Moments in C.P. History. Numbers X-XII

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

Number 10. Princess Batthyany (Original text from Februs 41)

The name of Princess Irene Batthyany is not one which is familiar to most people but, nevertheless, she had a brief flirtation with both fame and humiliation as the beautiful wife of Count Lajos Batthyany whose reign as President of Hungary was brief and tragic, ending in his execution. The widowed Princess, though spared such a fate, was nonetheless subject to a very public shame which forms the basis of this particular 'Moment'.

In the mid 19th century, Europe was controlled by mighty empires, one of the biggest being the Austrian Empire which then included part of Germany, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Croatia, Serbia and Hungary. The year of 1848 became known as the year of revolution because, almost simultaneously, many of these subordinate nations began to flex their muscles and demand varying degrees of self government. In the forefront of these nations was Hungary. The politics involved in the issue were complex and so the reader will be spared too much insomnia-inducing background. To understand how Irene Batthyany arrived at her humiliating fate however it is necessary to mention a few names and look at a brief summary of events.

The first of these people was Louis Kossuth. He was the leader of the opposition to Austrian control and in 1848, amid a tide of revolt, he saw the opportunity to demand a certain degree of self government for the Hungarians. Austria at first reacted with anger and indignation, but when revolution actually broke out in Vienna itself, the Austrians, fearing Hungary might secede from the empire, capitulated.

Amid scenes of joy, a fellow member of the Austrian opposition, Count Lajos Batthyany, was appointed provisional President of the new semi independent Hungary and the provisional government sought to form a type of government acceptable to the people, which turned out to be a pseudo monarchy with Batthyany at its head. So Batthyany adopted the courtesy title of Prince and his proud and lovely wife became Princess Batthyany. Irene Batthyany was a dark haired beauty in her early forties at the time of the revolt, the mother of five children including three adult sons who were serving in the Hungarian army.

The joy was short lived for, though Hungary had its limited self government, it immediately inherited problems. Within Hungary's borders lay the state of Croatia whose people also sought self rule. Given the lesser of two evils, if the Croatians had disliked being 'slaves' of Austria, they positively detested falling under the writ of the 'Magyars' and immediately began to agitate against the situation with their overall rulers in Austria.

So a new key name in the saga emerged when Austria appointed a new Commissar for Croatia, a Colonel Joseph Jellacic, who was fanatically anti Hungarian. Once in power he broke off relations between Croatia and Hungary on 19th April 1848, putting the new Hungarian regime immediately in trouble from that point on. On 10th May, a Slovak minority in Hungary asked for independent rights within Hungary and 5 days later the Romanians condemned the new union with Hungary.

Prince Batthyany, realising that his newly self governing nation was facing trouble from all quarters, tried to do deals with his Austrian masters if they disavowed the Croatian leader Jellacic. Batthyany and his wife were contemptuous of Jellacic and his motives and made no secret of the fact in public utterances, which drove the Croatian leader to fury. Given subsequent events, this was to prove a terrible error of judgment by the Batthyany family, for the Austrians, while apparently sympathetic to Batthyany's problems, were secretly boosting Jellacic in undermining the Hungarian regime.

Confident now that he had Austria's blessing, Joseph Jellacic's Croatian army, together with a Serbian force, attacked Hungary in June of 1848 and very quickly captured most of South Hungary.

The hapless Prince Batthyany resigned and the Hungarian government attempted a compromise with their Austrian masters but to no avail, Batthany's resignation proving to be the catalyst for an open war between the young Hungarian government and the Austrian monarchy.

Despite the Prince's resignation from government, the brave and determined Hungarians were at first remarkably successful on the battlefield, turning the early tide against them, and prompting the abdication of the Austrian emperor Ferdinand in favour of his nephew Francis Joseph. Soon, however, the weight of numbers was too much and the reconstituted Austrian army launched new assaults taking the Hungarian capital city of Pest within 2 weeks.

The outcome of hostilities was finally decided when the Russians, under Czar Nicholas I, who had stood by and watched developments, finally decided that if Hungary proved successful, revolt might begin within the Russian empire, and so decided to crush the Hungarians in order to deter such thoughts.

In June of 1849, two Russian armies entered Hungary, a total of nearly half a million men now opposing the Hungarian regime. It was too much. The Hungarian government fled into exile and, on 13th August 1849, the Russian Commander Marshal Paskievicz was able to report to his Czar. 'Hungary lies at your feet your Majesty.'

Now the full weight of Russian retribution hit Hungary. The country was placed under a military administration and thirteen of Hungary's senior officers were publicly hanged. Prince Batthyany, unable to escape from the country with his family, had tried to commit suicide by cutting his throat but was forcibly prevented from doing so. He was arrested and on October 6th 1849 was shot by firing squad. The occupying forces then proceeded to run riot, tearing down Hungarian flags and wrecking Hungarian shops. About 100 more executions followed until an amnesty spared the remainder, including the widowed Princess Irene Batthyany who was allowed to remain in the her lavish home until it was decided what to do with her.

The mood of the mob, which at first had been so supportive of Hungarian independence, turned sour in the aftermath of humiliating defeat, much of the anger turning on the exiled Government and the Batthyany family. Boosted by the public mood, a group of Russian officers decided one weekend in November of 1849 to teach the widowed Irene Batthyany a humiliating lesson. A dozen Russian soldiers gate crashed the Palace of the Batthyany family and found Princess Irene alone apart from her serving maid. Frightened, she demanded they leave only to be told that, for her arrogance and because her sons had fought with the rebel Hungarian forces, she should accept her share of responsibility and punishment for bringing her country to such a parlous low.

Despite her shrieks of protest, Irene Batthyany was carried out of her palace by the officers and taken, kicking and screaming to the Pest market square where an enthusiastic mob soon gathered to witness Irene's humiliation. The terrified Irene was put up onto a platform and her head and hands secured in a pillory reserved usually for the vagrants and prostitutes who were regularly punished in public.

If her shame at such treatment was not enough, Irene was further mortified to see the Croat leader Jellacic, who she had oft derided, seated on the platform with a group of Croat officers all thirsting to witness her degradation. Cheered on by the mob, the Russian officers lifted Irene's dress and petticoats, securing them to her shoulders, then pulled down her lace drawers exposing her naked bottom to the jeering mob. One of the Russians then removed his thick leather belt and proceeded to spank the bare bottom of the shrieking Princess before handing over to another soldier who continued the punishment. The punishment continued until all the officers had administered the belt to Irene's by now scarlet and roasting bottom for some considerable time.

When Princess Irene Batthyany was shrieking in anguish, her bottom crimson and swollen with pain, the Russians relented and she was released. She was made to kiss the hand of Jellacic and offer apologies for past slights before being allowed to pull up her drawers and adjust her dress. The poor woman, having adjusted her clothing, was then compelled to drag herself home on foot, completely humiliated, through a howling mob who pelted her with rotten fruit and vegetables.

Eventually the military dictatorship was replaced, in July 1850, by a civilian one which eased up on the brutality but made certain that any traces of Hungary's abortive attempts at independence were carefully removed. This included dispersing the Batthyany family into the countryside and rehousing them in more frugal accommodation, taking them and their brief acquaintance with fame out of the limelight for ever.

Number 11-13. Jeanne Du Barry and Caroline de Rozen (This is the text from Alex's blog, edited by Alex in 2008)

The future Countess du Barry was born on August 19th 1743 in Vaucoleurs, France, as humble Jeanne Becu, a child born out of wedlock to a pastry cook named Annie Becu. It is suggested that Jeanne's father may well have been a friar who served as spiritual advisor to the local convent (the irony is not lost!) a man named Jean Baptiste Gormand of Vaubernier who was certainly Annie Becu's lover.

Thanks to the friar's influence, Jeanne had a better education than she might have expected at the convent of Saint-Aure in Paris. At fifteen she left school and took on several positions as lady's maid to the wealthy and influential, thus she had access to the nobility of Paris. In 1763 she met a notorious rake named Jean du Barry, and eventually became his mistress. He was known in Paris as 'Jean the Vile' and was frequently interviewed by the police for his custom of prostituting his lovers, Jeanne Becu included. It appears from journals written to friends that Jeanne had begun to loathe the degradation into which she had sunk and was anxious to attain more respectability.

In 1768, Jeanne Becu was introduced at court and came to the attention of Louis XV who was immediately attracted to her and wanted her as his mistress. Convention at the time decreed that, in order to deflect gossip, a mistress had to be a married woman who would thus arrive at court with her husband, the husband then presumably waiting patiently while the King dallied with his wife, and would then, dutifully, take her home. Decorum was thus preserved. So Jeanne Becu married Guillaume Barry, the brother of her procurer, Jean, in order to become one of Louis XV's many mistresses. Her future was thus secured and she became a woman of some influence.

Jeanne du Barry became a patron of the arts and a known protector of artists and intellectuals. She was an attractive, excitable woman of strong passions and little patience. It is said that she made friends easily thanks to her outward-going nature and easy laughter, but frequently lost them again thanks to her jealousy and sensitivity to perceived slights.

Among the many contacts the Countess du Barry made at court were the Countess of Provence and her teenage lady-in-waiting, Caroline, Marchioness de Rozen. While the relationship between the two Countesses was never more than cordial at best, Jeanne du Barry formed an immediate attachment to the pretty young lady-in-waiting who was eighteen or nineteen at the time of their first meeting. It appears to have been reciprocal for the young Marchioness appeared to revel in the company of the vivacious Jeanne du Barry. So much so that the two became firm friends, the young Caroline always being on Du Barry's guest list for every social function. There was no suggestion of any sexual liaison, they were like two sisters, happy in each others company, and the young Marchioness would boast to her friends that she was one of Jeanne du Barry's favourites, never far away when she was needed and always present at every glittering ball and social function.

Given natural human jealousy and possessiveness, such an idyllic existence could not last for ever and the Countess of Provence, who had watched the developing friendship with growing anger, finally put her foot down. She told her young lady-in-waiting, in no uncertain terms, that this close friendship with Du Barry had to stop. It was, she told the girl, demeaning for herself to be excluded from so many functions to which the young Marchioness was invited and that the girl was not to continue the friendship any longer. Frightened of the wrath of her mentor, the Marchioness ignored future invitations to any of Du Barry's social occasions and, when compelled to go to the Palace with her own mistress, treated Jeanne du Barry with coldness and indifference.

Jeanne was furious and very upset by this snub and complained to Louis XV about the slight she had received. The King, most probably in jest, replied that the Marchioness was little more than a child with all the temperamental vagaries of a child. He apparently suggested that 'a taste of the rod would do that little thing no harm' and chuckled that he wouldn't mind watching Caroline's young bottom get a taste of it either!

Whether this was intended to be taken seriously or not, the angry Jeanne du Barry took him at his word. She sent a message to the young Marchioness asking if she could visit in secret the next morning as there were important matters that needed to be discussed relating to her future at court, suggesting it would be to her benefit if she could get away. Flattered by the hint, and undoubtedly curious, Caroline made some excuse to her mistress and took a carriage into Paris to Du Barry's sumptuous home.

In the meantime, Jeanne du Barry had informed the King that, if he were to arrive in secret and hide behind a dressing screen in her boudoir, he might see something to his liking. Puzzled, but happy to play his lover's games the King duly arrived and took his place behind the screen.

Downstairs, an apparent reconciliation had been effected with Jeanne and the young Marchioness breakfasting together amid great cordiality. Once the repast was over, Jeanne du Barry told her young guest that there were documents pertaining to her future role at court in Jeanne's boudoir and that they should go up there with all haste. Suspecting nothing, Caroline de Rozen followed the Countess into her bedroom whereupon the door was rapidly slammed shut and four very strong chamber-maids grabbed the young Marchioness and dragged her, screaming, over to the bed where she was thrown face down.

As the girl shrieked in fear and shame, at a word from Jeanne du Barry, her long skirts and petticoats were hoisted up high on her back, completely baring her bottom. Jeanne then angrily told the girl this was the price for snubbing the Countess du Barry, and that, after today's experience, she would never do such a thing again.

Before the delighted eyes of the King secreted behind the screen, while two of the maids held the struggling Caroline, the other two picked up stout birch rods and began to whip the young Marchioness across her bare buttocks very severely until the skin broke and little spots of blood began to run down her thighs. At this point Jeanne du Barry ordered that the whipping be stopped and the girl be allowed to rise. This she did with great difficulty, weeping hysterically before fleeing back to her carriage and home... presumably kneeling all the way!

Unable to tell her mistress, the Countess of Provence, what had happened for she had broken a promise and would be in more trouble, Caroline de Rozen wrote directly to the King complaining about her treatment. She received a reply, apparently sympathetic, saying he would question Jeanne du Barry on the matter , but that of course he would be unable to do anything unless Caroline was prepared to come to court and display the evidence to him. Such a humiliating proposal made it obvious to the Marchioness that her complaint was falling on deaf ears, and she sought advice from her friends on what to do next.

All, without exception, suggested that she make up with Jeanne du Barry with all haste for the Countess was too powerful an enemy to confront, and Caroline took the advice. She wrote to Jeanne asking if she could visit once more, apologising for past slights and confessing that her chastisement was no more than she deserved.

Delighted by the success of her actions, Jeanne was pleased to welcome back her young friend and agreed that the friendship would continue in secret in order that the Countess of Provence would not be discomfited in any way, and so it was done.

In 1774, Louis XV died and, for some time, Jeanne du Barry became a forgotten figure in France. Not one to let the grass grow under her feet for long, she courted the new power in the land, the Duke of Brissac and became his lover of many years. in 1789, the French Revolution began and Jeanne began to make many trips to London, ostensibly to secure her jewellery in safe banks. She made contact with a number of exiled aristocrats while in England, a very dangerous practice, which led eventually to her downfall and death. The Revolutionary Government considered her actions as treacherous and, in 1793, Jeanne du Barry was arrested and charged with working against the revolution.

She was sentenced to death and on 8th December 1793, at the age of fifty, the Countess Jeanne du Barry went to the guillotine. She did not meet impending death with any great courage or dignity (and who could blame her!), collapsing several times in the tumbril en route to the guillotine and screaming to the crowd from the platform "Why do you want to hurt me? Why?" and eventually becoming so hysterical that she was difficult to restrain. The last words she ever spoke are probably her most famous, "Encore un moment, monsieur le bourreau, un petit moment," ("One moment more, executioner, one little moment") and then the blade did its work.

Number 11-13. Catherine the Great (This is the text from Alex's blog, edited by Alex in 2008)

Catherine the Second of Russia, later to be known as Catherine the Great, was born Sophia Augusta Fredericka, Princess of Auhalt-Zerbst on 2nd May 1729 in Stettin, Prussia. Her father was Prince Christian August, a general in the Prussian army but the driving force in the young Sophia's eventual rise to fame was her mother, Princess Johanna Elizabeth, a woman of great ambition.

The seeds of influence were sown early when Prince Karl August, one of Princess Johanna's brothers, became engaged to Elizabeth, the Empress of Russia, but the boy died unexpectedly in 1727 before any nuptials could be arranged. Johanna's cousin, Karl Frederick, had also married the daughter of Peter the Great, so the strength of relationship between the Prussian and Russian courts was firmly established by the early part of the 18th century.

When Empress Elizabeth sought a wife for her son and successor, Peter III, much deep and earnest correspondence ensued between Elizabeth and the Prussian Princess Johanna with the result that, on January 1st 1744, the young Sophia and her mother were invited to St. Petersburg by Elizabeth and her son. Sophia was then just fourteen years old. The Empress was delighted by the young Sophia for she found a very attractive young girl, intelligent and perceptive beyond her years. Thus it was agreed that, subject to Sophia's conversion to the Russian Orthodox Church, the girl would marry Peter. As part of the conversion process, Sophia had to be given a new name ordained by the Empress and Elizabeth chose to call the girl 'Catherine' in honour of her own mother.

Peter III proved to be a sickly young man and had several bouts of serious illness during Catherine's visit, and had survived a serious bout of measles in 1743 which left him sterile. This fact appears to have been withheld from Catherine until well after the two were married on 2nd August 1745.

Marriage thus proved to be a horror for Catherine. Her role was to produce a male heir and it didn't happen. She began to feel guilty and fractious, leaning on only a few trusted advisors and friends. She saw little of her husband, spending her time riding horses and reading the works of Voltaire. A few months into the marriage, the Empress Elizabeth reorganised Catherine's court circle, dismissing many of the girl's close friends and replacing them with advisors of her own choosing. One of these was Sergei Saltykov, a long time friend of the Empress and. many dared only whisper, probably more than that. Saltykov had a reputation as a strong and virile ladies man who was encouraged by Empress Elizabeth to become close to the young Princess Catherine. It soon became clear to the young girl what her mother in law was doing and she acceded to the Empress's clear desire that she take Saltykov to her bed in order to produce a child, a task for which her husband was incapable.

After two miscarriages Catherine finally gave birth to a son on 20th September 1754, the child being named Paul. The fact that the child was a boy took all the weight of expectation from Catherine's shoulders and allowed her greater freedom of movement and a chance to study English, at which she rapidly became fluent.

In 1761 the now ailing Empress Elizabeth died on Christmas Day and Peter III became Emperor of Russia. If his health was not a big enough handicap, Peter lacked any political savvy and consequently, during his period of waiting to step into his mother's shoes, had made himself very unpopular. Catherine, his wife, on the other hand, had steadfastly cultivated her own friends, her own advisors and her own 'court' and, amazingly for someone who was a foreigner, was very popular throughout Russia.

Catherine was advised, even before Elizabeth was laid to rest, to overthrow her husband and take the Russian throne but she sought various counsel and decided against it.

The coup was not long in coming, however, and by June 1762, Catherine and her advisors realised that there could be no further prevarication for the situation in the country was becoming ever more hostile to Peter so, on 28th June 1762, Catherine led a march through St Petersburg which picked up support and momentum along the way. Peter and his mistress escaped from the city to a country retreat where, on July 6th, he was tracked down by Catherine's agents and murdered. It became clear that Count Alexei Orloff, one of Catherine's most trusted advisors, had conspired with her in this murder but she justified it on the grounds that Russian independence was threatened by the Prussian links of her late husband..... of which she, of course, was the first!

Catherine was crowned on Sunday 22nd September 1762 in the Kremlin and proceeded to install all her trusted advisors in key positions, including the aforementioned Count Orloff who became Minister of Police and the Interior, a role in which he would exercise more than a slight taste for corporal punishment. Catherine ruled as a benign dictator who, in fact, scrapped the death penalty and brought in some enlightened social legislation.

If Catherine was basically a benign and enlightened despot, there were two areas in which she would have no patience or sympathy. One was her lack of regard for anyone who, whether through foolishness or malice, might betray Russia, and the other was anyone who would spread malicious gossip about Catherine herself. Catherine had ample cause to worry on both counts for revolts and minor uprisings were rife in the early years of her reign and her propensity for affairs with countless men left her vulnerable to attack. In both areas her wrath was manifested through severe physical retribution.

An example of such was an incident which followed a masked ball at the Palace of St Petersburg where a very well connected lady, the wife of a senior Russian general, had apparently drunk a little too much and was making very indiscreet remarks concerning Russia's alliances and her husband's opinion of them. The ball was attended by a number of foreign dignitaries who could clearly hear some of the lady's opinions and were not best pleased. The lady's indiscretions soon came to the ear of Catherine and she passed word to Orloff to get something done about it. The lady was told that her husband, who was away in the army, had left word for her and she was to return home. Unsuspecting, the General's wife left the ball in the company of Orloff's men, but instead of being taken home, she was taken to Orloff's Interior Ministry and down to a basement.

To her horror, she saw that the room contained a vaulting horse and an array of rods and birches. Count Orloff himself came into the room and read her the riot act about loose tongues undermining the Empress and the State. To her shame and horror, the frightened lady was told to strip naked, at which she protested violently, citing her position in society and her husband's rank. Orloff told her, in no uncertain terms, that her husband would have no military rank if she did not do as she was told and, as far as her position in society was concerned, the punishment had been ordained by the Empress Catherine herself, and that her future at court was very much in the balance.

The lady hesitated no longer and stripped naked, then was firmly strapped down over the vaulting horse. On Orloff's command, she was birched soundly until her shrieks rang round the room and her bottom was red raw. She was then released, allowed to dress, and sent home with a warning that any repeat of such injudicious behaviour would result in imprisonment.

An example of what happened when Catherine's personal trust was betrayed can be illustrated by the experience of one of her most trusted Maids Of Honour. The girl was responsible for the Empress's intimate dressing and bathing, thus of course found herself privy to some very private secrets including the sight of certain of Catherine's lovers arriving and departing the boudoir. The girl was engaged to be married and could not resist passing some juicy tittle-tattle to her fiance who, in turn, repeated it at one of his dining clubs in St Petersburg. Inevitably the gossip got back to the Empress who was livid with rage. Instead of reacting immediately, Catherine bided her time until the girl's wedding. After the happy couple had retired to the bedroom to consummate their marriage, the bedroom was forced open by six men of Catherine's personal bodyguard. Without ceremony, the sheets were stripped from the naked couple and the girl dragged out of bed. She was 'horsed' on the back of one of the guards while another birched her bottom mercilessly. The helpless husband was ordered to kneel naked and watch the proceedings on his knees.

When the birching was over and the girl was crying in anguish, the couple was told to enjoy their married life and, as far as Catherine was concerned, the flogging was the end of the matter. The couple was told that should any further indiscretions occur, however, both would be sent to a labour camp in Siberia. Needless to say the 'hint' was taken seriously.

Catherine's reign was a difficult one in many ways, yet she ruled Russia for over thirty years. Although she had her critics, she was greatly loved for her enlightened social policies and her military wisdom. Her final years were haunted by illness and depression, including a loss of faith in her son, Paul, who she attempted to have removed from the line of inheritance. The attempts failed and the now ailing Catherine died, following a stroke, on 5th November 1796. Her son did indeed inherit the throne of Russia, immediately tried to reverse many of his mother's reforms, and in fact, restored the memory of his 'father', Peter III, holding a new lying in ceremony so that Peter was buried next to his wife in the Peter and Paul Cathedral of St Petersburg.

Sir Rodney's New Maid

Story from Janus 17.

Sir Rodney's New Maid
by David Redshaw

When our great-great-grandfathers were alive the caning and birching of schoolgirls was common practice throughout the land: no wonder they're referred to as the Good Old Days! Hansard (Commons, June 1863, col. 193) reports the birching of a 16-year-old girl by the lady superintendent of the Royal Patriotic Asylum, a girls' institute in Wandsworth. The birching was recommended by the chaplain, who doubtless was present at its execution.

On February 14th, 1900, as chronicled in The English Vice by Ian Gibson, a report was read before a select committee of the London School Board which stated that the managers of a certain girls' Industrial School had just passed a resolution that in future its girls 'should only be birched across the shoulders', which leads us to the inescapable conclusion that previously girls of that age had been exposed to the painful indignity of being birched on their bottoms.

On examination of the punishment records of 16 such schools for girls, we further find that two gave instances of birchings, ten of canings, two of tawsings and two of unspecified 'whipping'. Assuming there to have been at least 100 girls on the roll of each school, that adds up to a sum total of 1,600 trembling schoolgirl bottoms liable at any hour or minute in their academic careers to be either birched, caned, tawsed or 'whipped'!

Such punishments were invariably public affairs, carried out before either the whole school (pour encourager les autres) or at the very least before the board of governors, composed of clergymen, magistrates and philanthropic industrialists, pillars of society to a man. Like all other decent Victorians they believed firmly in Justice and Discipline and they attended these caning and birching sessions purely and simply to witness the saucy little madams being whipped into a state of true contrition, signified by pleas for mercy, copious weeping and scarlet, wealed backsides.

If any of the said worthy gentlemen evinced more than a passing interest in the little preliminary ritual of denuding 16-year-old Charlotte Hopkins of her tight cotton drawers, or in the sight of 18-year-old Grace Bicton, already a fully developed woman, clad-only in waist-length chemise and black silk stockings, bent bottom-upwards over the birching block, the unmentionable parts of her nether anatomy shamefully displayed... then it is certainly not recorded in Hansard, nor in any school board or governors' report. Such stirrings of gentlemenly loins were discreetly swept under the carpet.

One other historical fact is worth a mention. The senior pupils of girls' Industrial Schools served as a convenient pool for 'servant fodder', and members of the aristocracy, as well as the nouveau riche, were known to visit such establishments in order to select a suitable girl to fill a vacancy below stairs, as the following now historical exchange of correspondence illustrates.

* * *

Oakfield Road,
Tunbridge Wells,
Kent.
October 12th, 1897

Dear Miss Marchmain,

Mossborough Industrial School for Girls, of which you are, I believe, the Principal, has been recommended to me in the warmest possible terms by a contributor to your charity fund, Colonel William Standish.

I am currently afflicted, dear madam, with what I believe is generally known as 'a servant problem'. I urgently require a reliable, trustworthy girl to train as junior parlour-maid in my household. Might a suitable female be found in your establishment? I am prepared to offer appropriate remuneration, full uniform including underwear, laundering expenses, and one half-day holiday per fortnight.

Colonel Standish advises me to inform you that I am inclined to prefer a girl who has been well disciplined. I trust that I make myself understood, and remain, madam, your servant.

Sir Rodney Maltravers

* * *

Mossborough Industrial School
For Girls,
Institute Lane,
Mossborough,
--shire.
October 15th, 1897

Dear Sir Rodney,

I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter enquiring as to whether it would be possible for your esteemed self to select from among my senior pupils a girl suitable to fill the vacant position of junior parlour-maid in your household.

I am more than sensible, Sir Rodney, of the honour that your choice of our humble establishment confers upon us.

Might I take the liberty of suggesting that if you would be kind enough to call upon us next Thursday, October 21st, at a time convenient to yourself, I should consider it a further honour to put myself entirely at your disposal with a view to fulfilling your every requirement in this matter.

Please believe me to remain, your obedient and humble servant.

Harriet Marchmain, B.A.
(Principal)

* * *

Sir Rodney Maltravers' arrival the following week was a red letter day in the annals of the school. The girls were informed of his visit, and they were exhorted to look their very best and behave impeccably. Any who so much as put a foot wrong could expect a merciless flogging before the whole school the next day.

As to what did transpire at Mossborough Industrial School on that fateful Thursday, we shall let Sir Rodney take up the narrative himself...

* * *

I regret to say (he later wrote to his cousin Edgar) that my first impressions of Mossborough Industrial School were hardly favourable. I glimpsed from the carriage a gaunt, squat, grey stone building huddling in a fold of windswept hills.

A formidably high wall, crowned with spikes, surrounded it and to the left hand side of its massive iron gates there stood a rather dilapidated lodge. The keeper, a grim silent fellow, grudgingly allowed us admission through the gates, while his snarling cur snapped viciously at the wheels of our carriage.

I was received at the school by an awe-struck, curtseying maid who conducted me down a long stone-flagged corridor towards the library, where I was ushered into the presence of the Principal, Miss Harriet Marchmain.

The instant my eyes rested on her I was struck as much by the august beauty of her form as by the austere dignity of her attitude. Her figure was tall and bespoke power, her eyes piercing and resolute. Yet over all there hung an aura of female sensuality that more than hinted at a passionate nature.

She greeted me warmly and we quickly got down to business. She recounted a brief history of the school. It was founded in 1859 for the purpose of educating daughters of the victims of the Crimean War. Since then it had opened its arms further to receive daughters of the deserving poor, orphans, and other worthy recipients of charitable education.

I broached the subject of discipline, for I was all agog to see whether Miss Marchmain would authenticate the tales of birchings and canings galore with which old Standish had so frequently regaled me. I was not to be disappointed.

'We have a strict code of conduct here at Mossborough, Sir Rodney,' she replied to my probing questioning, looking me straight in the eye without a trace of embarrassment. 'Any instance of moral turpitude, however slight, is punished with the utmost rigour. We never hesitate to use the cane.' Her eyes still fixed mine in a bright intense stare. 'The birch is, of course, reserved for more serious infringements and is administered only by me.'

I noted the grim smile of self-satisfaction lingering on her lips...

She led me over the school. We visited every classroom. The girls, spick and span in their neat pinafore dresses and black stockings, rose as one and honoured me with their prettiest curtsies. Together Miss Marchmain and I picked out the most eligible candidates for my vacancy below stairs.

In the sewing room I was much taken with the appearance of a pretty little blonde girl.

'That's Belinda Edwards,' whispered Miss Marchmain. 'An excellent choice, Sir Rodney! I congratulate you on your perspicacity.'

On Miss Marchmain's recommendation I selected two other likely girls: Polly Turner, a slightly plump good-natured brunette, and Arabella Bennett, a pertly vivacious slender red-head. That done, the Principal – this strangely magnetic woman – led the way back to the library.

Warming myself cheerily before the roaring log fire, I plotted my next move, like a general before battle or a surgeon before a tricky operation. The prognosis seemed good. Pulling out my cheque book I declared that I was prepared to donate generously to the school's charity fund.

Miss Marchmain, acutely sensible to my requirements, understood my meaning perfectly, excellent lady!

'By some amazing coincidence, Sir Rodney, all three girls you picked have recently been guilty of breaches of school regulations... trifling offences, I'll admit... untidy lockers and beds, shoes insufficiently polished, whispering in Chapel and so on. Nevertheless they have not gone unrecorded and what I now propose is that they be punished directly, by me, with you as an impartial observer. I take it, Sir Rodney,' (again that flicker of a cruel smile!) 'that you have no objections?'

'None whatsoever, dear lady,' I assured her blandly. 'If the saucy minxes deserve a good lesson then by all means take down their drawers and cane them soundly, and I shall gladly act as witness to make sure that justice is well and truly done!' I settled back in a comfortable armchair and lit a cigar.

Miss Marchmain disappeared, only to return several minutes later with the three blushing culprits: Polly, Arabella and Belinda. Clearly they already knew why they had been summoned. They stood in the middle of the room fidgeting nervously, eyeing Miss Marchmain dolefully while she lectured them sternly. Every now and then they cast sheepish glances in my direction as the awful realisation dawned on them that I, a male, was to be present at their shameful, degrading punishment.

'I counsel you to bear your canings with fortitude and refrain from blubbering!' the Principal warned them. 'For whichever one of you Sir Rodney chooses for parlour-maid, she will definitely not be a cry-baby!'

Miss Marchmain was deliberately putting the girls on their mettle, sadistically spelling out the fact that the painful fate awaiting them was not just punishment, but also a cruel process of elimination. Trial by ordeal!

But Polly and Belinda seemed very near to tears already, although Arabella, the most rebellious natured of the trio, fixed me coolly with those insolent dark brown eyes of hers. She was too haughty by far for her adolescent years. I knew I was going to particularly relish seeing her being tanned.

Miss Marchmain told all three girls to remove their dresses and petticoats, and lower their drawers to their knees. An outraged silence greeted this humiliating instruction. They exchanged horrified looks then, blushing to the roots, glanced sidelong at me, indicating their deep repugnance at being made to disrobe while I was in the room.

Miss Marchmain went to a cupboard and returned bearing three canes of different lengths and thicknesses. Immobilised by shame and fear, the girls meanwhile had made no effort to commence undressing, so Miss Marchmain repeated her command in more peremptory tones.

'But Miss, I can't! Not with a gentleman present – it's not decent!' Polly wailed, real tears now glistening in her eyes. Arabella sulked mutinously while poor little Belinda tried vainly to stifle her sobs of despair in her lace handkerchief.

'Disobedient wretches!' Miss Marchmain snapped, stamping her elegant foot angrily. 'Do I have to disrobe you myself? False modesty does not become you. Do you fondly imagine Sir Rodney has never seen girls' bare bottoms before?' They cringed miserably at the mere thought of such an idea.

How she berated them! But the threat of being forcibly stripped had its desired effect. Amid groanings and yet more violent blushes the three pretty little minxes began removing their gowns and petticoats. Outer clothing soon gave way to more private, intimate garments until at last they were standing there all forlorn, shivering in their cambric chemises, figure-hugging white cotton drawers and black silk stockings gartered at mid-thigh. They presented an enchanting tableau and I longed to dismiss Miss Marchmain and cane them myself!

The plumply nubile Polly Turner was the first to be caned. Miss Marchmain seized the quaking semi-nude girl by the ear and marched her over to the librarian's ornately carved oak desk. Yanking Polly's drawers down to below her knees the Principal ordered her to bend right over the desk so that her bare behind was fully raised and vulgarly exposed. In spite of her 17 years, Polly whimpered and snivelled childishly, clenching her hind cheeks tightly together in an act of instinctive self-preservation.

'I intend to administer eight strokes of the very best on that incorrigibly wicked bare bottom of yours,' Miss Marchmain announced briskly. 'Pray compose yourself in readiness.'

From my excellent vantage point, ten feet or so away, I was able to scrutinise in great detail the girl's naked charms, right down to the endearing little mole near the base of her right buttock cheek. The bottom she presented was well-fleshed, succulently rounded with a deep narrow crease dividing its two melon-shaped halves. Wisps of dark pubic curls peeped out shyly from below the soft, delicate zone between her legs.

Polly's bitter mortification doubtless stemmed from her awareness of the disgracefully indecent spectacle she was now presenting of herself. The other two girls gazed at the proceedings in horror. I caught Belinda's eye, and the dainty little creature went crimson with shame at the thought that soon she, too, would be made to take Polly's place, lower her drawers and display her bare bottom for my keen appraisal...

Miss Marchmain chose the medium cane, and after one or two exploratory taps on Polly's bare seat, raised it aloft and then sent it swishing through the air towards its all-too-ample target.

It exploded across the crowns of Polly's out-thrust buttocks. The shock of the impact caused Polly to suck in air loudly between clenched teeth. A vivid crimson weal sprang up almost immediately, marring the flawless pallor of her broad cheeks.

Again the cane whistled down and splatted resoundingly against Polly's plump, yielding bottom flesh. She yelped in anguish and commenced to wriggle and cavort her nether regions in a most licentious, abandoned manner, vouchsafing me glimpses of those intimate sexual regions of her person that so far she had managed to conceal from view.

The third and fourth strokes were delivered within seconds of each other, so that Polly hardly had time to draw breath in between them. When she did it was to let out a series of choking sobs. She began to plead pathetically with Miss Marchmain for clemency:

'Oh Miss – I beg you! It stings so! It burns so!'

What was once a smooth, snowy-white bottom was now cruelly striped with four blossoming weals. The next few strokes caught her lower down on the delicate underside of her cheeks and must have hurt excruciatingly, judging by the shrill urgency of her cries:

'Please, Miss, not there, Miss! Anywhere but there, Miss! Oh God, it's so awful!' she shrieked, and there was a sensual hissing sound as her silk stocking-clad legs gyrated and rubbed madly together.

Arabella and Belinda looked as though they might faint any minute, so aghast were they at the sight and sound of the cane whistling mercilessly down upon poor Polly's frantically cavorting behind.

When the springy yellow cane wrapped itself spitefully around Polly's throbbing, enflamed flanks for the eighth and final time she was in fits of tears, blubbering unashamedly.

Miss Marchmain raised the weeping girl up from the desk and led her over to the wall, where she was made to stand with her hands on her head, crimson weal-racked bottom on full display. Her drawers had long since slipped ignominiously down to her ankles.

Now it was the turn of Arabella Bennett, the saucy impudent member of the trio.

'You're never going to take my drawers down, Miss, not in front of him you're not!' she muttered stubbornly, making an insolent gesture in my direction.

Miss Marchmain positively bristled with ire. Bosom heaving, eyes flashing, she drew herself up to her full height. She was powerfully built and well used to physically subduing rebellious schoolgirls like Arabella Bennett.

'We shall see about that!' she hissed menacingly, advancing purposefully towards her disobedient pupil who shrank back in alarm, her hands clutching protectively at the waistband of her white cotton drawers.

Seizing her around the waist, Miss Marchmain dragged her bodily over to the punishment desk.

'Pray be so kind as to secure her hands, Sir Rodney,' she panted.

I sprang to her aid, my heart beating excitedly. Grabbing the struggling, protesting girl by the wrists, I moved around to the far side of the desk, hauling her so far across its surface that her feet left the ground and she lay on her tummy, legs kicking furiously in the air like a stranded mermaid.

Her coppery red hair fell in delicious disarray across her face, and those lovely dark brown eyes of hers blazed defiance at me. With such a quick, wildcat temper she was obviously unsuited for service; she would have been more of a liability than an asset below stairs. All the same, I had to admire her spirit.

But Miss Marchmain was fully roused too, and her patience exhausted. She took hold of the top of the girl's drawers and, with a splitting, rending sound, literally tore them away from Arabella's surging posterior.

'Oh my drawers, Miss! My drawers!' Arabella wailed frantically. 'You've ripped them – they're my best pair!'

How typical of the female sex, I thought, to be more concerned about a pair of drawers than about a caning!

But the furious manner in which Harriet Marchmain set about belabouring Arabella's bare bottom with the stoutest of the three canes very soon caused the unfortunate girl to entirely forget about her damaged drawers.

This was a caning totally lacking in finesse. It was delivered in the white heat of anger, and stroke after stroke rained down in unbroken succession upon the general area that lay between Arabella's hips and the tops of her stockings.

I completely lost count of the number of strokes, they fell so thick and fast. Arabella's tomboyishly compact little bottom cheeks quickly lost their pale coppery sheen as an untidy array of thick ridged weals sprang up to spoil their ivory beauty.

Arabella's shrieks of distress, loud enough to awaken the dead, echoed all around the vaulted, oak-beamed library. She bucked and writhed like a wild pony being broken in. I had one devil of a job holding on to her.

I later learned that Arabella Bennett had fallen foul of Miss Marchmain early on in the year, and this unusually severe punishment was in the way of a settlement of old scores...

Indeed Miss Marchmain's fury knew no bounds. She wielded that cane like one possessed. Because Arabella was pinned horizontally across the desk the strokes fell directly downwards, hence all the more viciously.

But until Arabella was howling and bawling lachrymosely like a well-spanked five-year-old did Miss Marchmain at last relent. She threw down the cane with a clatter and stood there, wild-eyed and panting from exertion and spent passion.

I helped Arabella up to a standing position. She made a truly poignant spectacle. Her poor bottom was by now virtually corrugated with the marks of the cane's numerous visitations. I judged she'd not be sitting down with ease before the month was up.

Touched with pity for her though I was, nevertheless when the trembling near-naked girl instinctively sought the reassuring haven of my shoulder to cry on, I confess I could not resist slipping my hands behind her to explore the ridges of her bruised maltreated bottom. She winced and caught her breath when I touched her there, and drew in closer to me for comfort – encountering, I have no doubt, the rampant bulge in the front of my trousers...

I consoled her as best I could, after which I eased her rent, tattered drawers back up over her hot, palpitating, crimson bottom – judging that she had suffered enough already without subjecting her to the fresh degradation of having to stand and display her cruelly chastised behind to the world. Womaniser I may be: but sadist – never!

Drawing Harriet Marchmain into a private corner, I expressed my displeasure. She had, in my opinion, grossly exceeded her authority and abused her position. No girl, however fractious and unruly, deserved the punishment that poor Arabella had received at Miss Marchmain's hands. And to implicate me in the unsavoury affair showed a marked lack of respect for a peer of the realm.

Miss Marchmain grew flustered and grovellingly subservient, eager to please my every whim lest I report her sadistic treatment of Arabella to the Board of Governors.

I must confess here that, far from behaving altruistically, I was in fact shamelessly exploiting this delicate situation for my own ends.

What I desired above all else was simply to be left to my own wicked devices with the delectably demure Belinda – for she, and she alone, was my choice. I'd picked her out of all the other girls right from the start, exquisite creature that she was, and now I fumed and fretted with impatient longing to take a rod to her naked buttocks and flog her into abject, wailing submission... for if she was to be my maid, she needed to be initiated into her master's pleasure.

Eager to escape further censure from me, Miss Marchmain was more than happy to leave Belinda to my sole care. She departed hastily from the library with Polly and a still weeping Arabella in tow, carrying their dresses and petticoats in their arms.

* * *

The field was mine, the day was won! With mounting excitement I turned to address the little blonde charmer, trembling nervously in her chemise and pretty little lace-trimmed bloomers.

'Rejoice, my dear Belinda!' I began blithely, 'For I am resolved that you shall be my new maid! You will be decked out in silks and satins – the finest black stockings, the frilliest chemises and under-petticoats, the most translucently frivolous drawers that money can purchase...'

She blushed, yet brightened considerably at the thought of leaving Mossborough School behind, and with it all the humiliating, degrading punishments of girlhood.

But I was cruelly baiting her, raising her hopes only to dash them upon the rocks of my implacable flagellant's appetite.

'...and you will be whipped, my dear Belinda,' I continued crisply, my eyes devouring her affrighted innocence, 'well whipped, morning, noon and night, by myself and by your mistress, my Lady Caroline, for she too likes nothing better than to see a brand new parlour-maid well and truly humbled, her drawers down around her ankles, weeping her heart out and clutching a well-whipped bottom... a well-whipped bottom! Do I make myself plain, Belinda?' I repeated slowly and deliberately.

She gazed at me miserably, like a stricken fawn. Her delicate porcelain features were darkly clouded by gloom, despair and naked terror. The painful whippings that Polly and Arabella had suffered were preying on her mind. She could not banish from her memory the awful vision of Arabella's frantically writhing haunches, vainly endeavouring to dodge the lashing rod, her shrieks and howls filling the room.

But Belinda now knew that a far worse fate awaited her. She was under no illusions. She knew she was about to be severely whipped on her exquisite, virginal little bottom – not by one of her own sex – but by a man!

'Belinda,' I murmured cruelly, stroking the cheeks of her bottom through the thin cotton drawers, 'I intend now to give you the most atrociously smarting bottom you have ever endured in your life!'

Then came the command she was dreading all along:

'Loosen you drawers, Belinda. Let them fall to your ankles.'

She began to whimper and cast me many a beseeching look. But Lust had me in its grip and made me immune to all her pleadings. I was fully resolved to whip the shamefully naked bottom of this sweet young innocent, until my right arm hung limp and exhausted at my side.

Her immaculately laundered white drawers hugged her hips like a second skin, clearly delineating the well-defined cleft that separated her beautifully sculpted hind-cheeks. Out of modesty she kept her back turned while she unbuttoned and lowered her drawers, lest I glimpse her sacred, unravished mount of Venus.

Her palely flawless bare bottom slowly came into view. Slight traces of puppy-fat accentuated the soft sensual curves of those rounded little buttocks of hers.

My spirits rose to dizzy new heights, my blood roared in my temples. My manhood engorged and erected, like an accusing finger pointing at my pretty victim.

I chose the slenderest of the three canes, the whippiest and hence the most viciously damaging. I essayed trial slashes with it through the air.

Belinda began to cry softly, her hands shielding the base of her buttocks lest I glimpse between her legs the blonde curls guarding her most intimate shrine.

With the cane I lightly tapped her hands away from her bottom. All modesty was denied her now that she was mine, and I longed to slake my thirst on all her charms.

Accordingly, I instructed her to bend over and touch her toes like a schoolboy. She winced at the gross indignity of having to assume such a posture, but fear made her obey me.

Weeping piteously now, she bent her back taut as a bowstring, and her bottom acquired a cheeky, pouting prominence. Hobbled as she was by her fallen drawers, nevertheless I enjoined her to stretch her feet wider apart, thus affording me a clear view of the precious dewy secrets between her thighs.

Her slender arms hung down obediently before her, her hands an inch or two above her toes. I delivered a warning swish across the tops of her bare thighs. She groaned as she felt the cold kiss of the cane upon her tender, yielding flesh.

'You are a saucy, disobedient little minx, Belinda!' I admonished her severely. 'Touch your toes properly, this instant!'

She gasped with the effort involved in complying with my instructions. Her girlish body tautened and strained as she tried desperately to bend over still further. Her bottom swayed appealingly and her blonde ringlets fell in profusion across her deeply blushing face.

Again I tapped her with the cane, but on the backs of her knees.

'Bend your legs a little, Belinda.' This thrust her bottom outwards, into even greater prominence. Exactly as I desired it.

The moment had arrived. Gripping it tightly just below the handle, I raised the cane. Belinda was breathing heavily in spasmodic, jerking sobs, her eyes closed as though to blot out the impending bottom-searing pain...

I administered four swift whirring cuts, one after the other, across the saucy plumpness of her vulgarly presented derriere. She yelped urgently each time I struck her.

The impact drove her forward and she all but tottered to the ground. Somehow she regained her balance and pluckily resumed the vulnerable, submissive posture required.

I saw the sweet rain of her tears, falling drop by drop upon the toes of her shoes. Four livid weals now cruelly branded her once peerless bottom, mocking its ivory beauty. Goaded beyond endurance by her maidenly meekness I sent four more hearty strokes whistling down onto the base of Belinda's out-thrust posterior.

She jumped in the air, as though stung by an electric eel. Now her bottom resembled the glowing bars of a prison cell at sunset. The air vibrated with her passionate lamentations.

'Oh sir!' she sobbed wretchedly, clutching frantically at her blazing rear, 'I believe you are the very cruellest of masters, I –'

'Remove your hands from your posterior, you immodest, brazen girl!' I stormed at her in anger, vowing to punish her unmercifully for that foolishly injudicious little outburst of hers.

Grimly I waited until her hands were once more touching her toes, then I whipped her again more soundly than ever. Five strokes, diagonally applied, to form a crisscross pattern all over her madly squirming seat. Then, with one final resounding 'WHUP!', I savagely rechristened the crimson pouting summits of her nether cheeks before watching her sink to the floor, overcome by lachrymose convulsions of penitence, her bottom more fiercely colourful than if she'd been made to sit for an entire hour upon a hornets' nest!

Belinda wailed and blubbered like one totally distraught, caring not a jot now what part of her precious person she displayed, for she was sprawled indecorously, her legs wide apart revealing all.

I let her weep on until she had practically exhausted a year's supply of tears, then when she had grown more composed I touched her on the shoulder.

'Be dressed and ready to depart within the half hour, Belinda,' I said, 'The road is treacherous and we must reach Tunbridge Wells before nightfall.'

As we drove out of the gates, past the lodge and its morose old guardian, I took one last look at Mossborough Industrial School for Girls. It appeared as grey and forbidding as when I had arrived – more so now, since I had plucked a veritable pearl from its oyster shell. Belinda, tearful and fidgety, sat gingerly alongside me, every bump in the road causing her fresh posterial agony.

Her long painful apprenticeship was only just beginning.

Henry's New Girl

Story from Blushes 06.

Henry's New Girl

Henry Fultonby, in his fifties and a committed and contented bachelor, did not boast of doing good works, he was not that sort of person, but clearly he filled a social need. He was a good citizen who could be called on, even by strangers. Called on in those long school holidays, especially those interminably long summer ones, when Charlotte, Victoria, Jane or whoever can be just a little tiresome and loving but increasingly exasperated mother would so like to be rid of her offspring for just a little while. In that sort of situation if you happened to hear of Henry Fultonby your problems could well be solved.

Charlotte and Victoria and Jane were of course teenage girls. And they were always girls, for Henry was certainly not interested in having his charming house cluttered with young males. But for Charlotte etc., yes he could usually oblige there – for a week, two weeks or whatever. Henry was indeed found to be a most obliging man in such matters. He was kept pleasurably busy. Naturally he did not advertise his services, nothing so sordid as that, but word of mouth proved quite sufficient.

"Daphne says he's awfully good with girls. And of course there's discipline. Daphne says he's very good at that. Sort of the old school type. She said her Monica came back a changed girl."

"Hmmm."

In what specific ways Monica was a changed girl we need not for the moment inquire. Suffice it to say that Mrs. Elizabeth Hartnall heard this information with most eager ears. Which was why prettily blonde Valerie Hartnall subsequently found herself, a week after the end of summer term, on a train heading out into the remoter regions of Suffolk.

"I presume..?" he queried, on the platform at Little Grindleham. 'Valerie Hartnall' she said flushing slightly. She was wearing her blue school dress and dark blue blazer, her school straw hat set squarely on corn-coloured hair. Valerie would not have chosen to wear this outfit but Mr. Fultonby had said it would aid recognition. But in any case no one else had alighted at this sleepy little station now basking in the early afternoon sunshine.

Henry smiled a nice friendly smile. He was a reassuring figure in tweed jacket and flannels. "Welcome to Little Grindleham," he said. "My but you are a pretty girl." He picked up her case and took her arm in his hand. Outside the station was Henry's oldish Daimler. What happened next is perhaps best explained by the fact that there can always be a little confusion when one person is helping another into a car. It is all a matter of timing really and if the timing is not quite right things can go a bit amiss.

Although by now Henry Fultonby should have been pretty well practised at helping girls into his car. At any event as Valerie bent forward to enter Henry's hand somehow came up under the back of that knee-length school skirt – not that it would be reaching knee length, nowhere near, when Valerie was bending forward in this manner. The hand came up the skirt and up the backs of her black school stockings to somehow finish up with a nice grip on the silky soft flesh at the rear of one bare upper thigh.

Valerie not unnaturally emitted a sharp squeak, Henry gave a reassuring little laugh while his hand fumbled about a bit – presumably trying to disentangle itself, but it took a little time. There were tiny beads of perspiration on Valerie's soft upper lip when finally she was seated in the Daimler. It had all been very embarrassing and she just hoped Mr. Fultonby wasn't embarrassed too, for she did want to get off to a good start.

Mr. Fultonby did not seem embarrassed though as, driving off, his hand came confidently down onto Valerie's right thigh. Apart from when Mr. Fultonby had to change gear and suchlike Mr. Fultonby kept his hand there. And somehow Valerie's skirt got pushed up so that his hand was on stocking top and bare thigh. She hoped this didn't embarrass him either, but there was certainly no sign that her new host was embarrassed in any way.

They drove for a little distance in the sunny afternoon and then Mr. Fultonby said that as it was such a nice sunny day they could stop and have a little picnic which he had thoughtfully brought with him. They found a really nice place, a secluded clearing in some woods that was just right. But then, Valerie thought, as Mr. Fultonby lived hereabouts he probably knew it before – he might even have brought girls here before. She hadn't yet asked him about other girls, still being a bit shy with him even though he was so nice and friendly. Her mother had been a bit vague but did say she thought he regularly had girls staying with him.

They sat down and Valerie took her blazer off and her straw boater. Mr. Fultonby remarked again that Valerie was very pretty. Her hair was like ripening corn, he said. There was not much answer to that except a modest maidenly blush and Valerie duly produced one. Mr. Fultonby then also said she had a very nice figure. "A very nice bust," he said, his eyes having a really good look at it. "I always like to see a nice firm bust on a girl. Tell me, are you wearing a bra under that pretty uniform?"

Valerie not unnaturally blushed a bit more at this. She was wearing a bra of course. Her mother told her always to wear one now that she had quite a full figure. Otherwise the shape of your nipples would show and that was not at all a good idea. Common men and youths in the street would make remarks.

Mr. Fultonby wasn't a common man of course, he was a proper country gentleman, Valerie's mother had said. Nonetheless, to Valerie's further embarrassment, he was now telling her that a pretty girl shouldn't be afraid to show her figure. And if a young girl had a nice firm pair of breasts she was much better off not wearing a bra. More healthy. Suddenly, and shockingly, one of Mr. Fultonby's hands, as he sat beside her on the plaid blanket, was cupping Valerie's right breast.

She gasped. "Yes, very nice and firm," Henry Fultonby said. "So I really should recommend leaving off this bra, young lady. Certainly for the duration of your stay with me."

Poor Valerie didn't know what to do. She had never had a man's hand there before and it sent real shivers down her. She was sure she shouldn't let him put his hand there but on the other hand he was Mr. Fultonby and she didn't want to seem like a silly little schoolgirl. She was after all 16. At last after quite a bit of squeezing and groping, at that breast and also at the other one, presumably to check that they were both equally firm, he did take his hand away.

"Yes, definitely no bra, I think, Valerie," Henry Fultonby said firmly as he reached for the hamper to take out cakes and things. Poor Valerie tried not to think about what he had said, or indeed what he had just done. She said Thankyou for a doughnut and tried instead to concentrate on that, trying to eat it in a lady-like manner and not have jam squirting out all over the place.

She had two doughnuts and a jam tart, plus some lemonade, without having any sandwiches first, which her mother certainly would not have allowed. Mr. Fultonby didn't seem bothered about that sort of thing. He even tried to persuade her to have a third doughnut but Valerie sensibly said no to that. She said, "No thanks, I might get fat" and then was blushing again, remembering what a girl at school said. Cakes and things gave you a nice round bottom and big breasts and that was what men liked. Not that Valerie believed it, she knew that too many cakes would just make you fat all over.

Unfortunately Valerie's innocent remark was a cue for Mr. Fultonby, who had already had a good feel at her breasts. "I'm quite sure you're not fat," he said. Then to prove this to himself he pulled back the skirt of Valerie's school dress as she sat with legs straight out in front of her. There, suddenly, was the full length of black school stockings, the welts held taut at mid thigh by the straps of a white suspender belt. The straps crossed the fronts of creamily smooth upper thighs at the very top of which could be glimpsed tight white knickers.

With a little yelp Valerie's hands shot automatically out to pull down her skirt but Mr. Henry Fultonby firmly pushed her hands away. "Just having a little look" he assured her as his own hand took hold of one rounded upper thigh. He squeezed it in a very practised manner – but then Henry Fultonby was very practised when it came to girls' thighs. Poor Valerie didn't know what to do or where to look. His fingers were right down between her upper thighs, an area where a girl is very very sensitive. It was awful but also very exciting because she had never ever had a man's hand there before.

The hand at last came away and Valerie gave a little sigh of relief. Nervously she edged her skirt back down, hoping he wouldn't notice and tell her to stop. It did look as though staying with Mr. Fultonby was going to be... well, different in some respects.

Indeed it was, for Henry Fultonby, having satisfied himself that his new protegee's thighs were all they should be, was now talking about something else. Discipline. He was a firm believer in it and without it girls could grow up to be a real mess. Valerie nodded agreement, not too sure what he was talking about but certainly she thought that juvenile delinquents and suchlike should be properly dealt with.

It seemed, though, that Mr. Fultonby was not talking about juvenile delinquents exactly. He was talking about her. Did she get properly disciplined at school? She said that they all did. Lines and things. But Mr. Fultonby was not talking about lines, he said. He was talking about getting their bottoms smacked or being caned.

Valerie shook her pretty head in some bewilderment. No, nothing like that. It was a girls school of course. And, well, she was 16. Henry Fultonby smiled and shook his head. Sixteen was just the age to appreciate it and get the full benefit. He looked keenly at Valerie... who simply blushed a very deep red. Well it was such an awful thought, such a truly impossible one, to get your bottom smacked or caned, at 16. Perhaps though, she thought, he was joking?

No, Henry Fultonby was not joking. Pleasantly but firmly he told her that he certainly smacked a girl's bottom, and he also caned that same part of a girl's anatomy. He regarded it as his duty. Furthermore as Valerie had not had any experience of such chastisement before he thought it would be a good idea, a very good idea if he administered a preliminary spanking to his new guest this very afternoon. In this very spot, conveniently secluded as it was from strangers' eyes. Not that Valerie had misbehaved in any way but it would enable her to know what to expect.

"No, please!" yelped Valerie. It was just impossible!

But Henry Fultonby said "Yes please" in a very firm voice. And then added something else which if you were a 16-year-old girl who had never been spanked before was even more horrifying.

"Yes Valerie. And I shall of course want your knickers down. Smacking a girl's bottom is always much more effective if her knickers are down and her bottom bare."

Could he really be saying this? Unfortunately he could, as any of the various girls who had stayed with Henry before could bear witness. An early 'Knickers down' was always on the agenda. Henry stood up and taking Valerie's hand pulled her gently to her feet. Once a girl had been acquainted with the matter of 'Knickers down' there was no point in hanging about. Strike while the iron was hot.

To one side of the clearing was a fallen tree trunk, whose moss-covered surface afforded a convenient and quite comfortable seat. Henry had used it before. He went to sit on it now and told Valerie to stand close in front of him. Then without further ado his two knowing hands slid up under her skirt. Fingers found the waistband of her knickers and before she knew it they were down round Valerie's knees.

"Hold up your skirt, my dear," Henry said in that firm authoritarian voice. "High up round your waist."

Valerie's hands complied, without her mind fully registering it on a conscious level. She stood, trembling slightly while Henry looked, and looked with satisfaction. He had seen plenty of girls before but each one was different, each one delightful. This one seemed especially delightful. The black stockings and lowered white knickers below, and the bunched-up blue skirt above, formed a charming frame, complemented by the vertical lines of the taut suspender straps. The rest was softly swelling nubile girlhood. At the very centre, on the lower surface of the firmly rounded mound, a pouting pink split peeped through a sparse covering of soft blonde curls.

Valerie uttered a sort of gasping groan as her mind finally got a grip on what she was doing, what she was showing. A second groan was stifled as Henry Fultonby pulled her forward and over his lap, taking care to ensure that the raised skirt remained well up round her waist all round. A yelp, and ineffectual struggles, as Henry's right hand came down to clasp one slim and silkily bare buttock.

The hand stroked and squeezed... and then started smacking down. Sharp crisp smacks to the delightfully firm and resilient rump. Valerie gasped and yelped and struggled but Henry's other arm was firmly round her upper person so the struggling could only amount to anything in her nether regions. There, long slim black-stockinged legs wriggled and kicked, and prettily bare buttocks twisted and clenched. Unmoved by all this Henry smacked on, covering and recovering the springy nude flesh until it was a uniform bright pink.

At last he stopped – but only to have a rest and to pull Valerie's knickers on down. Down those long black-stockings and off over the sensible brown shoes. Henry resumed his efforts. No longer encumbered by the lowered knickers the slim legs were now able to flail freely. In the process they were also able to open innocently but immodestly wide. Henry Fultonby, concentrating now on smacking those creamy soft thighs, had a marvellous full view of what he had earlier glimpsed. Of all that a girl has to offer. Of what indeed at this stage Valerie Hartnall would certainly not dream of offering.

But a few days with Henry Fultonby's tender care could take their toll of even the shyest and most reluctant girl.

Valerie continued to wail and flail her pretty legs. Henry continued to spank energetically, and look keenly. The sun continued to shine serenely down on a scene which this pleasant glade, some two miles from Henry's residence, had seen quite a few times before.

* * * * * * * *

Crunching gravel, the Daimler rolled up a longish driveway through what looked like good-sized grounds – lawns and shrubs and some big cedars and things. The driveway terminated in a broad semicircular sweep in front of a pretty house, creepers climbing up its grey stone walls. It seemed like a nice place, not a prison exactly but Valerie, sitting next to Mr. Fultonby, thought once more of that awful spanking she had received 20 minutes earlier. There was also the fact that she did not now have any knickers on, these having been transferred to Mr. Fultonby's right hand jacket pocket.

As the Daimler pulled up there emerged from the house a pretty girl in a short summery frock. She looked about Valerie's age, but was dark rather than blonde, with big brown eyes and shoulder-length chestnut hair. Henry Fultonby, alighting from his car, greeted her in a decidedly friendly manner, putting his arms round her and then, it seemed to Valerie, putting one hand up the front of her short skirt. The girl gave a sort of ecstatic groan... and wriggled her bottom in what looked like a very appreciative manner. When this greeting had broken off she was introduced as Cynthia.

"Cynthia has been with me now for two weeks," said Mr. Fultonby, "so we have become quite good friends." Valerie, blinking, thought that she could certainly believe that.

Cynthia at least seemed nice and friendly. Helping Valerie get her things out of the car and with Mr. Fultonby safely out of earshot she said laughingly, "I don't suppose you've got any knickers on!"

Valerie did not answer but made a wry and rather unhappy face at this unwelcome reminder of recent events. Cynthia gave another bubbly laugh and evidently did not need confirmation from Valerie as to the state of play regarding knickers. "Don't worry. Mr. Fultonby always gets a girl's knickers off pretty quick. He says it's good for discipline. What he really means is its easier to get his hands on everything you've got. It can be a bit of a shock at first, of course."

Valerie's thoughts slid back to that friendly greeting between Cynthia and Mr. Fultonby. It seemed clear that Cynthia did not have knickers on either. And had Mr. Fultonby had his hand on "everything a girl's got"? She gulped. With a little shiver she followed Cynthia into the house.

It was quite a big house but it seemed that Mr. Fultonby was the only permanent resident. "Apart from girls staying" laughed Cynthia. She was the only one at present, another girl, Mary, having left two days ago. And of course there was now Valerie. "I'm glad you've come," Cynthia said. "I mean Mr. Fultonby can get to be a bit much for only one girl to handle." Whatever did that mean? Cynthia rolled her eyes and said expressively, "Oh, you know!"

Valerie didn't. Any guesses did not bear thinking about.

Mr. Fultonby had a housekeeper, Mrs. Douglas, to cook for him and everything. And there was also a gardener, Mr. Miggins. They didn't live in but both came daily from the village, Lower Grindleham, which was just a mile away. "Watch out for old Miggins," said Cynthia. "He'll do things if he gets the chance. And he knows Mr. Fultonby needs him because he couldn't get another gardener so he knows he can take liberties."

What sort of liberties? "Oh you know, fiddling about; and he'll smack your bum too although he's not s'posed to. I mean you don't want that from a common working-class man, do you Valerie?"

Valerie agreed she didn't. She didn't want it from Mr. Fultonby either. She and Cynthia had been putting her things in her room which was nice and bright with a nice big double bed. Cynthia, she had seen, in the room next door, also had a double bed. At home Valerie had a single bed which naturally was quite sufficient for a girl by herself. Mummy and Daddy in the next room at home had a double bed and Valerie knew why that was. Mummy was still a very attractive woman and she knew Daddy still wanted to do it to her. You could sometimes hear Mummy's bed creaking in a very rhythmic way when that was happening.

There had been one horrid occasion, earlier in the year, when there had been some bed creaking from the other side of the wall when Daddy had been away. When also there had been a certain visitor to the house. A man, younger than Mummy, who Mummy said was Mr. Smith. Anyway he had stayed the night, supposedly in the spare room but then later on Valerie heard that very distinct sound which had made her feel really sick. She couldn't really believe Mummy would let that Mr. Smith do it to her in her's and Daddy's bed. But Mummy had said not to bother to tell Daddy that Mr. Smith had stayed – he was a friend of her friend Mrs. Carrington and she was just obliging by putting him up. Mummy had given Valerie an extra £1 with her pocket money that week.

Valerie certainly didn't want to think about any of that but was reminded by the fact that she was now to have a double bed of her own. She sat on it and it seemed nice: not too soft and not too hard. Like the Little Bear's bed. Then she thought again of Mr. Fultonby... and the apparently awful Mr. Miggins. She went to the dressing table and took out her writing paper and fountain pen.

"Dear Mummy," she wrote, "It is very nice here and there is another nice girl but I think I should like to come home early. As soon as possible. I promise I'll be very good and make my bed and not get under your feet etc. I'd really like to come home right away."

She sealed it up and addressed it to Mrs. Hartnall because Daddy was away on business for three weeks, then put it in her blazer pocket. She would phone except obviously you couldn't phone such a sensitive message from Mr. Fultonby's house. Cynthia said it would probably be all right for them to go to the post box but they'd better check with Mr. Fultonby first. He said yes but they must be quick as it would soon be supper time. "Oh we will, Mr. Fultonby," said Cynthia coyly rolling her eyes. Henry Fultonby squeezed her bottom, and then squeezed Valerie's. And then he said they'd better put some knickers on. Cynthia said "Of course."

There were two bikes in the garage which they took. Cynthia said you were always supposed to wear knickers when you went out. Mr. Fultonby wouldn't want people to think he had a disreputable house with girls there not wearing knickers. "Especially if you're going on a bike," she said. "I mean men always look up a girl's skirt when she's on a bike, trying to see her knickers or of course even better if she hasn't got any on."

Valerie didn't think that all men did that but she knew what Cynthia meant. The post box was about half a mile and when they'd posted the letter Cynthia said they could sit down for five minutes and have a chat. She said, "If you like I can tell you what to expect. From Mr. Henry Fultonby I mean."

It did not seem too good. "You'll get a couple of pretty good canings in the first day or so. That's in the interests of discipline, of course. After that if you're a nice cooperative girl things will be a whole lot easier. On the other hand if you're not nice and cooperative you can go on getting quite nasty canings until you are."

Cynthia gave a sweet smile. "Actually I would have been cooperative without the canings. I mean I like older men, especially if it's a proper gentleman like Mr. Fultonby. But I suppose he felt he had to make sure. So I got the canings anyway. Gripes, he can really sting your bum with that cane!"

Valerie heard all this with a sort of numb feeling in her stomach. The cane! Getting your bottom smacked was awful but the cane! It didn't bear thinking about. And being cooperative: what did that mean? She didn't ask but thought again of Mr. Fultonby greeting Cynthia. Cynthia said they'd better gat back.

They had supper, a pie, quite good, prepared by the redoubtable Mrs. Douglas. Mr. Fultonby asked if the girls would like some wine. Cynthia did but Valerie said no thank-you. A smiling Mr. Fultonby said, "It's very relaxing, you know. And a girl's got to learn to relax, hasn't she?" Then after supper he said that as Valerie had had a tiring day he thought a bath and early to bed would be in order. "A nice relaxing bath," he said. Mr. Fultonby seemed very keen on a girl relaxing.

Valerie was in the bath and was feeling quite relaxed in the nice warm soapy water with bath salts and all, when suddenly Mr. Fultonby came in. There was no lock on the bathroom door and he just opened it and came in. Valerie stopped being relaxed immediately and went very pink in the face while two hands shot up to cover those two pretty medium-sized breasts.

Mr. Fultonby with a friendly look on his face sat on the side of the bath. "No need to be shy, now Valerie, is there?" And his hand firmly removed Valerie's hands from her bare front. The pert young breasts were revealed, slippery wet and with deep pink nipples sticking cheekily out as a result of their recent soaping. "Very lovely," observed Henry Fultonby. "You certainly don't want a bra for those, my girl."

His hand reached out and tweaked a nipple between finger and thumb. Valerie emitted a squeak. "No, my dear. Such lovely things need to be free, not imprisoned."

Valerie forced herself to keep still. His hand on her bare breasts and nipples was awful, simply awful. But also it was undoubtedly arousing.

What was also awful but arousing occured shortly after when, at Mr. Fultonby's behest, Valerie stepped dripping out of the bath, to be enveloped by that gentleman in a large fluffy white towel. Mr. Fultonby proceeded to dry her, very thoroughly, the towel busily reaching into every nook and cranny. Sometimes it wasn't actually the towel but Mr. Fultonby's hand instead. Right up between her legs for instance. Very knowing probing fingers... One particular knowing finger went unashamedly in, like a burrowing ferret...

When at last she was permitted to put on her pyjamas poor Valerie was really sweating – and all that relaxing effect of the bath had unfortunately been largely lost.

On shaky legs Valerie went to her bedroom – with Mr. Fultonby's hand at her bottom giving her a friendly start on her way. She closed her bedroom door – and for the first time noticed that like the bathroom there was no lock. She got into bed. Gazing up at the shadowy ceiling Valerie thought of her letter hopefully speeding its way to her nice familiar home. With any luck she might not have to spend more than two days with Mr. Fultonby and his awful hands and fingers.

Her mind drifted. She wasn't sure if she dozed off or not but at some time later she became aware that she was awake and there were noises. From Cynthia's room? The tinkling sound of Cynthia's laughter, then silence. And then a sound which she had heard before at home. The rhythmic creaking of bed springs! It couldn't be! But on the other hand what else would make that very recognisable sound?

Valerie put her head under the clothes. She thought of home. Somehow her thoughts went to that other horrid bed-creaking, when Daddy had been away. Mr. Smith. Then she felt a sudden cold shiver. Daddy was away at the moment for three weeks. What if Mummy hadn't only sent her here because she didn't make her bed, etc. What if that awful Mr. Smith was visiting? At this very moment, perhaps, was doing it to Mummy? If that was the case Valerie would not be leaving in two days; she would be here for two weeks... or three...

Valerie couldn't really believe any of this, it was too awful. She didn't believe it. But she nonetheless found she was crying; big salty tears which were making the pillow all wet.

* * *

In the morning Valerie decided it had all been a bad dream. Mr. Smith was not at her home doing it to Mummy and she also hadn't heard sound of anyone doing it next door in Cynthia's room. Cynthia in fact looked very bright and perky at breakfast; she must have had a good night's sleep, Valerie decided. After breakfast Cynthia confided that she had to help Mr. Miggins in the garden. She made a face, then added, "Still I s'pose I'd rather not be you. I 'spect you'll be getting a rather sore bum."

It was indeed Henry Fultonby's plan to give Valerie a rather sore bum first thing that morning. She was a truly delightful creature but very jumpy at the moment. She needed settling down, breaking in, in fact, so that she came to realise that the attentions of an older sophisticated male were one of life's pleasures for a young girl. The best thing to get her in the right frame of mind for this was a nice sharp shock. A good sharp caning, in fact, one that really stung that young and tender flesh. Once she'd had that – and maybe a couple more like it – the breaking-in process would be well underway.

Henry took his young protegee into his study, telling Mrs. Douglas, who had just arrived, that he didn't want to be disturbed. "I quite understand, Sir," replied that lady, licking her lips at the prospect of what she knew this pretty young person was about to receive. "You just be a good girl now, young Valerie."

Valerie was looking truly delightful this morning in a pink-flowered summery frock. Following what had been said she had with great trepidation left off her bra. Henry's hands had quickly ascertained this fact. It was a good sign, a sign of cooperation. She was, however, he also quickly discovered, wearing knickers when he had made it reasonably clear that in the confines of his house they were not necessary. He took them off; they were pink ones. Her long legs were delightfully bare today – although of course those black stockings and the suspender belt were very stimulating.

Henry settled himself in his favourite armchair and sat Valerie firmly on his lap. With one arm round her and the other hand caressing a silky bare thigh he proceeded to deliver his little lecture. On discipline. More or less what she'd got yesterday afternoon only a bit more elaborated in parts. With the intoxicating scent of her corn-coloured hair in his nostrils and the softly yielding weight of her thinly-clad body pressed against him, Henry could have gone on and on. But action was called for – and besides his very erect organ was getting a little crushed beneath her soft but by no means weightless bottom.

He pushed Valerie to her feet and got up himself. His desk was already cleared for action. When starting with a new girl Henry frequently liked to use his special position. It had an extra shock value for the recipient. "Up on the desk, my dear," he instructed. "Lie on your back and lift your legs up."

Valerie couldn't believe this, it must be another of those bad dreams. But in the bad dream she allowed herself to be helped up onto Mr. Fultonby's nice polished desk, then lay down on her back with a little cushion under her shoulders. Her legs were being lifted up and she was being told to grip underneath her knees. And then to keep nice and still. She was vaguely aware that in this dream, in this position, she was blatantly revealing all she'd got!

Then the cane came down, with a sickening CRA...ACK! And quite clearly it was not just a bad dream after all.

When he had finished caning her – eight good crisp thwacks to her bottom and upper thighs – Henry helped the sobbing girl off the desk and took her over his lap again. This time in the reversed position, i.e. face-down with brightly striped bottom nicely raised. Gently he applied some soothing cold cream. This of course was a key part of the breaking-in process. The soothing sympathetic hand softly caressing... gradually relaxing... And when she was somewhat relaxed becoming gently but firmly intrusive.

Meanwhile outside Cynthia was quite enjoying herself teasing Mr. Miggins. They were in the potting shed supposedly cleaning out pots. In fact Cynthia was sitting on the potting bench, one leg dangling free and the other with her foot up on the bench. Her raised knee disclosed an absence of knickers and also disclosed what lay at the very apex of her parted thighs. Namely a fuzzy-haired split peach, a part of Cynthia's anatomy which had seen quite extensive and very pleasant action during the past night. Opposite Cynthia, sitting on his chair, was Mr. Miggins, two flower pots in his hands but ignored as he gazed open-mouthed at this stirring sight.

Cynthia gave a tinkly laugh. "You know you really are a dirty old man, Mr. Miggins." She opened her legs a little wider to improve the view. "If I didn't have Mr. Fultonby to protect me I don't know what you'd do to me!"

Meanwhile, also, such was the excellence of the British postal service that Valerie's letter, posted yesterday afternoon, had already been delivered to her home. It was, however, lying in the hallway, unopened, and the chances were that it would remain in this position and in this state for a little while yet. For Mummy, Mrs. Elizabeth Hartnall, was not at home. A letter was at this moment on its way to Valerie explaining that Mummy had gone to stay with her friend Mrs. Carrington for a few days. The Carringtons were not on the phone but Valerie could write. She hoped Valerie was having a lovely time.

In fact at this moment Mrs. Elizabeth Hartnell was not at her friend Julia Carrington's but was in an hotel in Eastbourne. Still in bed, and protesting, but only mildly, at what her companion, male, was doing and was clearly about to do.

"Charles! Again? You'll wear me out!"

Charles, on top of Mummy at this moment, would have been recognisable to Valerie, if she could see his face, as 'Mr. Smith'.

As Charles commenced, with long smooth strokes, to do what he had already done several times to Mummy during the previous night he inquired about Valerie. How long was she staying at that place?

Elizabeth Hartnall gave a sensuous groan. "Oh... I don't know, Charles... Ooohh! She... she can stay all summer..."

NEXT MONTH!

Is he really going to do it?

Will it hurt?

Is it true, what she's heard; that it stops it 'taking' if you cross your fingers and blink very, very hard?

These and other pressing questions will be answered, when Valerie is really given something to Blush for in the January issue of Blushes

DON'T MISS IT!

Continuation of this story