nine thick inches of it with the bulbous knob looking like a big plum that was likely to burst with ripeness any time. I remember putting that thought into those words, and right I was. Then he grabbed her hips and his cock waggled stiffly. "All right, Helen," he said like one might talk to a nervous horse. She bucked like a horse, too, would have got up, I swear, but he held her, leaning his weight forward over her back and fumbling, fumbling until his knob found her slit.

"AH! you're juicy!" he groaned. Then a real "WHOO-OOOO!" came from her, and a silly, feeble, "Don't Tom, don't!" even though he'd already got it in and the wrigglings of her hips only excited him the more, I could see. "I've got you – all right, I've got you, Helen," he said in a voice as quiet as you like, and then he gave one heave of his buttocks and it was a knife going into butter all right. "Oh-oh-oh-oh-!" she sobbed and then her head hung down again and I could see her seared bottom pressing back despite herself while the thick shaft lodged itself inch by inch between her rolled lips.

There was a glistening there, I could see. They were only about twelve or fourteen feet away and, if he had turned to look, I could have ducked my head down all right, I felt sure. Her bottom sank slowly right back into his hands around the suspendered fronts of her thighs and – OOOH! – right in.

It was all sort of like a daze seeing it. Well, I've seen a blue movie or two in my days since then, but they were nothing like. Nothing like when you know the ones who are doing it, and doing it the way they were. "Oh, Tom – oh, Tom – oh, Tom," she kept moaning. "Didn't I tell you – didn't I tell you?" he was croaking. Then he began to pump her. My mouth was dry, my eyes glazed – but I was moist down in between all right, I heard the slaps of bottom to belly coming so loud to me – his skin white, her deep pink, his balls swinging.

I was holding my breath – almost letting it go in an explosion of sound. I don't think they'd have heard if I had. When you're like that – and didn't I know it soon enough – there's scarcely anything seen or heard except what you're doing and enjoying.

"Ah, you bitch, didn't you want this, need this?" he croaked. "Yes..... oh Tom...... you're naughty..... yes.... oh! oh my bottom!"

"It's lovely for it, you know it is. I told you, Helen, told you five years ago and you wouldn't. Remember what your Dad used to say – strapping and threshing come together." – "OOOh, Tom, ah! Don't come! Ah, you bad man, I never had it like this before, you know I didn't." – "Time you did then, eh? Oh gawd, I'll come in a minute – are you coming – wriggle it, Helen – ah, my lovely, you've got a lovely one."

Despite all her protesting and sobbing and moaning, she was surging and heaving it to him all right. That's what amazed me then, after the strapping she'd had, though I suppose I did get a funny distant feeling about how I felt when it scorched my knickers. Afterwards, I mean. There was a quick feel-up sometimes that I used to pretend hadn't happened. I was always sticky-wicky in the crotch of my knickers after a strapping, and my nipples always came up, too.

I didn't stop to see any more. By the sound of their mutual gasps and noises there wasn't going to be much more anyway. I tiptoed down, trembling really and truly in every limb. The world had changed – life had changed. This is what people did. And enjoyed it. I did crazy things in my head like comparing that obvious pleasure with things like eating or going on holiday. Daft comparison, I know – but I was new to it. It was such an intensity of pleasure. But then, being stupid, I played a mischievous trick, going down the hall, opening the door quietly and banging it.

What a scuffle came from up there! You can believe it. I heard Aunt Helen say "Oh God," and then "It's all down my stocking tops." Already then I knew I shouldn't have done it, but it was too late. I heard his mumblings to her, but not the words, and then he appeared, looking over the banisters, saying in a tight sort of voice, "Oh, it's you!" I said "Yes" back, quite merrily, but I must have blushed or something. He gave me such a long look. "Just coming down," he tried to say casually.

I went in, took my jacket off and sat down. I felt awful really – didn't know how I was going to behave now in front of them. Then he came down and I could see it bulging still. I think that was my big mistake – looking – or glancing, anyway. He must have noticed. I never did it before. "Your aunt didn't feel well – lying down," he said. In a way that was his mistake because naturally I had to say. "Oh dear, I'll go up." He made a gesture with his arm to sort of stop me. Too late. I was up the stairs – a bit of the devil in me, I suppose.

I don't know why on earth she didn't move any quicker. Frozen with embarrassment, I imagine. I stepped into the bedroom (forgetting I wasn't supposed to know which one) and she gave a cry, pushed her skirt down and grabbed at her fallen knicks at the same time. "Oh, Mary!" she said – half-relief, half not. I just said "Oh," but the trouble was, she guessed. Woman's instinct. I said "Oh, sorry – I thought you weren't well." I didn't mean to say it like that – a bit cheeky, I mean. It just came out that way.

Anyway, sly-like, she bided her time and waited until evening when the three of us were alone in the house again. I heard her whispering to him. It sent sort of shivers through me. They were in the dining room. Then she came in the living room. "I s'pose you thought we were mucking about this afternoon," he said, all blustery and defensive. Made me mad. "You do what you like – I won't tell," I spat at him. Then she came in. "You see – I told you she knew," she said. It was her conscience made her say it. I was scared-angry, if you know what I mean. "Oh, belt up," I said. That did it.

"Tom – you see to her," she said. I think it was embarrassment rather than anything else made him grab me. And as to Aunt Helen, I think she suddenly wanted to see it – it would salve her conscience maybe. She held me over the table while he upped and got my knickers down. I wriggled, strove, I couldn't get up. My skirt was bundled up above my hips, I had my best stockings and suspenders on, and I knew he was just staring. I twisted my face up and they were looking at each other.

"Go on, Tom do her as you did me," she said. She swore afterwards she didn't mean it the way it came out, but that was a lie. An eternity later – ten, fifteen, twenty strokes later of that strap with my bottom like a brazier – I heard her hiss to him, "Go on – have her – you might as well."

She says I made that up, that she couldn't stop him. I didn't. My tummy was pressed into the edge of the table. The first THWA-AAACK! came into me like a licking, leaping tongue of fire. "YA-HA-HA-HAAAR!" I sobbed, just the way she had – only she hadn't had someone holding her shoulders. "Oh, go on – hasn't she got a lovely bottom," I heard her say. "N.....n....n....n....NO!" I was howling even as it came in again. I'll never forget that biting burning of it – that first real one.

"Oh god," I heard him croak. That was when he had a hard-on already. "I can't," he said. "Oh Tom, you fool," Aunt Helen hissed. She let me go. I wriggled up, cheeks flaming above and below and rushed out, leaving my knickers on the floor. It was like a tomb downstairs after that, except for the hissing of their quarrelling. She went back the next day, but bloody hell did I tell her a few things before she did – on the quiet.

* * *

"Look – I'm sorry about that," he said while she was being seen off at the station. " 'S'all right," I muttered. I felt embarrassed, funny. He put his arm round my waist. I went to move away but I didn't. "You could have done – she was holding me," I said. The words came straight out of my mind really. I didn't mean to say them. He gave me a squeeze and I giggled. "You going upstairs at all?" he asked all awkward. "Dunno – why?" I muttered. Another squeeze. "Go on," he said. I knew we had half an hour at least. It was funny how neither of us had to say anything. It was just THERE.

I didn't let him take my knicks down at first. Not until after the first whippy, searing four – me bent over my bed. "Yes?" he asked. I felt his thumbs dive into the waistband. I hunched up more. I didn't say anything. He drew them down slowly, feeling the silksmooth skin of my bottom all the time, like he knew he could now. "You'll be alright now – I can really give it to you now, can't I," he said. It wasn't a question. He was sort of talking to himself. The jellied cheeks of my naked bottom quivered and clenched as he stroked fire into them. It was crazy. Between strokes he would feel me up under and around my pouting slit and say "Sorry" each time! I was moist. He could feel I was moist.

"Oh, Mary," he said after he'd done it several times. I was hardly making a sound. I had my eyes shut tight. The burning stings were too much sometimes, but I knew I wanted to take them like she had. I began to puff, to moan. I couldn't stop my hips swivelling. I was wicked, I was offering – he knew I was – all pouting and peeping was my pussy. I mewed and whined, thinking, "Oh god, do it yes, do it if you want to."

But that was the irony. We got interrupted in turn. They came back early. He rushed into the bathroom, I made noises like I was clearing out my cupboard. If anyone had seen me – knicks kicked under the bed, skirt creased everywhere, and my bottom wriggling like I had fleas, they wouldn't have believed it. The frustration was awful.

It was a whole week after that before I was strapped, pumped and creamed the way I wanted to be.........

Memoirs Of A Dedicated Spanker

Story from Janus 06.

Memoirs Of A Dedicated Spanker

SWISH!!

The cane descended in a blurred arc on the soft white buttocks poised over the edge of the bed. There was a moment's pause, then a white line appeared in the centre of the flawless cheeks, immediately to be replaced by a vivid red weal, split only by the deep division of the bottom.

At the same time, a gasp of astonishment at the intensity of the pain escaped the lips of the pretty sufferer, to be followed by a loud wail; for this was the very first time that this particular bottom had felt the firm smack of discipline. Relentlessly, the second stroke followed the first, an inch or so below and exactly parallel. The sweet rotundities clenched together, as if seeking comfort from each other, where none was to be found. This time Monica, (for such was her name) let out a loud and pleading yell.

'OWWWW! Oh please Simon, PLEASE No more NO MORE. I can't stand it.' But evidently Simon was not to be swayed by such heartfelt pleas for, waiting only until the tortured cheeks had relaxed, he delivered another well directed stroke just below the first two. This time her stockinged leg kicked up, and she tried to rise from the shameful position of pain, but a firm hand in the centre of her back held her in the humiliating posture.

'Oh no OH NO NO! PLEASE NO MORE! I can't bear it.'

'You should have thought of that when you were making such a disgusting exhibition of yourself at the party,' he replied grimly, taking a firmer grip on the long yellow cane.

'But I love you Simon, how can you hurt me so much?' For answer, he laid a particularly firm stroke across the lower curves of her bare bottom, and she screeched in agony; the tears shot out of her eyes and wet the bedcover. He seemed unmoved by her misery and continued to apply the stinging correction.

She twisted and turned, trying desperately to avoid the biting fiery rod and her naked buttocks opened and closed in a most engaging manner as they tried to find some relief from the fierce pain of the chastising cane, but without success. At the same time her feet beat a tatoo of anguish on the floor, even though her knickers, which were around her knees, hampered her movements.

But then a strange change began to come over her; the screams gave way to groans softer, yet deeper, and her frantic boundings became more regular and rhythmic, and her bottom seemed to rise to meet the challenge of the cane. He recognised what was happening, and began to change the strokes to a more rapid rate, but much gentler now and directed low down at the centre of her soft bottom.

"Oh darling,' she breathed huskily, 'don't stop now, it's such a wonderful feeling. What's happening to me?'

"Oh Simon. I'm coming. OH I'M COMING. OH! OH! OH! OHHH!'

* * * *

Well, it's a pleasant fantasy which I often have, and I expect others do too, and why not. But I think it is fantasy none the less. The idea that severe pain applied to the soft bare bottom of a pretty, but unwilling girl, for the very first time, will result in instant climax, seems to me to be very unlikely. Nevertheless, in a life dedicated with single-minded purpose to getting pretty round bottoms across my knees, for the mutual delight of a good spanking, I have quite often seen girls brought to climax solely by the studied, application of the bottom discipline; but this happy outcome has only been achieved after quite lengthy preparation and initiation. In my rather extensive experience, this delightful dénouement can only be reached via careful and cunning stages, and certainly not by sudden and unexpected severity; indeed anyone who tried it is more likely to end up in the Sunday Papers.

However, it is obvious that many of us desire nothing so much, as to get a lovely and willing bottom across our knees for a prolonged and thorough spanking; yet many find it difficult to locate and initiate a happy 'victim'. As I have spent the greater part of thirty years in this delightful sport, perhaps my experiences may be of some assistance to likeminded smackbottomists who have not been as fortunate as me.

I first developed this taste in an unexpected fashion. When I was about fifteen, I was very keen on horse riding, and during the summer holidays, when I was free from my housemaster's all too ready strap (but that is another story) I used to go riding nearly every day. It was during the summer holidays, that I had as my regular riding companion, a girl who was the daughter of the local vicar. He was friendly with my parents, and this was probably why we were allowed to go off together unescorted. No doubt, we were thought too respectable to get up to any mischief. How wrong events were to prove that judgement to be.

The girl, whose name was Alison, was a year older than I, and she was strikingly beautiful. She had long blonde hair, vivid blue eyes, and a wide sensual mouth. But it was her body which caused me to fall instantly and completely in love with her. The sweet swelling breasts, the narrow waist, enchanted me. But what occupied my attention and all my thoughts, was her adorable bottom. From the narrow waist, it flared to the surprisingly wide hips, and the round cheeks seemed to me like the two halves of an apple, laid side by side. As we rode together, I used to ride slightly behind her, so that I could watch this divine object. Encased in tight jodhpurs, which were growing too small for Alison's widening dimensions, the broad behind rose and fell, opened and shut, in time with the rhythm of the canter. As for me, this delightful sight produced certain changes, which were particularly inconvenient on horseback.

It was our habit to stop in a deserted woodland glen, at the end of our outward journey, to rest and eat our picnic. It was here too, that I first learned of the unpredictability of women, for instead of laughing at me, as I feared, she threw her arms about me, and kissed me hotly on the lips. This was the start of her slow but steady seduction of me. Each day she allowed me to progress a little further. First to caress her over her clothes; then to fondle her soft bare breasts; at last (with something of a struggle) to unbutton and draw down her straining jodhpurs. Beneath, she wore pink satin knickers reaching to mid thigh, where the tight elastic pinched into her soft flesh. These she stubbornly refused to allow me to remove, but I was content to run my hands over the satiny surface, paying particular attention to the astonishing rear swellings. So things continued for the next couple of weeks, with me unable to make any further progress towards my dishonourable objective.

One day, she did not turn up for our daily ride; however, she appeared the following day as usual, but without any explanation. I noticed, as we rode along that she seemed uncomfortable and stiff in the saddle, unlike her usual fluid and graceful movements, which so fascinated me. When we came to our usual secret stopping place, she flung her arms around me, with extraordinary passion, and to my astonishment, began to cry bitterly. Eventually, the reason emerged.

'Daddy whipped me yesterday.'

'Good gracious, whatever for?' I asked, with a curious feeling of excitement.

'I told a lie, and he got very angry.'

'What did he whip you with?'

'Oh, a horrid old cane he has.'

'On your hand?' I asked, hardly daring to breathe.

'Oh no. In my...' she hesitated. 'On my bottom; it's always on my bottom.'

'Tell me about it,' I encouraged gently. I knew her family were strict, but I had never thought of this.

'He got terribly cross when I told this little fib, and of course I denied it and things just got worse, and then he sent me upstairs to "get ready", and I know what that means only too well. I said I was too old to be treated like a child, but it was no use, his mind was made up, and I went miserably off upstairs. The routine is always the same. I have to put two pillows on the end of the bed, and then take off my skirt and let my knickers right down to my knees. Then I have to go and stand in the corner and think over my crimes. I stayed like that for about ten minutes, and then I heard his footsteps on the stairs, and I began to cry with fear. He came into the room, tapping the beastly cane against his leg.

'Well, my girl,' he said, 'perhaps this will teach you to tell the truth. Get yourself across the bed, and try to take your whipping as befits a great big girl like you.' I begged and pleaded with him to let me off, but that only made him more angry. 'Get down at once, girl, or it will be the worse for you. Do you want extra strokes?' So I lay over the pillows at the end of the bed. He pulled the hem of my slip right up over my back, as if I wasn't bare enough already. Then I felt him lay the rod right across the centre of my behind.

'Are you not ashamed of yourself, a great big girl like you. Having to lie in this disgraceful position, in such a state of undress, with your knickers down, and your backside bare, just like a naughty little child? Well, we shall see what a good dose of the cane can do to teach you that liars of any age deserve to be well chastised.' All the time, he was tapping the cane against my bottom. Suddenly, I felt the cane lift, there was a hiss, and I felt this incredible pain across both sides of my bottom. I shrieked and kicked, and tried to kick, but he held me down, with his hand in the small of my back. Before I could regain my breath, the cane swept down again and again, and I was lost in a blurr of agony. It is impossible to describe the feeling; it is like someone drawing a red-hot wire across one's flesh; it is simply not possible to believe that it is feasible to endure so much pain; but it is, all six strokes of it. And you have to lie there, and submit to it, for there is nothing else you can do. It was so painful that I don't think I had the breath to start weeping until he had finished.

'Perhaps you will learn that I will not tolerate any daughter of mine being a liar, and next time you feel the devil tempting you, remember how you look now.'

'With this, he left me, to take Evensong.'

I listened in astonishment to her story, which had come out in a breathless rush. I put my arm about her, and tried to comfort her, but at the same time, I felt extremely excited, at the thought of this beautiful girl actually having to take down her knickers and have her divine bare bottom properly caned.

'Poor thing,' I said, with every appearance of solicitude, but feeling a hypocrite at the same time. 'How could he be so cruel to my lovely Alison.'

She came into my arms; soon her jodhpurs were down, though she winced as I pulled them over her broad sore buttocks. Nor did she make any protest this time, when I gently drew down her silky pink knickers. The sight that met my eyes remains clear to me today, and indeed, virtually determined the pattern of my life in the future, though I didn't know it then.

The skin of her bottom was like satin, perfectly white, and almost translucent. In extraordinary contrast, the six weals stood out like red gashes, their edges sharply raised. Three of the weals were placed in perfect parallel, across the centre of the orbs, one more just across the lower curve of the bottom, and the fifth at the junction of the cheeks and the plump upper thighs. But the last had been layed diagonally across the other strokes from the top of the left hip, to low down on the right thigh; where it transected the other cuts. I concluded that her father took considerable pride in his handicraft. (I was too young to know the real reason, of course).

Muttering false words of sympathy, I kissed gently down each etched line of agony, feeling the heat with my lips. She began to utter little cries, which at first I took to be due to pain, but they soon turned to groans of pleasure, obvious even to some one as inexperienced as myself. Soon we found ourselves fondling those forbidden parts, and it was not long before we entered our mutual heaven. That was the start of it, and each day we galloped to our secret hiding place, for me to caress and adore the scarred cheeks. But as the marks faded I noticed that our ardour was not quite so great as on the first occasion. Moreover, I missed the rosy glow in her cheeks. I determined to see if it were possible to bring it back!

I began to find fault with her laughingly, and to pretend that I was cross with her. One day, I taxed her with not loving me enough.

'You are very fickle,' I said, 'I am beginning to think that your father is right, and perhaps you need a good spanking from time to time to keep you in order.'

I had determined to retreat, if this produced what would now be called a negative response.

'Of course I love you,' she said, pouting slightly, 'but if you doubt my love, I suppose I had better let you prove it.' I was again surprised by her response, but delighted to seize the opportunity.

We were standing, clasped in each others' arms, both with our jodhpurs well down, and as I spoke, I was gently running my hands over the silky spheres, on which I had such dishonourable designs.

'Come my dear,' I said, assuming a tone of mock severity. 'Come, and lie across my knees, I am going to spank your naughty bottom well.'

She took up my bantering tone, like an unwilling schoolgirl, summoned for punishment. 'How could you be so cruel; you pretend to love me, and yet you want to hurt me.'

'It is because you have been so horrid to me, that I must chastise you. Over my knees at once, or I shall have to increase your punishment.'

With mock reluctance, she laid herself across my thighs, as I sat on the grass, pressing herself against my throbbing staff. I pushed back her blouse hem, to expose her wonderful bottom, in all its soft glory. As usual, I was amazed and enthralled by its width and sweetly rounded contours, with the long deep cleft between the close set cheeks. After I had admired this splendid sight for a few moments, I wrapped my left arm around her slender waist, and rather hesitantly began to smack the swelling posteriors quite lightly with my hand. At first she sighed slightly at each stroke, but then began to move her bottom in a sort of circular motion, but made no attempt to turn away from the chastising hand. I, for my part, gazed with fascination as her divine white cheeks began to turn, at first, a charming pink, and then a more vivid red. I was rather surprised to see how clearly the marks of my fingers showed on the delicate surfaces, immediately after each smack, before blending into the more general redness, which suffused her breech. Each time my hand landed, I exulted in the softness of the satin surface, and felt it becoming increasingly hot, under the continuing assault.

For her part, Alison's movements began to change from circular gyrations, to a much more vigorous back and forwards motion in time with the strokes. This caused her bottom to open and shut in a most seductive fashion. At the same time, although she had started to weep, her little cries turned to deeper and more breathless groans. Soon, she clenched her bottom cheeks together tightly, and began to utter a long continuous keening sound, which even some one as inexperienced as I was, recognised, and I at once stopped the rear tattoo. She lay gasping for a few moments, and then turned to look at me over her scarlet bottom, and said with a little smile. 'Now I'm rather glad I was a naughty girl!'

Afterwards; our lovemaking brought us rapidly to ecstasy and satisfied exhaustion.

There remained only ten days of our summer holiday left, but each day we hurried to our secret meeting place, and most days the delightful spanking episode was repeated. I knew when Alison wanted this, because she would commit some small fault, quite deliberately, in order that I would have an excise to put her across my knees and bare her lovely bottom for correction. We both went through the charade of pretended naughty girl being whipped for her own good, although, of course, we well recognised its true meaning.

At the end of the summer, we vowed to meet again as soon as possible in the Christmas Holidays; and I lived through the school term, with the picture of Alison's lovely round spanked bottom for ever in my thoughts. Alas for my hopes. When I got home, my mother mentioned that Alison had left with her family for Northumberland, where her father had taken a new living. I never saw her again. But more than twenty-five years later, I saw a picture of her in the paper attending a church conference; the caption stated that she was the wife of one of our more trendy bishops. I wondered if he adhered to the biblical injunction about sparing the rod!

Head Girl

Story from Roue 18.

Head Girl

AS THE singing died away she got up from her seat among the school prefects and walked, clip-clop on the medium high heels which the Head allowed for Sixth Formers, along the front of the hall and then up the short flight of steps onto the stage. All eyes — well, all boys' eyes at least — focussed on those flexing bare calves beneath the thin summer uniform dress, for Gillian Blair, Head Girl at Greenfields Comprehensive, undoubtedly had a very shapely pair of legs. She stood in the centre of the stage ready to read out the various day's announcements as was customary at the completion of morning assembly.

For most people the business of standing up there in front of the whole school would be quite an ordeal: all the eyes upon you — the girls, many of them envious, and the boys, well, undoubtedly quite a few enlivening the boredom of assembly by indulging in varied lustful thoughts about Gillian, for her physical attractions did not stop at those shapely legs: she was shapely all over, not least those swelling breasts pushing out the front of that crisp blue-flowered dress. And she moreover had a pertly pretty face to go with all this. But lustful or envious looks did not perturb Gillian, for she was a notably self-possessed young lady: poised, confident, intelligent, a sure prospect for university. No, speaking at assembly was purely routine.

Well, that is to say it normally was. But today for some reason things were inexplicably different. She started off in a most un-Gillian like halting manner; then was seen to glance at the Head, sitting in his customary position on the left of the stage, and then she dried up completely. She stood there desperately for about half a minute, her face getting pinker and pinker, and then blurted out: 'I... I'm sorry, I seem to have forgotten...' She stumbled off into the wings of the stage. The Head quickly followed her. Those near enough to see said she was crying and the Head was heard saying:

'Really Gillian, you're just going to have to try and forget about it.'

What a drama! The whole school was naturally agog. What had happened? What was happening? Who knew? Nobody seemed to know anything. Somebody must, though. The Head? And then the word spread round that something odd had been going on the previous day: Gillian and the Head going off in the afternoon on some mysterious errand. This only deepened the mystery, unless you were prepared to listen to Robert 'Nose' Parker (Five B): 'It's obvious. The Head took her out for a fuck and now she thinks she's got one in the oven.' This theory followed naturally from the premise, commonly stated by Parker-type elements in the Fourth and Fifth, that all girl prefects were 'fucked' by member of staff and that was how they got to be prefects. But the Parker theory and its premise were not widely believed — not even by those boys who eagerly repeated them. No, it must be something else.

The Head knew all right, though both he and Gillian fervently hoped that no one else ever would. To Mr Kendall, Headmaster of Greenfields Comprehensive, it had been a most unfortunate, deeply regrettable, happening. And that of all people it should be Gillian Blair, one of the best girls the school had ever produced. Unbelievable, though of course this kind of thing did happen. The papers had cases all the time — including the most prominent people — but that didn't make it any easier to deal with. Roger Kendall, 40 and young to be Headmaster of a large comprehensive, shook his head. He had told Gillian to go and work in the library: he would have another talk with her in half an hour when he'd dealt with his morning's correspondence. But try as he might he was unable to concentrate, his thoughts persistently returning to the unfortunate events of the previous two days.

* * *

It had been Wednesday lunchtime when it had all started and really it was still almost impossible to believe that Gillian of all people had done it. But there was no doubt that she had. In Carter's, the old family firm of office suppliers and stationers in the town centre. Where Gillian had been seen by one of the assistants to pick up an expensive Parker pen and after nervously looking around had slipped it into her blazer pocket. The assistant told Mr Carter and as Gillian walked out of the shop she had been apprehended.

As Gillian had tearfully told the Head later, she had just no idea what impelled her to do it; she had never even thought of such a thing before, and if she really wanted the pen she could easily have bought it, for she had a not-ungenerous allowance from her parents. A fresh outburst of tears at the thought of her parents and what they would think if they heard about it. And not just her parents of course but the whole public humiliation.

Because Mr Carter wanted, if not blood, then certainly full and proper retribution. According to him shoplifting was halving his profits and now he had caught someone red-handed he had every intention of making an example of the culprit, whether or not she happened to be Head Girl of Greenfields Comprehensive. 'It's just another example of the way this country's going to the dogs,' he ranted at the Head. 'And you in your position, Kendall, are personally responsible.'

For sure, Wednesday afternoon had not been the easiest time of the Head's career. First the turbulent meeting in his study with Carter, then the phone calls, followed by both of them driving over to the home of Major Fortnum, Chairman of the local magistrates. A further harrowing meeting at which he pleaded desperately about Gillian's position: the coming A Levels, the possible effects on her whole University career. Not to mention the position of the school itself. And finally he won his way. The incident could be treated confidentially — hushed up, in other words. At a price of course.

The price? Paid the next day, Thursday, yesterday afternoon in fact, at Major Fortnum's. Tight-lipped and not liking what had been decided or his role in it one little bit, the Head had driven Gillian over there for the 2 o'clock meeting. She was naturally in a bit of a state, wondering what would happen; for she had not yet been told, only that the Head thought they could probably keep it quiet. 'You will not find it pleasant, though.' She bit her lip, with difficulty holding back the tears. That morning, after assembly, she had broken down, weeping, when he had lectured her on what had happened. At assembly itself it had fortunately been the turn of the Head Boy to perform and not Gillian — for really she was in no state to do it.

The drive over to Major Fortnum's house, neither of them speaking, and neither of them speaking as they stepped out of the car and were ushered in by the housekeeper, was all a bit like attending a funeral. The Head for some reason was carrying his overcoat, in a funny kind of way, almost as if it were concealing something. But Gillian was too preoccupied to reason it out.

They were led into the Major's study where he and Mr Carter were already waiting. The door closed quietly behind them. 'Right, young lady,' said the Major. Then to the Head: 'You've brought it, I assume, Kendall?' And then the Head shamefacedly drew from his folded overcoat what had indeed been concealed there — a longish thin whippy cane.

Gillian blanched. She knew that the Head had a cane; but it was used only rarely and then of course only on boys, never girls. Surely they couldn't possibly propose to use it now... on her...

She looked to the Head for words of reassurance but he was rather pointedly gazing out of the window. Fearfully she turned to the other two men. Mr Carter, who of course she'd already encountered — middle-aged, balding, who had ranted angrily at her yesterday. Yes, he was quite capable... But Major Fortnum — 60 perhaps, tall and distinguished-looking with silver-grey hair? He was Chairman of the Magistrates and there were rules, and therefore surely he couldn't agree to such a thing.

What had been proposed by Mr Carter, was indeed highly irregular as the Major knew only too well, and if it were ever to get into the papers (Magistrate Canes Teenage Girl) well, it didn't bear thinking about. But the whole object of the exercise was to avoid publicity. If she chose this rather than the due process of the law, well, so be it. He gazed impassively back at the frightened-looking girl in the thin summer dress and blazer. His eyes said nothing. His thoughts said that here was a very tasty young piece: his task was going to be... highly stimulating.

'Your Headmaster has explained the situation to you, Miss Blair?'

He hadn't, of course. He just hadn't felt able to tell her, it had been bad enough having to bring the cane. 'No, I... I thought it best if you explained the options, Major.'

The Major glanced briefly over at the Head (a look which clearly said that he had shirked his responsibility), then placing the cane carefully on his desk and assuming a bland neutral expression he led off in his best Chairman-of-the-Magistrates voice.

Shoplifting — or more simply theft — could not be condoned, he said. Those who indulged in it must accept the full consequences: due process of the law. The Magistrates Court. The inevitable attendant publicity. All this was unavoidable if Mr Carter pressed his charges as he was fully entitled to do. However Mr Carter and he, the Major, were aware of the very unfortunate effects which the publicity could have for Gillian at this present time. And in the light of this Mr Carter would be prepared to drop the charges if a suitable alternative punishment was meted out.

All eyes at this point were directed automatically at the cane lying ominously on the desk. There was no doubt what form the proposed alternative punishment would take. 'Yes,' said Major Fortnum, a suitable alternative.' The three of them were agreed that then the matter need go no further.

Gillian stood immobile, head bowed, only her hands fiddling nervously with her blazer betraying her emotion, as what he had said sunk in. She knew, though, that she had no option but to accept. Her head still bowed, she said faintly: 'I... I'm to be caned then?' She stopped toying with the edge of her blazer and unhappily rubbed her hands together.

Gillian's unconscious gesture was not lost on Major Fortnum: 'Yes, you will be caned, Miss. But not on your hand: on your bottom.'

He paused to let this statement sink in, and then added: 'With your knickers down.'

There had been a deathly hush, Gillian unable to believe what she had heard and indeed the men, including the Major, just a little stunned at the prospect.

The Major broke the silence: 'I should perhaps say that if you accept a caning and then subsequently feel inclined to divulge what had happened we would all of course deny it, and I think it unlikely that you would be believed. Also if you don't accept and feel like revealing that the option of a caning was made to you we would deny that too. Anyway, as I say, it has to be your own choice. And that is the option.'

He repeated, with emphasis: 'The cane on your bottom with your knickers down.'

Gillian started weeping silently. At this point Mr Carter decided to intervene, perhaps afraid that sympathy for the girl might make the others look for some other, lesser, punishment. 'Well come on! I haven't got all day. If she agrees to it let's get it over.'

'Right then, Miss Blair,' the Major said. 'If you agree please take off your jacket and we will proceed.'

And proceed they did, for Gillian obviously had no choice. Abjectly she removed her blazer, to reveal the clear shape of those firm rounded breasts, contained in only a thin bra under the summer dress, which at Greenfields Comprehensive were so much admired by the boys, and indeed by most of the male staff. A slight pause as the eyes of both Major Fortnum and Mr Carter likewise registered admiration, then the Major indicated that she was to bend over his desk. She stepped forward and his hands guided her down until her face (and those breasts) were flat against the top. She was made to stretch out and grip the other side with both hands.

Then the skirt of that blue flowered dress was ceremoniously pulled up and with it the white lace-edged waist-slip underneath. Long slim bare legs; and as the skirt and slip were pulled further up, up over her back, the rounded thighs and then the white nylon knickers tightly enclosing the rondures of her bottom. The Major's hands at the waistband of the knickers, fingers inserted, easing them down, down over those bare thighs to just above the knees...

A tense silence fell in the room as three pairs of male eyes focused intently on the full pale rounded cheeks, the deep dividing cleft, the glimpse of brown curling hair at the confluence with the thighs. A tense, electric silence... finally broken by the sound of the Major, now redfaced, clearing his throat as he reached for the cane. 'Kindly keep still, Miss. You will receive six strokes.'

He stepped to the side and laid the cane testingly across the fullest part of her buttocks, making them jiggle. Then smoothly he raised it and brought it down with, to the Head's ears at least, quite a sickening Thwack! The girl gave a strangled gasping cry and jerked up off the desk. A bright red stripe had appeared across the centre of her bottom.

'Hold her down please,' the Major curtly barked. Mr Carter sprang forward to push Gillian back down and this time keep her there with his hands pressed onto her back.

'Good!' Unruffled he continued: Thwack!... a second stroke and a second stripe appeared across the bottom of the now sobbing girl.

Thwack!... a third stripe across those desperately squirming cheeks...

Thwack!...

The Head looked on, feeling definitely sick. He had never caned a girl himself, and never even a boy on the bare bottom and what was now happening... Well, it was just sickening. But nonetheless he found he couldn't look away, couldn't take his fascinated eyes off that soft pale flesh and the angry red stripes which one by one were being systematically imprinted on it.

At last there was the stated complement of six. Major Fortnum put down the cane; Mr Carter relinquished his grip (then moving round behind the still bent-over girl was seen by the Head to quite deliberately slide one hand over her bare glowing behind). It was over. Gillian, sobbing, averting her eyes, got up, fumbled her knickers back up under her dress.

Yes, it was over. Mr Carter had had the satisfaction of seeing the Head Girl at Greenfields caned on her bare bottom, and Major Fortnum had had the further satisfaction of actually doing it. The account was paid. The Major's clipped tones: 'Well, I think that concludes matters.' He looked at Gillian: 'And I'll just repeat that nothing of what has taken place here this afternoon will ever go beyond these four walls.'

It had been a quarter to four. Silently, not knowing what to say, the Head had taken Gillian out, then driven her to her home where fortunately no one was yet in. He made her a cup of tea and stayed until she seemed at least to have got over the worst of it; then he left, telling her to phone him if she felt it would help. She had not phoned so he had assumed she was all right. But this morning's performance in assembly clearly indicated that she was not.

* * *

He finally finished his correspondence and sent for Gillian to come to his study. It was the first time he had really had a chance to talk to her since he'd left her at four o'clock yesterday, and it was clear that she was if anything in a worse state than she'd been then. He put his arm round her waist in an avuncular manner and tried to reassure her. The caning was over and best forgotten. No one was ever going to know about it. But this merely precipitated another outburst of tears through which he could just about make out her saying: 'It's not just that.'

He persevered, his arm still round that delectably slim waist, telling her that the only way, if she was worrying about something, was to talk about it. Finally, wiping her eyes, she said haltingly: 'Well all right. Talking won't make it any better, though. But... but last night I... I did something... really awful.'

Mr Kendall was naturally at a complete loss. What now? Had she gone on a round of house-breaking or something? Gradually he coaxed it out of her. It wasn't housebreaking, but it was something just as completely out of character...

* * *

After the Head left her following her caning, Gillian had just sat brooding, doing nothing, letting what had happened go round and round in her head: the actual awful shock of that cane on her bottom, and perhaps even more the sheer humiliation of at 18 being bent over a desk and having her knickers taken down in front of three men. She brooded, and of course said nothing to her parents when they came in; and later barely touched her meal.

She had been due to go to the cinema with her boyfriend, Kevin Goodall, but she just couldn't face him and rang to call it off saying she had a migraine. (Kevin, also in the Upper Sixth at Greenfields had queried her absence from school that afternoon and she invoked a migraine for that as well, saying she had gone home.) She went back to her room to sit once more just staring at the wall.

But after a while she just couldn't stand it any more and felt she had to go out, and happened to see in the local paper that there was a disco on that evening. Discos were something neither she nor Kevin normally ever went to, but perhaps because of the mood she was in it had an appeal. Yes perhaps she would go there for an hour...

She changed from her school dress into a skirt and blouse, and put on the pair of nylons and suspender belt she had recently bought (they were now, after years of tights, to a certain extent being worn again as something 'different'). She brushed her hair, then some lipstick, her high heels, and a coat; and went out. Unfortunately, though she didn't realise it, she had no knickers on: she had taken off the ones she had been wearing but in her distracted state had forgotten to put on another pair.

However, what happened was not simply the result of having no knickers on: for with Gillian's state of mind it would in all likelihood have happened anyway. A state of mind in which together with the sense of humiliation there was the feeling that she had let everyone down; and together these combined to produce a state in which she didn't much care what happened to her. And so, in a distracted sort of way, she had let it happen... the two men, sales reps on an overnight stay, who happened to have turned up at the disco... not actually encouraging them but not discouraging them either, just acquiescing, numbly saying 'All right' when really she must have known where things would lead. Undoubtedly, though, the absence of knickers had an effect; an added stimulus to them when they realised, in the course of dancing with her, that she had none on. Well, a pretty girl, going alone to a disco and not wearing any... the conclusion was obvious. They could scarcely believe their luck.

It had actually happened on the Common, a local lovers' haunt just outside the town, where they had driven Gillian after leaving the dance. Saying they would drive her home but first, as it was a warm evening, why not go for a little drive? Where was a nice quiet spot? Gillian, in the back seat with one of them, her mind further numbed by several drinks and weakly protesting at what her companion was doing, gave directions: she had been to the Common more than once with Kevin, on their bikes. Though definitely not to do what she was now to do with these two men nor indeed to allow what a hand was already doing to her in the car. For she and Kevin, unlike many teenagers, did not mess around indulging in sexual experimentation.

Yes, Gillian was a virgin all right and had planned to stay that way until marriage. But clearly that was not now to be as they got out of the car and she was persuaded to sit, then lie, on the blanket which her companion produced from the car boot. A minimal amount of foreplay (a continuation of what had been happening in the back seat) and then he was on top of her; a firm sharp painful thrust, and Gillian was a virgin no more.

Afterwards, when they'd finished, they drove her home. She went numbly to bed and it was only when she woke in the morning, with the worst of the shock from the caning now over, that she fully realised what she had done, or what she had allowed to be done, the night before.

* * *

Haltingly, tearfully, Gillian reluctantly told all this to the Head (or almost all, for she omitted the fact that she'd had no knickers on). He listened in silence, and when she'd finished just did not know what to say. Well, what could he say? As she continued crying he put one arm, then both arms, round her. And then he did think of something to say: the crucial question. Did she think she could be pregnant? Gillian shook her head. She had carefully understood and remembered her Sex Instruction Class. She was pretty sure it was her safe period. Well at least there was not that to worry about, thought Mr Kendall, as he did his best to comfort the unhappy girl. But as he did so, feeling her body, her breasts, soft but firm against him, he realised to his alarm that he was beginning to get an erection.

Hastily he turned away and went to sit at his desk — where his errant organ continued its unfortunate enlargement, but at least did it unobserved. It was a development which really was most unfortunate, as the Head would have been the first to admit. The trouble was that she was such an attractive girl and what she had just recounted, while it was truly regrettable, was also, well, definitely arousing. He had very clear visions of Gillian, her long legs parted, underneath first one and then the other of those unprincipled men. And he also had vivid memories of earlier yesterday: her full pale bottom being caned over Major Fortnum's desk. Yes, it was all too much: a most unfortunate reaction indeed.

He did his best to ignore it, as he continued to make sympathetic sounds. There was no point worrying about what had happened and she mustn't blame herself. It was not the end of the world. She would soon forget it, as she would likewise soon forget the caning. No use crying over spilt milk etc., etc. But while he was saying all this his hidden organ was remaining obstinately erect. And that part of his brain which had caused this by savouring the recent happenings was also producing most unfortunate thoughts. Really unacceptable ones.

To the effect that what had happened in the last two days had placed his delectable Head Girl completely in his power. To do with as he wished. And what he wished, these thoughts were saying, was to do exactly what those two opportunist men had done last night. To fuck her, in fact.

The decent, headmasterly side of his brain fought back. Such thoughts were disgraceful: it was quite deplorable that he should even contemplate having intercourse with his Head Girl. But that other side of his brain immediately countered: Don't be foolish, Kendall, you know you want it and you know she'll have to let you. And remember that Angela (his wife) will be going off to her mother's this weekend. There's your golden opportunity. Strike while the iron is hot.

The Head seemed to be sweating somewhat. Still seated at his desk, (still in fact in a state of full erection) he mopped his brow: 'Gillian. Look, what you need is a good... I mean what you need is a change of scene. Why don't you come round to my place tomorrow afternoon. We'll have a nice chat... and some tea... I'm sure it'll make you feel a lot better.'

He had said it in spite of himself. He hadn't really meant to but it had just come out. Perhaps she would decline, though.

But no. Gillian looked doubtful and then, pushing back her hair from an unhappy face said: 'Oh, all right Sir. Thank you.' For one thing there was no one except the Head she could talk to about any of this. Not Kevin, not her parents, not anyone. And the Head was, well, very sympathetic. 'When should I come round Sir?'

It was a question Mr Kendall did not hear as he was busy listening to the thoughts whizzing around in his own head. Thoughts as to how he would best accomplish his goal. A drink first, of course. Two drinks. And then should it be the settee. Or, let's face it, it would certainly be more enjoyable to actually do it in bed...

Whatever he decided, he must use the rational approach. Point out that what had happened was not really such a dreadful thing: girls not infrequently started doing it at her age, or indeed younger. But once she had started it was advisable to continue, at least at a certain level of frequency. For the sake of her health, otherwise she could get very tense. At the same time it was not a good idea to think of starting it with her boyfriend — Kevin Goodall, was it? It could very well distract him from his studies.

No, what she needed was an understanding, older man. That was the line to take. And if she wasn't convinced, well, he would just have to use a little pressure. Remind her (if she needed reminding) of what had happened these last two days and how unpleasant it would be if Kevin or her parents got to know about it all. Yes, that would certainly do the trick. But she was a sensible girl and probably he wouldn't need to much of this...

'Sir?'

'Oh... er, sorry Gillian. I wasn't really listening.'

'I said what time should I come round, Sir?'

* * *

Gradually all the excitement died down and by lunchtime Greenfields Comprehensive was more or less back to normal. Gillian herself, after her talk with the Head, though definitely not back to normal was putting a brave face on things, trying not to think about it all. The word had gone round that she simply hadn't been feeling well. Not that characters like 'Nose' Parker were going to be so easily put off. 'Morning sickness, I suppose,' was his comment on hearing this. 'Just goes to prove what I said. Old Kendall has got one in her oven.'

It goes without saying that Parker was not Kevin Goodall's favourite character, for Kevin was all too familiar with the kind of dirt that individual liked to spread around. 'Really, I don't know why we can't get rid of shits like him,' he said angrily on hearing Nose's latest quote.

Of course the school was stuck with him: the only thing you could do with such people was to ignore them, but it naturally made Kevin's blood boil to hear his girlfriend spoken of in such a manner — especially when she was such a super, decent sort of girl. The last girl in fact to get involved in anything at all. She and Kevin had discussed all that sort of thing — sex, emotions, etc. — in a sensible way and had both decided that sex was something properly kept for marriage. They naturally smooched a bit but only within strict limits. Yes, Gillian was just a super, sensible girl and when Kevin heard that Parker had come up with another of his prize statements, well, he felt like going and punching his head. Except that as a senior prefect you had to set an example.

He had to admit, though, that Gillian's illness was a bit of a mystery. Because when he saw her at break she was very vague about it, although he could see that either she was still not feeling well or something was bothering her. Also it was decidedly unusual, when she hadn't been feeling well yesterday, for the Head to take time to personally drive her home, as he had apparently done. And now this business about tomorrow. He and Gillian had planned to go together on the local archaeological dig, as they had each Saturday for some weeks past; but now Gillian said she wouldn't be going. Naturally he could understand if she thought she might not be feeling well; but when pressed about it it turned out she was going round to Mr Kendall's, who had offered to help her with her French.

Well it was unexpected, that was all. And if that turd Parker heard about it the news would be all over school, with the immediate Parker interpretation. Kevin bit his lip, imagining all too easily that unpleasant character's words: 'Kendall had Gillian Blair round to his house again on Saturday. For another cosy fuck.'

* * *

Saturday afternoon, warm and sunny, the sky a cloudless blue; the sort of day when you should not have a care in the world, thought Gillian, as she set off on her bicycle for Mr Kendall's. Naturally after the last three days she was hardly quite in that happy state herself but she was in reasonable spirits as she pedalled along, bare thighs flashing under a skirt which refused to stay down.

She had been round to Kevin's house in the morning and it hadn't been too bad. Of course she had felt desperately guilty, especially when they were kissing on the settee, but she managed to control herself and stop the tears coming. Because she knew she was just going to have to live with what had happened. She would have liked to be going with Kevin now: it would be really nice out at the dig on an afternoon like this but on the other hand another talk with the Head would probably do her good. Mr Kendall was right of course, there was no point crying over what had happened. She had been foolish, dreadfully foolish — and twice over — and none of it could be undone. But at least it was over and done with. She gave a sudden grab at her skirt as she noticed the look on the face of a man she passed. The gentleman in question was left gazing after her, blinking, still seeing in his head a sharply defined picture of bare creamy thighs and brief pink knickers.

Anyway, blinking gentleman or not, we must hope that Gillian was right in thinking that it was over and finished with. As we know, though, she could at this moment be cycling towards more that she expected at Mr Kendall's house: because if the less admirable side of his character has gained the upper hand, as yesterday it seemed quite likely to do, then Gillian will be getting more than just tea and good advice.

And there are additionally a couple of other as yet unseen clouds on Gillian's horizon. Small insignificant things, but the trouble with clouds is that you never know how they will develop. One such is that phone call to her home just a few minutes ago asking for her. From a certain Major Fortnum. On hearing that Gillian is out he has told her mother not to worry, he will call again later. Well, it could be nothing at all. Or it could on the other hand be that the Major so enjoyed caning Gillian on Thursday that he has in mind a repeat performance. (On reflection, six is definitely not sufficient for an 18-year-old girl. Another six. Kendall and Carter need not be present of course.) Well, we just don't know.

That is Cloud No. 2 (No. 1 of course is Mr Kendall.) And there is also a Cloud No. 3, this one involving no other than our friend Robert Parker. Robert, or 'Nose' as he does not particularly like to be known, is this afternoon going out with his girlfriend. Quite a new girlfriend as he only met her a week ago. She is Mandy Brown, aged 16. Mandy just happens to work in Carters, Stationers and Office Suppliers, and moreover just happens to be the assistant who started everything by noticing Gillian put that Parker pen in her pocket.

Things are not as bad as they might be because Mandy does not know what happened to Gillian after being caught, only that the whole affair seems to have been hushed up and she herself has been instructed to say nothing to anyone. So our friend should remain in ignorance. But it is a fact that 16-year-old girls are not always noted for keeping secrets, and there is also the obvious connection of a Parker pen and Robert Parker which just might trigger something. If he did find out, well, he is unfortunately the sort of person quite capable of using the threat of disclosure to blackmail Gillian into something decidedly unpleasant.

Looking on the bright side though, the Parker cloud, and the Major Fortnum one, could well develop into nothing. The first cloud — Mr Kendall? Well, it must be admitted that this one does look a bit more ominous and it is now decidedly close. Gillian, not yet at Mr Kendall's house, can still see nothing of it; but she is quite rapidly approaching, pedalling and tugging at intervals at her skirt. Overhead the sky is still a clear light blue.

Moments in C.P. History. Number XIII-XIV

Moments in C.P. History
A Series by Paul Melrose

Number 11-13. ***

I should explain something.

In Februs in the 90s were published on 14 issues of this series. Alex in his blog in 2008 posted the edited version only 13 stories from 14. I, in turn, have only 9 original texts from the magazine. So it happened that I don't know in what order in the magazine were published texts from 11th to 13th, and I do not have one of these texts at all.

I can only assume that this picture belongs to the missing issue:

but I'm not sure in this.

If I ever find the missing issue of this series, I am sure I'll post it in my blog and tell the visitors...

Number 14. Martha Douglas* (Original text from Februs 45)

The United States, throughout its history, has long had a tradition of corporal punishment and even today, when 'civilised' Europe has made the use of beating illegal in prisons and schools, the US continues to exercise 'state's rights' in the application of corporal punishment, particularly in its schools, to both males and females should the public be perceived to favour it, thus there is no common policy across the country.

Why then, you may ask, is 'Moments' going back to the schoolrooms of the United States of nearly 200 years ago, to 1823 in fact, when CP is so prevalent in the country's schools today? Well the reason is that the case in point created a flurry of attention for a number of reasons and eventually led to a change in the law of the state concerned.

In the United States today, most of the states which allow school beating, in the form of the paddle, are in the deep south and, sadly, a disproportionate number of the recipients are black.

The case of Martha Douglas back in 1823 was very different both in the nature of the state, the background of the girl concerned and the nature of the punishment. She was a white girl, a middle-class grocer's daughter, well educated and living in Massachusetts, a state which, despite its notoriety during the witchcraft hearings, was regarded as civilised and 'decent'... a far cry from its 'country hicks' down south. The ripples from the Douglas case changed American perceptions for a time, the resultant furore and highlighted legal anomalies keeping the lawyers busy for a long time.

Martha Anne Douglas was born into a well to do household in Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1805, an attractive and intelligent girl whose parents had always taught her to respect her elders, to be polite but to stand up for herself, honestly and firmly. The young girl took the words of her parents to heart and grew up to be a daughter of whom they could be proud. At the time of the incident in question, Martha Douglas was one month short of her 18th birthday, a young woman rather than a child, and already 'walking out' with a young man with marriage a distinct possibility in the not too distant future. Until then Martha had to behave like any other obedient schoolgirl studying hard for her examinations.

She was a keen and enthusiastic attendee at the Leonard Rushmore Public School in Cambridge where she received glowing reports of her attitude and application. Like most public schools the classes were mixed ones with boys and girls equally divided.

The school employed an English teacher named Jessica Stowe and rumour had it that Mrs Stowe was not over enamoured of Martha Douglas, considering the girl to be too smart, too ready with a quick answer and, in effect, a show off. Such feelings were maybe a recipe for what was to occur on the fateful day in May during Jessica Stowe's English class.

During her lesson, Mrs Stowe heard what she later described to a packed courtroom as whispering and giggling from behind her as she wrote on the blackboard. She also swore that the voice, which was unmistakable, belonged to Martha Douglas. She turned round and ordered Martha to walk out to the front of the class and extend the palm of her hand for one stroke of a thin cane.

It was now that the girl's parental advice, to be honest and stand up for herself, were to prove her undoing. Red-faced with embarrassment, the girl rose to her feet and said politely 'Ma'am I have done nothing to be punished for'. Aghast at this show of insolence, Jessica Stowe demanded that the girl come out to the front where the punishment would be increased to three strokes for her insubordination. Close to tears, Martha remained defiantly in her place and muttered 'With respect, Ma'am, no I will not! I am guilty of no offence'. The class was now buzzing for no pupil had dared to behave in this way before.

Jessica Stowe, while-faced with rage, stormed out of the classroom and returned some ten minutes later accompanied by the male Principal and two other male teachers. Whatever story Mrs Stowe had told must have been convincing because at the behest of the Principal, the two teachers grabbed Martha and dragged her kicking and screaming to the front of the class where she was forcibly stretched across the teacher's desk by one of the male helpers.

As the girl shrieked in horror and shame, the other teacher pulled up her long skirt and petticoats while the Principal untied the strings of her drawers and pulled them down, baring her bottom to the entire mixed class. Producing a birch rod, he then told Martha she would receive a punishment she would remember all her life, then delivered twelve scorching strokes of the birch to the girl's naked buttocks as she wept and squealed. When the punishment was over she was made to stand in the corner, red bottom on display for the rest of the lesson.

When the lesson was over, risking further punishment, the humiliated Martha fled from school and went home, collapsing in hysterics into the arms of her mother. When the facts were known and the damage inspected, Mrs Douglas sent for the magistrate. As a result the three male participants in the affair were arrested and charged with indecent abuse of a minor.

The court case lasted three weeks and the legal wrangles went back and forth as the prosecution argued that the laws of Massachusetts had clearly been broken in that the whipping of females on the bare buttocks was forbidden by statute. Defence lawyers argued that a school is 'a state within a state' where decrees affecting the judicial treatment of females do not apply. They argued that the school had a written constitution and a clearly evident corporal punishment policy.

The prosecution then replied that this did not cover the bare bottom punishment of pupils AND in full public view of the opposite sex too, that the teachers had exceeded their authority and committed a punishable offence. The defence replied that the corporal punishment policy was deliberately non specific in order to allow situations such as that of this 'unruly girl' to be dealt with in the appropriate manner and that all parents who valued the preservation of in loco parentis authority would support the action of the Principal and his staff. They argued that the laws of the Slate had no place in this matter and that, unless wilful and malicious cruelty could be proved, the school was within its rights to punish the girl as it saw fit.

The defence argument won the day and the three teachers were acquitted without a stain on their characters. The arguments about the decision raised hackies in the US press with the Conservative newspapers supporting the decision and the Liberals calling it an outrage.

Martha Douglas' parents appealed against the verdict but to no avail. They then sued privately and lost that too, the girl now forced to leave school after so much notoriety meant she could no longer expect to receive fair and unbiased treatment.

Although she lost the battle, in the long term, Martha Douglas and her family won the war, although a little late to save Martha from humiliation and indignity. The Massachusetts Senate, embarrassed by the adverse publicity, brought forward at its next sitting a bill which encompassed the State's public schools and which expressly forbade the corporal punishment of pupils of either sex on the naked buttocks either in public or in private.
________________

*This is the last in the series.

The Schooling of Lady Caroline

Story from Janus 11.

The Schooling of Lady Caroline

PART ONE

The Victorians took their spanking seriously. How seriously can be appreciated from this sequence of letters discovered recently, which recount the strange events that led to a proud heiress receiving a vigorous bare-bottom birching at the hands of an indomitable suitor who simply wouldn't take no for an answer...

* * *

Cheyne Walk,
Chelsea, London.
p.m. 24th January, 1894

My Dear Cousin Rodney,

Knowing full well how desirous you are of pressing your suit with the beautiful heiress Lady Caroline D'Arblay (despite her having rejected your every advance) I hasten to avert you at the earliest opportunity that on Friday 2nd February Lady Caroline, together with her maid, will be taking the morning train from Paddington to Birmingham, arriving at the Snow Hill terminus of the Great Western Railway at twenty-five minutes past eleven. On arrival at Snow Hill she will procure a hansom cab to carry her to the village of Tanworth-in-Arden, lying at the western extremity of the city, where she will spend several days at the country seat of her husband-presumptive, the Hon. Eustace Bateman, that effete though wealthy tea-broker. Her father, too, will be making a special journey down from Carlisle to be present for the occasion. For this precious piece of information I am indebted to that notorious gossip, Baroness Heyhoe! I doubt not but that you will make the fullest use of it, if your celebrated resourcefulness, initiative and audacity are anything to go by!

Your friend and cousin,
Edgar.

* * *

Oakfield Road,
Tunbridge Wells,
Kent.
a.m. 27th January, 1894

My Dear Edgar,

Your timely intelligence gratefully received! Accordingly, an elderly widow of my acquaintance has placed at my disposal a modest secluded villa residence in a northern suburb of Birmingham.

In a hired conveyance, with my man Higgs capped, mufflered and greatcoated – looking every inch the part of a Brummagem hackney-carriage driver, and yours truly similarly attired, we shall make every endeavour to intercept Lady Caroline and her maid as they emerge from the Snow Hill terminus at the time and dale you specified.

Believe me, Edgar, I am in no mood to be trifled with! This is to be a 'do-or-die' venture. Lady Caroline has spurned my devoted attentions and thwarted my desires too long now for her to gaily exit from my life scot-free! She must and shall be brought to heel! Her entire life thus far has been lived in spoilt, pampered luxury – hence her deplorable tendency to play fast-and-loose with the affections of half the eligible bachelors in the kingdom! I tell you, Edgar, she shall be taught a lesson, even if it means taking my belt off to that precious, aristocratic rump of hers! Stern words and a firm hand may succeed where sweet blandishments and terms of endearment have so far signally failed.

I solemnly stake my life, my reputation, and above all, my honour as an officer, on the successful outcome of this desperate business. I mean to make her love me, Edgar, and to that end have procured birch-rod and cane – in fact all the accoutrements of school-room discipline to assist me in my Grand Design! I shall emerge from this affair, dear cousin, either a broken man facing ruin, gaol, or worse – or else the proud possessor of a loving, devoted fiancée.

Yours ever,
Rodney

* * *

Cheyne Walk,
Chelsea, London.
p.m. 30th January, 1894

My Dear Cousin Rodney,

Intrigued yet alarmed by your plans. They are indeed desperate. I fear for the outcome. I hasten to add, however, that you may rest assured of my every assistance, should it be required. I expect – nay demand – a full and detailed account.

God be with you in your hour of hazard!

E.

* * *

Grosvenor Road,
Edgbaston,
Birmingham.
1st February, 1894.

My Dear Edgar,

Here we are safely billeted in Birmingham – a vast, teeming metropolis wholly devoted, it seems, to the noisy bangings and clatterings of the manufacturing trades that have helped to make our country great. The populace are coarse-tongued, drunken and dirty: the streets gloomy and inhospitable. To make matters worse, a swirling 'pea-souper' of a fog envelopes the city and shows no sign of abating – although this very same fog may yet prove our greatest ally in tomorrow's business!

A cab is at our disposal; the house is well suited to our purpose – small and at some remove from the main thoroughfare. There are no servants apart from the housekeeper, whom we have liberally paid to stay away. The ground floor consists of a drawing room, dining room, breakfast room and kitchen – all with lockable doors. Upstairs there are three capacious bedrooms, similarly securable.

The birch rods are soaking in the kitchen pail. My man Higgs informs me that he has met Lady Caroline's personal maid, Eliza Bradstock and, though buxom and well-informed, she is every bit as audacious a minx as her mistress! Accordingly I have counselled Higgs to follow my excellent example, spare her not, and lash the impudent baggage into a state of true contritionl

Tomorrow, Edgar, is the day when the proud, haughty Lady Caroline D'Arblay and her maid Eliza will disappear from the face of the earth. How soon they re-appear will depend on how long it takes to break their intractable spirits!

I am, dear Edgar, ever sensible of your goodwill and anxious solicitude!

Yours as always,
Rodney

* * *

Grosvenor Road,
Edgbaston,
Birmingham.
midnight, 4th February

My Dear Edgar,

All has gone according to plan, fulfilling my wildest expectations! At the appointed hour Higgs and I, disguised as cabbies, sat anxiously outside the rail terminus, awaiting the arrival of the London train. By an amazing stroke of good fortune the fog was at its thickest and there were only a handful of other cabs plying their trade. As the time grew near I despatched Higgs to sally forth into the main concourse of the terminus to secure the ladies' custom before another cabby was able to lay prior claim to our precious burden.

Those minutes waiting alone in the fog, tending our cab, were the longest in my life! What if they slipped through our nets? What if they had missed the train, or decided to come by the other railway – the London Midland and Scotland, and thus arrive at New Street Station instead?

But my fears were allayed when three figures materialised out of the swirling mist. The two ladies looked pale and fatigued after their journey – so much the better. Higgs installed them in the cab, secured their baggage, climbed aboard next to me, winked conspiratorially and urged the horse into a trot. Twenty minutes later we reached our destination. We escorted the ladies from the carriage; they seemed surprised that we had arrived so soon, since they had been told that Tanworth was a good hour's drive away. Lady Caroline looked about in growing bewilderment as she realized, despite the blanketing mist, that we had not left the environs of the city.

'But this cannot be Tanworth!' she declared in annoyance. At that moment the muffler slipped from around my face. She recognised me and cried out in alarm: 'Sir Rodney! What on earth...?' but I seized her and carried her bodily up the steps to the front door, impervious to her shrill protests. Higgs dealt likewise with the indignantly squawking Eliza. Before the whole neighbourhood was roused, we were safely indoors.

While Higgs bundled the vociferous Eliza up the thickly-carpeted stairs to the servants' floor, I removed Lady Caroline's cloak and hat and led her into the drawing room where a log fire was burning merrily. Without a word I lit the gas lamps and drew the velvet curtains, while my lady, pale but defiant, eyed me with suspicion and distrust. I motioned her to be seated, which she did with ill grace.

'Lady Caroline,' I began firmly, 'there is much we have to discuss. I make no apologies for the manner in which I have brought you here – necessity compels it.' She listened with a kind of sulky attentiveness, a constrained expression on her face and her hands clasped nervously together in her lap. I could not help but feast my eyes on the splendour of her proud beauty – the exquisitely curled blonde tresses, the clear, deep blue eyes, the aristocratic nose and the firmly resolute yet undeniably sensual mouth. From her neck down to her ankles she was a shimmering study in blue – a lavender organdie gown that rustled when she walked, betraying the presence of several layers of frilled, starched petticoats beneath.

'You have led me a merry dance!' I continued. 'You have thrise cruelly rejected my proposals of matrimony – wrung from the heart of your truest, most besotted admirer. Worse, you have frivolously – nay maliciously – broadcast the humiliating details of my scorned offers throughout every salon and drawing room in Society! I am not the kind of man to suffer the mortification of defeat lightly! Therefore I have brought you here – albeit against your wishes – to tender my proposals once more: Lady Caroline, will you make me the happiest of my sex and consent to be mine?'

She drew herself up to her fullest height and, eyeing me with the utmost disdain, replied indignantly:

'Surely, Sir Rodney, you cannot but be aware of the fact that I am now betrothed to the Hon. Eustace Bateman, a better man, in every respect, than you will ever be: where you are proud and cruel he is modest and kind; where you are rash and impetuous he is far-sighted and cautious. But were I unfortunate enough not to be betrothed to him, my answer, Sir Rodney, would still be the same. A thousand times no! Whatever respect I may have once held you in has been forfeited forever by the criminal way in which you have abducted me! I demand you release me here and now, and set me on the road to my friends and father!

'Very well, Miss Caroline,' I continued, my patience sorely taxed, 'since you do not consent of your own free will, then it is up to me to make you! You must know that you are entirely at my mercy. To all intents and purposes you have vanished from the face of the earth – not a soul knows where you are! It is my intention to detain you here until such a time as you change your mind and consent to be my wife!'

Her beautiful blue eyes blazed in fury and she tossed her pretty head in brave defiance.

'Sir Rodney, I care not a fig for you, nor for your wicked, wicked designs!' She stamped her dainty foot in angry petulance. 'You may keep me here for as long as you wish. I swear I shall go to my grave a grey-haired old maid before I submit to...' But she broke off in amazement and horror as she heard the unmistakable sounds, coming from upstairs, of a loud and painful whipping in progress! Fleshy 'THWACKS', closely followed by shrill female cries of distress. Higgs had begun work on Eliza – he could not have timed it better had he tried!

'Oh my God!' Lady Caroline exclaimed, half rising from the ottoman, 'what in heaven's name is that?' I simply smiled and made artful reference to 'the maid doubtless proving as recalcitrant as the mistress!' The veiled threat in this remark was not lost on my lady, and she sank back into the cushions, pale and agitated – obliged to bear oral witness to the lusty birching that Higgs was enthusiastically inflicting on the nether regions of her maid.

The swishing, thwacking sounds proceeded at a steady interval, as did the fervent cries of the victim. My man was certainly going to it with a will! Eliza's gabbled protests and pleadings for mercy assailed our ears: Lady Caroline bit her lip and a deep crimson blush suffused her checks.

'First he stripped her, then he whipped her!' I rejoiced facetiously, and commenced humming a popular air, while birch-blows and accompanying cries attained a frenzied pitch. I glanced at my lady. She had placed her hands over her delicate ears in an effort to obliterate the unseemly noises emanating from above: the disciplining of Eliza was evidently unsettling her lady-like sensibilities.

The whipping and the cries ceased. This seemed an opportune moment to re-open negotiations with my now somewhat cowed captive. I approached her, gently but firmly took her hands away from her aristocratic ears, and repeated my demands.

'My dear Lady Caroline, before a similar fate overtakes you,' (here she shuddered palpably) 'will you, or will you not, consent to be mine?'

Steadfastly she returned my gaze and, her spirits rallying, murmured: 'Never! Never in a million years! Do your worst – I defy you!'

'Very well,' I sighed solicitously, 'but first let me enlighten you as to where your stubborn wilfulness is leading you.' I went over to the open door and called up:

'Higgs! Bring down the girl!'

A moment later, footfalls could be heard descending the stairs, together with girlish snivellings and whimpers. Lady Caroline looked up from the ottoman as Higgs led in a weeping Eliza, clad only in chemise and black stockings gartered above the knees.

'Oh please, oh please don't let them see me like this!' Eliza burbled amid her tears, vainly trying to conceal with her hands the black, bushy outcrop between her thighs.

'Well now, Eliza!' I greeted her cordially. 'It pains me to see that you've been a naughty, disobedient girl! Tell your mistress what you have had to suffer at the hands of my servant in order to curb you of your waywardness.'

'Oh ma'am! It were awful, ma'am! He b-birched me on my... my posterior!' she wailed, rubbing the afflicted parts. I asked Higgs whether the girl had shown true contrition. A broad grin creased my burly manservant's weather-beaten face. He spun Eliza round by the shoulders so that her rear view was shamelessly displayed, her chemise tucked up at the back and the broad amplitude of her naked, well-birched posterior on full show. It was indeed a sorry sight!

Lady Caroline gasped in horror at the thin tracery of weals criss-crossing practically every inch of her maid's saucily plump buttocks and upper thighs.

'Oh you brutes! You brutes! What have you done to her?' my lady cried in outrage. Her outburst prompted fresh floods of tears and lamentations from her maid. Clutching her emblazoned seat in both hands, in a vain endeavour to ease the throbbing smart, Eliza sobbed out a warning through her tears: 'Oh m'lady have a care! Don't provoke them, else they will treat you likewise!' I studied Lady Caroline's face in order to gauge the effect of these salutary words on her... but I saw imprinted on her fair features only obduracy and smouldering rebellion. The birching of Eliza had undoubtedly at first shaken and alarmed her; but the end result had only been to stiffen her resolve. I could not help but applaud her courage! I warmed to the ensuing battle of wills; she was in every respect a worthy adversary.

Higgs, still flushed and perspiring from his exertions, enquired of me whether that would be all. The conspicuous bulge in the front of his breeches signified that, having delivered his attack on the rear of the enemy, he was now more than eager to force an entry via another quarter. His rough, calloused hand explored the dark, shadowy cleft between Eliza's haunches. He licked his lips in anticipatory pleasure and delivered a hearty smack to her bruised, burning rump, as he would to a prize filly. Eliza winced and trembled at the fresh onslaught. His hand resumed its former exploratory operation, and the excellent lubricity he encountered down there convinced him that she was indeed now ready for a rod of a different nature.

'The bitch is in heat, milord!' he observed with a ribald chuckle, 'and the stud is eager to service her!'

'Very well, Higgs,' I relented. 'Take her and fall to't! They do say a woman well whipped is at her hottest!' Higgs propelled the weeping, red-bottomed maid from the room with sharp swipes of encouragement to her blushing derriere.

Once more I confronted my lady alone.

'Lady Caroline, the choice is yours, and yours alone! Accede to my wishes and we'll be the happiest couple in Christendom – I swear to it: or else prepare yourself to be schooled by me! I warn you in advance that I am a stern, exacting tutor. Whatever prowess with a birch possesses, he acquired from me, by emulation, in the flogging academies of Albion Street!' (Albion Street was notorious in the late nineteenth century for its whipping brothels, possibly frequented by Swinburne – Ed.)

'Do thy worst,' she whispered through clenched teeth, 'I defy you for the blackguard and scoundrel you are!'

Deeds, not words, were the order of the day.... Dear Cousin, it is past four in the morning and I faint for want of sleep. Fatigue and an ever-increasing drowsiness decree that I conclude herewith this already over-long epistle. I shall despatch Higgs with it to ensure it catches the morning post, and resume my narrative at the earliest opportunity.

Your ever-loving cousin and friend,
R.

* * *

PART TWO

Grosvenor Road,
Edgbaston,
Birmingham.
p.m. 6th February, 1894

My Dear Edgar,

A night at the music hall has only served but to confirm my worst suspicions of this provincial capital! For utter coarseness and vulgarity it is unsurpassed! Footpads abound and it is more dangerous to walk the streets here than it is in London. 'But pass the port and proceed with your tale!' do I hear you impatiently cry? Now, where was I? Ah yes...

Without further ado I ordered her to remove her gown. 'And if I refuse, Sir Rodney?' she rejoined icily. There is no creature in this world, dear Edgar, more beautiful than a disdainful, obdurate young woman – of that I am convinced. Her brave words fanned my already enflamed passions – I burned to take her there and then! As for her refusal to disrobe, I merely warned her that if her flounced and be-ribboned, exquisitely cut Paris gown was not off her back within the minute – I would summon Higgs and together we would strip her forcibly! The threat was enough. Reluctantly she rose to her feet and commenced loosening the catches and buttons. With a silken hiss the organdie gown cascaded to the floor and Lady Caroline, growing paler by the second, stepped out of it, retrieved it, laid it out neatly over the ottoman, and then turned back to face me, clad only in her white layered outer petticoat, black stockings and gold-buckled, calf-leather shoes.

'Now your petticoat please, my lady,' I instructed her. 'No place for false school-room modesty here! I am resolved to birch your impudent, bare backside until you beg for mercy!' and to demonstrate my intent I moved over to a brass ewer from whence I withdrew a sturdy bundle of birch rods that had been left conveniently soaking in brine. I swished them about vigorously to clear the drops of water that still clung to the buds. There were six switches, neatly peeled, with a black cloth tied around the handle end. It was evident to me that Lady Caroline had never viewed such an implement before in her life, let alone felt its admonishing kiss across the magnificent swell of her seat of learning, for she drew in breath sharply and gazed at it in wide-eyed alarm. 'Surely, Sir Rodney, you can't be intending to beat me with that cruel device? And with me in such a shameful state of dishabillee too? Is there no limit to your villainy... to take advantage, in such an utterly caddish manner, of a helpless, defenceless lady?'

Ah Edgar, should you ever be blessed with the opportunity of whipping such a woman as she, then you will savour the full import of those immortal words of that illustrious Scot, Robert Louis Stevenson: 'To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is labour', because even before I had as much as laid a finger on her, the haughty, imperious Lady Caroline was beginning to quail perceptively at the mere idea of being visited by the birch! She had now doffed both her under-petticoats and stood before me, shyly vulnerable in her silken chemise and very pretty white batiste drawers that tightly hugged her proud womanly curves and finished at her knees, where they were lovingly secured with blue ribbons. A tempting morsel indeed with which to delight the jaded palate of even such an inveterate roué as I! The winsome garment clung to the upper reaches of her sturdy thighs and intimately delineated the swelling proturberance of her mound of venus. No gourmet had ever been served such an appetising dish as this! Impatiently I swished the birch against my thigh. A rich, deep-hued blush suffused her cheeks. In desperation she bartered for the retention of her drawers. She swore she would gladly suffer the severest discipline I could administer, if only she might be allowed to keep that one vestigial veil of modesty.

'But Lady Caroline!' I bantered, 'as any little school-age minx will gladly tell you, all remedial treatment in the classroom is delivered to the naked seat! Now, do I have to call Higgs? Doubtless he'll not take kindly to being interrupted in the midst of his labours!' and my hand strayed towards the bell.

Having perceived the futility of barter, my lady changed her tune to begging and pleading:

'But... but in front of a man – it's not decent! It's shameful and immodest, and unbecoming to a lady!' Now real tears were glistening in her eyes. 'No man before has ever seen me in this state of disarray' (alluding to her undergarments) 'let alone the even more indecorous condition which you are proposing. That was to be a sight reserved for my husband alone!'

'All the more reason, Lady Caroline, for you to gratefully accept my proposal of matrimony! That way, your honour will be safeguarded and mine wholly satisfied. Just say the word and I'll spare the rod, and your drawers into the bargain!'

So fully aroused was I by the sight of my lady reduced to her chemise and drawers, and so fully resolved to soundly birch her into abject submission that, even had she recanted at this eleventh hour, I doubt I would have granted her the reprieve she so earnestly sought! But none was called for. Instead, my beautiful hostage tearfully reminded me that as she was already pledged to another, her only honourable course lay in the direction of preserving that pledge. (Did I detect a discernible weakening in her fortitude? The haughty contempt had certainly evaporated. But then, dear cousin, what maiden facing for the first time in her life the rigours of a bare-bottom birching can afford the luxury of disdain?)

'It strikes me, Lady Caroline,' I opined helpfully, 'that you are well and truly impaled on the horns of a dilemma: either you forsake your pledge but retain your drawers, or else you retain your pledge but forsake your drawers! The former course of action will pain you morally, the latter physically. Am I right?'

She nodded tearfully – a very different, chastised, Lady Caroline to the one who had defiantly entered the room an hour ago.

'Am I also right in supposing that you elect to suffer the stings of the birch, rather than endure the stings of your conscience?' Again she nodded lachrymosely.

'Then, my lady, what in heaven's name are we waiting for? Take down your drawers immediately and prepare yourself for the whipping you so thoroughly deserve!'

The once-proud heiress, who had poured scorn on my name in every London salon, burst into choking sobs and desperately fumbled with the offending drawers. But even then she halted in her tracks, crying out in despair: 'I cannot! I just cannot! It's too shameful!'

'Very well then,' I retorted implacably, 'since you refuse, I'll prepare you myself. Of course, that will mean extra strokes!' and I approached her with the intention of yanking down her drawers to below her knees.

But with a cry of alarm, Caroline D'Arblay performed the shameful duty herself, pulling them down to her ankles and stepping out of them – heedless of the highly indecent spectacle she was making of herself. I feasted my eyes on the sturdy growth of blonde pubic bush, and on the unravished, virginal slit coyly hiding beneath. I bade her turn around, for I was eager to inspect the target area. She guessed my purpose and bit her lower lip in anguish, but nevertheless did as she was told.

Her chemise ended where her back ended: her black silk stockings were gartered just above the knee. My lustful gaze lingered on her naked behind. Broad-cheeked and womanly, it jutted out in the most enticing manner, wobbling slightly whenever she moved. I measured the birch experimentally across the full width of her naked seat. She flinched to feel the sharp prickle of the buds. I turned it on its end and rubbed it teasingly up and down between the broad division of her cheeks. She shuddered and squirmed to feel it probe her cherished maidenhood. Then I rubbed and kneaded her trembling buttocks with my other hand. They felt deliciously warm and birch-worthy! I laughed out loud to think of that nincompoop, Bateman, fondly feeding on air: fantasising about the joys that I was palpably tasting! Joys he would never now know – for she was mine, all mine! A might of blazing birchings and furious fuckings would see to that! No woman is proof against such drastic medicine.

With one hand still clutching the birch, and the other firmly grasping her round the middle, I guided her to the door and up the stairs to the master bedroom. I had taken pains to procure a small step-ladder, over which I made her bend. Her long blonde tresses fell in delicious disarray almost to the floor, concealing her face and the deep blush thereon. Her bottom was raised up at an almost grotesquely indecent angle. It struck me as being a comic parody of a schoolroom chastisement. The twenty-four year-old heiress's bottom was a trifle too well-fleshed and generously proportioned for a stripling schoolgirl's!

During the preparations Lady Caroline had been mute to the point of sullenness, but when I measured the birch judicially across the width of her plump seat, she broke into fresh lamentations and tightened the muscles of her bottom, tensing her cheeks in agonised anticipation of the pain to follow.

I brandished the birch high above my head, took careful aim, and delivered a whistling cut to the base of her saucy big behind. Lady Caroline uttered a stifled gasp as if she had just been doused with scalding water, squeezed her bare buttocks together even tighter to try to conceal her virgin charms, and emitted a strangled sob as she struggled against her bonds and endeavoured frantically to glance up at me. Her bottom writhed and convulsed as the sharp needle-like little buds did their work of leaving a pattern of tiny weals which soon merged into an all-over sanguine stain, incarnadining the whole surface of her well-endowed posterior. Before she had time to recover what little composure she possessed, I swished her again, hard, aiming for the plump rotundity of her right buttock cheek – causing it to redden up more fiercely than its neighbour. She flinched at the hissing, sibilant impact and gave a loud groan of despair. While she was yet struggling to regain her self control, I landed another stroke on the same spot with such force that she cried out:

'Oh PLEASE no more! I beg you! No more! No more!' And she contorted her roseate backside in a series of vulgarly suggestive – though I hasten to add, totally involuntary – muscular spasms.

'Keep still, Lady Caroline!' I warned her, obliged to raise my voice above the swelling tide of her sobs and wails, 'or else I shall aim for your legs!'

'Oh you brute! You brute!' she shrieked hysterically. 'How can you go to such lengths to degrade a lady so?'

'Lady Caroline,' I retorted wryly, 'from where I am standing I see no lady – only a wanton, shameless, bare-arsed trollop!' And with that I delivered two whooshing cuts, one after the other, to the smooth coppery crown of her left buttock so that it too, crimsoned and broke out in a rash of goose-pimples.

Its pretty owner was now mewing and blubbering in abject submission. Try as she might, she was unable to keep her bottom still – it seemed to have taken on a life of its own. The pain of the birching was as nothing compared to the bitter mortification she felt at being made to appear to deliberately flaunt her well-birched bottom at her oppressor.

Towards the end Lady Caroline abandoned all efforts at hiding her private parts from view. Her crimson, welted derriere danced hither and thither in a desperate attempt to evade the stinging torment of the flailing birch rods, and I was rewarded with uninterrupted vistas of her blonde pubic hairs, and of her unmistakably damp, fully engorged little fortress of love that I was soon to lay siege to. The helpless rudery of her frantic bottom-rolling; her once-proud, disdainful features now wet with tears, nostrils flaring (a sign, Edgar, of true contrition! ); the agonised biting of her lower lip, and, above all, the heaving sobs that shook her entire body and filled the room – all eloquently testified that the schooling of Lady Caroline had indeed been accomplished.

No rebellious schoolgirl had ever suffered such a birching! Although I had taken care not to break the skin, there were angry purple blood-blisters forming in several places, notably on the sauciest prominence of both out-thrust cheeks. The over-all hue of her behind was that of pillar-box red – as though she had sat down on a hornets' nest; the criss-cross streaks and striations caused by the birch buds resembled an intricate cartographical design – a map of India, or maybe one of our lesser colonies in Africa!

I then led the weeping girl, over to the bed (she went like a lamb, without protest), freed my erect, swollen member from its bursting confines and, with one bold thrust, breached her precious maidenhead. It proved to be an easy task since she was swollen and abundantly lubricated – the birch had seen to that. Her tender, enflamed buttocks made her agonisingly sensitive to every thrust I delivered, but though she flinched and grimaced several times during the early stages, she made no complaint and even returned my embraces with reciprocal fervour, as we bucked and cavorted our way to mutual bliss. We entered the gates of paradise many times that night before our spent bodies dissolved into the arms of sleep.

Next morning over breakfast, with our servants as witness, a sore, chastened, yet thoroughly contented Lady Caroline gave verbal expression to what her body had so eagerly demonstrated the night before: she gave her consent, freely and unforced, to be mine forever!

'Could I do but otherwise, Rodney dear!' she laughed teasingly, 'with the marks of your ownership so plainly, so embarrassingly, imprinted upon my private person!'

I turned to our grinning, nudging servants, who seemed every whit as jovial as their master and mistress.

'And have Higgs's disciplinary measures effected a cure in you, too?' I demanded of Eliza. But she blushed and hid her head coyly in remembrance of her well-whipped bottom on full display the night before. Proudly my manservant announced that I was in fact looking at the future Mrs Higgs!

'You've made a good catch there, Higgs!' I congratulated him heartily. 'She's a comely, buxom wench – broad in the beam and thus excellently built for bearing you a dozen or more little Higgs! Treat her well – but never fail to whip her when she's contrary!' Eliza blushed and giggled as she and he respectfully left us to our own devices – he slapping her bottom all the way to the scullery, she laughing and shrieking encouragement.

In deep contentment I regarded my radiant bride-to-be across the breakfast table. Our hands met over the marmalade.

'Promise me, dearest one,' she appealed coyly, 'that you'll whip me too, whenever I am wicked?' She held her breath, waiting for my answer.

'On one point, dear lady, you may rest assured!' came my merry reply. 'Ours shall be a household where the man is truly master – above, as well as below stairs!'

Dear cousin — my cup runneth over! My pen leaps for joy! We are to be married secretly here in vulgar old Brummagem within the month... My lady assures me that her father will, given time, bless and approve our union – for she is the apple of his eye, his spoilt darling, and can do no wrong...

My heartfelt thanks to you, dear, dear Edgar! Without your timely intelligence all this might never have come to pass. Hasten to join us! Your services are required as Best Man!

Your loving cousin,
Rodney