Thursday 15 June 2023

Wainwright and Colefax (Victorian Birching Sequel) - (M/m)

Apologies, this piece was meant to be posted during lockdown. Forgot. Visited my favourite disciplinarian a couple of weeks ago. Perhaps I should go back for my own birching, given my abstraction and indolence. Alfred Roy

Wainwright and Colefax

 

Sgt Colefax

I have to say that yesterday was a very good day. I have the best job in the world and yesterday I had one of the best jobs. Mustn’t show too much enthusiasm of course, that wouldn’t do. Just doing my job, doing it efficiently and expertly. That’s why they gave it to me. If boys have to be birched, and they do, best to give the job to someone who knows how to do it properly and with some force. If you birch their backsides hard enough chances are they won’t be back here again and that is what you want. Wainwright agrees with me. He couldn’t do the job himself. Well, he could but not as well as me. Has said so many times. Sgt Colefax, he says to me, I do not know anyone who whacks boy’s behinds more expertly than you. You hit them hard, you hit them accurate, you hit them with rhythm, and, if I may say so, you hit them with the finesse of a consummate expert. You could have been born for the job, he says, I couldn’t do it, at least not as well as you. I reckon he could do it, birch a few bottoms, if he didn’t have so much sympathy, empathy, whatever, for them. Especially the younger ones. He knows they deserve it, the courts have sentenced them, and he wants it done as do all here. He knows that a few hard whacks of the birch on their bare arses will set some of them on the straight and narrow, especially if we catch them young enough. But he prefers to help them through the ordeal, and it is an ordeal, rather than wield the dreaded twigs himself. And, as he has told me many times, he is always happiest when I am on birching duty. The little buggers probably don’t appreciate it as we are pulling their trousers up but, he says, they have just had their bums whacked by the best in the business. An expert. And that was certainly the case yesterday. Beautiful little arse that boy had. Plump and creamy. And well pronounced. I enjoyed, no, I relished birching him. Wonder what today will bring?

Saw Wainwright an hour or so ago. He seemed in a right pickle. Busy day for you today Mr Colefax, glad it’s you on duty. We have got four of them today, magistrates seemed to be in a right old mood. Even the ten year old got sentenced to four strokes. That surprised me, thought they might let him off with a warning but their chairman was in one of his high dudgeon states. Causes problems for me though, like to keep them in separate rooms before we take them down to the birching block and we only have two. So I have scheduled, with the inspector’s permission, two for 2.00pm and 2.30pm and the other two for 3.00pm and 3.30pm. Think it might work if the doc is available. Long wait for the second two lads, which I don’t like, but blame the magistrates I say. Wainwright paused and looked at me. Or blame the miscreants, I said. So how many each? Wainwright looked at his notes and frowned. Four, as I said, for the ten year old and eight each for two twelve year olds caught pinching paint and trying to sell it. And the fourth one, I said. An old friend, Wainwright said, you have had him before. Rather nasty fourteen year old ginger lad. He’s been sentenced to six months and twelve strokes of the birch. Can you cope with all that lot Sergeant? I smiled at him and told him thirty odd strokes in a couple of hours was well within my capacity. I once birched seven lads on the same day and never broke sweat. Got through a few birches though, which reminds me I better go and check my stock.

 

Constable Wainwright

Right, I think that’s all sorted to satisfaction. Have got the first two in the holding cells and the doc is checking out the ten year old. Thought he ought to go first, looks terrified, and then Mr Colefax can deal with the ginger lad. Sorry to say I can’t have much sympathy for him seeing as he has been here before. Checked my records, when he was eleven. Four strokes then, twelve this time. And six months. Some never learn. Get these done and then I’ll bring the two paint pinchers down. Three hour wait for them to get their arses tanned which is much longer than I think is desirable. Not much we can do about it Wainwright, the inspector said, if they give us four in one day someone has to wait. Hope that ten year old is going to be allright. I know Colefax will go pretty easy on him and use the lightest birch but if he is not bawling his eyes out before we start, in my experience he certainly will be during and after it. Even at his lightest Colefax’s birchings come as a major shock to a very young behind.

Just finished with the ten year old. Boy did he bawl. He was whimpering when I took him down and when he saw the birching bench and Colefax, birch in hand standing at the side of it, his tears just burst out. I felt sorry for the young lad. Not enough to want his punishment to be stopped. Little bugger had nicked some old lady’s purse, deserved to have his arse whacked, but probably not like this. Judicial. Cold. Four grown men overseeing it. Must have been frightening. Especially when I strapped him down on the bench and pulled his flimsy trousers down. Had such a little backside, the two little cheeks would have hardly covered my hands. I rubbed those hands over his head, often helps, and after the inspector had said his piece Sgt Colefax did his usual expert work. Four strokes with the junior birch. He laid them on pretty hard, bit too much in my opinion, and the young lad screamed for England. Only four strokes but at the end of it the little bum was lacerated with a multitude of vicious looking stripes. I let him off as quickly as I could and pulled up his trousers. All over lad, I said, and he looked at me sobbing and shivering and said ‘Can I go now?’ It is at times like this that I reckon the friendly belt at home would be much better than an authoritative judicial.

 

Sgt Colefax

Those first two were pretty easy, even if the contrast was illuminating. Problem with the ten year olds, generally, is their small arses can’t absorb the whole of the birch. That’s why I cut the junior ones down to a suitable size. I get a nice swing and the shortened tips cut into the little cheeks very effectively. No wonder Wainwright calls me an expert. Boy did that one bawl. Didn’t get any sympathy from me. He wouldn’t have been here, on the birching block with his pants down, if he hadn’t done something bad. He deserved whatever he had been sentenced to. And in the bawling boy’s case it was four strokes. I laid them on as hard as I could, knowing the junior birch couldn’t do too much damage, and was well satisfied by his reactions and the results. A well reddened arse by the end. Doubt if we will see him here again. Hope not. A salutary lesson is the whole point of all this.

The ginger lad was totally different. He didn’t come in whimpering like the ten year old and his manner, although nervous, had a small air of defiance. Wainwright did his usual expert job of preparation and I got the impression the lad was keen to get his birching over. He readily raised his bum when the constable started to pull his trousers down and at the same time pressed his forehead into the top of the leather bench. Seemed to be saying ‘get on with it, I have been here before.’ His arse was a typical fourteen year olds and no doubt was well accustomed to being belted. But twelve strokes of the birch was a different matter entirely, as I shortly intended to make him find out. The inspector, not for the first time, made his customary inappropriate comment. Not sure if it is nerves or something else. He has overseen loads so ought to be used to it. He was quiet when the little lad got his four strokes but not this time. When you are ready Mr Colefax, he said, you have a nicely full backside to work on and one I think you are familiar with. Twelve strokes in your own time, and make him feel them. We do not want him here again. I nodded, Wainwright sniffed, and the ginger boy just raised his naked arse a little more. Doubt if he will be doing that when I have finished.

 

Constable Wainwright

Not sure that air of defiance did the ginger lad any good. In fact a little humility on his part may have meant Mr Colefax going a little easier on him, especially the last two or three. But the cocky way he raised his bum when I took his trousers down coupled with the inspector’s comments fired up the sergeant. He had his largest and most fearsome birch in his hand and it twitched expectantly as the Inspector finished. The lad’s shirt was being troublesome for some reason and, as I had no intention of comforting him, I took the tail of it in my right hand and held it away from the exposed backside. In hindsight I should have made him take it off before strapping him to the bench but my view is that the only bit of the body we wish to be bare is the bottom being birched. Reminds the miscreant they are children, not men. Being virtually naked would dilute that effect. As Mr Colefax says, somewhat disparagingly, I overthink these things. I think the first lash of the birch on his arse shocked the ginger lad. He clearly was not expecting it as hard or quick. Colefax lashed it right across the centre of the lad’s naked cheeks and the instant response was a gasp and a twisting of his backside. If his slight cockiness and defiance was in memory of the four he received on his eleven year old bottom that first crack of the birch told him that this was a totally different ball game. Sgt Colefax very quickly delivered two more strokes to roughly the same raised place and all in the room, especially the now squirming ginger lad, realised that this was going to be a birching of some severity. And there were nine more strokes to come. I held very tightly on to the lad’s raised shirt.

By God, didn’t that backside twist and squirm about over the next few strokes of the birch. It was only matched by the boy’s howling, and boy could he howl. Every time Mr Colefax lashed the birch across his behind he howled the place down. After the sixth the sergeant waved the twigs around and decided he needed a fresh one. The bum was looking pretty lacerated and the boy sobbing for all he was worth. I think he had never recovered from the shock of that first stroke, all defiance immediately expunged. Savage pain in the behind does that. I think we were all glad of the respite while the birches were changed. The doctor took the opportunity to look at the boy and minutely inspected his bottom. I think he can take the second six, he said, no reason to go easy on him. His words induced an extra howl from the boy and more twisting of his backside. I pulled the shirt further up his back as he continued to twist and squirm. His gyrations brought his bottom higher into the air and Sgt Colefax took that as his signal to lash the seventh stroke across it. The new birch signalled its arrival and the lad registered his tormented appreciation. The last five continued the same course, each harder and quicker than the previous strike, and the lad was screaming by the time the twelfth and final stroke hit his now lacerated and totally reddened rump. I had rarely seen a behind so thrashed, rarely heard a boy howl so much, and rarely seen Colefax hit so hard. This was a birching out of the top drawer and all in the room, especially the wailing fourteen year old knew it. I released him, brushed a few twigs off his sorry backside and pulled up his pants. He was still sobbing uncontrollably when the doc took him out of the room to have something applied to the smarting. Great job Colefax, the inspector said, if ever a boy deserved a well thrashed arse it was him. I daresay he will be here again. I somehow doubted it.

 

Sgt Colefax

We have a further delay which did nothing for Mr Wainwright’s demeanour. The doc had to go after inspecting our first two reprobates and the replacement can’t come in until four o’clock. Those paint pinchers will have waited four hours for their birching he said, far too long. Doubt if they will complain, I said, the longer the better I should say. The magistrates might, he said, from sentence to trousers down should be as short a time as possible. That’s their philosophy. I left him to go and check the two birches that I need for our twelve year old miscreants. I had originally decided on the medium ones for their eight apiece but something the inspector said made me think that the full size ones might give them a more salutary lesson. Magistrates considered sentencing them to the maximum, he said, as the chap they pinched the paint off is severely disabled. Only their ages dissuaded them. Did they, I thought. The rules state that senior birches are for those thirteen and above but, with a little trimming, no one is going to notice and the heavier implement will make them smart more. Besides old Wainwright will be too busy comforting them and stroking their hair and the inspector, well, the inspector will have his eyes glued on their naked behinds. He always does.

 

Constable Wainwright

Colefax knows why I care for these lads being birched, or some of them anyway. They aren’t all naturally bad boys, especially the younger ones. Just broke the rules and had to pay the consequences. I don’t disagree. A short sharp shock to their behinds will, hopefully, put them on the straight and narrow and stop them getting into even more serious trouble later on. Trouble that can lead to prison or worse. If a hard birch applied vigorously to a soft bare bottom can stop that then it is worth it. I should know, as forty years ago it happened to me. I was eleven and a right little bugger. Got involved with some bad kids and went on a spate of vandalism. We all got caught and we all got sentenced to the birch. In those days the maximum was thirty six strokes as the officer looking after us relished in telling. I suppose I was lucky. The magistrate sentenced me to eight. I can still remember it and even though I wailed throughout I don’t resent it or hold a grudge against the burly policeman who did it. I told Colefax one day, some time ago, seeing him in action often reminds me of the day I got my own arse whacked.

I had been put in a small cell on my own, waiting for the doctor they said. Need to make sure that little arse is up for it. I still remember the constable who grinned maliciously as he said it. I think that is when my sniffling started. I was scared, alone, and about to be whacked with a birch on my bare bum. Experiences do not come much more traumatic. I think the doc sensed it and examined me quickly. He pulled my pants down and told me to lift my shirt. Being a dutiful boy, generally, I did as I was told and he checked me out. Perfectly fit for your birching boy, he said, I have no reason not to authorise it. I reckon I must have blubbed again as he told me to pull up my pants. As he left the burly policemen who had relished telling me I could get as many as thirty six summoned me out of the room and marched me down a long corridor. Not dissimilar to the layout at our police station.

I shall never forget the awesome sight which met my eyes and it is in the remembering of that frightening picture that makes me evoke some sympathy for today’s lads suffering a similar plight. They deserve birching I tell myself and, frankly, so did I. But I didn’t think so at the time. I was scared and the tears, never far away, started to flow. The first thing I saw, opposite the door, was the curved dark leather birching block. Very similar to ours. Standing one side of it was a tall policeman with lots of flashy buttons on his tunic and the frock coated doctor who had pulled my pants down for a cursory inspection. But it was the man on the other side, the left, who drew my attention. He was at least twice the size of me and had thick and glistening arms. I knew that because he wasn’t wearing his policeman’s jacket and his white rolled up shirtsleeves contrasted with the flesh displayed. And in his right hand he held the most vicious looking weapon I had ever seen. The long and thin birch rod, far thinner than I expected it to be, tapping menacingly against his left palm. And destined for my behind. I trembled, legs shaking so much I thought I would collapse. The flashy buttoned man read out the charge and the sentence and ordered the policeman behind me to prepare me. Eight strokes of the birch, he said, to his bare posterior and I trust, we all trust, he will learn his lesson. None of the cringing inappropriate comments our inspector blurts out. Just we hope he will learn his lesson. As he said it the man behind me pushed me forward to the bench and, at that moment, I knew that the lesson was about to be learnt in the most painful and humiliating way.

The next five minutes were seared both on my backside and my memory forever, at least the memory. I shall never forget it. Hands were quickly tied either side of the birching block and a thick leather strap was drawn across my back and roughly tightened. Within a couple of minutes I was held firm and prone. The curve of the bench, well designed, holding me in just the right position. I was sniffling really loudly by this time and those sniffles increased when PC thirty six strokes, I still remember him as that, roughly pulled up my shirt and tucked it into strap across my waist. And then, seconds later, his rough hands grabbed at the waist of my trousers, fortunately very loose, and pulled them down to my knees. I had no under drawers and my nudity was instantly displayed for all to see. As all boys do in such circumstances, I instantly squeezed my cheeks together desperately trying to reduce the size. I heard him snigger and in that moment I think I hated him even more than the burly policeman who held the birch.

When you are ready sergeant, the inspector said, eight strokes of the birch. I sniffled again and three seconds later I wailed. The first stroke of the weapon registered when I first entered the room, connected with my upturned bare behind. I have never forgotten it, not the sting or the pain. And I never forgot the next seven which relentlessly followed at a few seconds intervals. It must all have been over within a couple of minutes but during it, and long after, I seemed to wail and howl for England. The burning pain in my bum was incredible and I rose stiffly and sobbingly subdued when they released me. I recovered, as lads do, but apart from the birching I took away two abiding memories. The malicious minder who had marched me down and roughly spread me on the birching block, sniggered again as he untied. A nice well thrashed arse, he said, pity it was limited to eight. He said it softly, but with relish, and I doubt if anyone else heard. I was still on the block, trousers still down at my knees, somehow unable to readily move, when my chastiser came near. Get up lad, he said, all over and you took it well. And he gently ruffled my hair as I gingerly rose. But it has to be done, you’ll realise that one day.

I wasn’t sure I agreed with him then or even later. My bum was burning too much for that and I had the scars for weeks. But strangely the only real bit of kindness I had been shown in that room came from the man who thrashed my arse. I told Sgt Colefax all this sometime ago, trying to explain why as much as I approve of lads being birched when deserved, it should be done with kindness not cruelty. He just laughed. You are a strange bugger Wainwright and the strangest thing is that the sergeant who birched you could have been my granddad. He was a lovely man, he said, but a serious disciplinarian with anyone who strayed. He laughed again. I think he rather liked the idea.

 

 

Sgt Colefax

Well I must say I enjoyed that. Given that we were running late there was only ten minutes between the two birchings. Two very pleasant young arses, two very pleasant birchings. Doesn’t do to show too much enthusiasm, professionalism is the key, and old empathetic Wainwright oversees things much better than the inspector. He was his usual cringing self. I mean, take the first lad. Fresh faced blonde youngster with the fear of God in him. Thought he was going to wet his pants when he saw the bench and me standing beside it. Birch in hand. The modified adult one I intended to use. Wainwright did his usual considerate job in putting him on the bench and pulling his trousers down so lovingly I thought this man is getting even softer. Inspector broke the mood. He really is a prat. Well Mr Colefax, he said when the pants were pulled down, I think that is the nicest bottom we have had all day. I trust your eight strokes, delivered with your usual style, will make this young lad regret it. He looks made for the birch. I had to agree, a rich and creamy arse so pronounced you could hardly miss, but why does that inspector prat have to put it into words. Think what you like , I do but can’t talk for Wainwright, but amplifying it is stupid. Having said that, boy did I enjoy the first birch stroke across that delectable arse. The lad winced and gasped with pleasurable aplomb. I said I enjoyed my job.

He had steeled himself for it. You can tell. As I lay the birch twigs across the centre of his behind the twitching stopped and he went very silent. This is it the lad must have thought. I am going to be birched, on my bare bum. Hold your breath, keep still and it might not happen. It did. I lashed the birch down with all my might and he gasped and squirmed as much as if I had hit him with burning candles. Perhaps that is what it felt like. I placed the birch across his behind a second time and again he stilled and held his breath and, strangely, seemed slightly to raise himself. Almost offering what the inspector thought of as the nicest bottom of the birching day. I raised my arm to its fullest height and lashed down the second stroke across the same central area of the naked cheeks. And for a second time he gasped and squirmed and then stilled when I rested the twigs on him again. It went on like that for all eight strokes, almost a ritual dance between arse and birch rod. First the gasping and squirming when I struck, and then the stillness and silence and raising of his bum when the rod rested on his nether cheeks for the next stroke. A fascinating, unfamiliar, ritual. I can usually deliver eight strokes in less than two minutes; this young lad took me nearly five. But it was worth it, nasty red stripes covered his entire backside by the last and the gasping, not surprisingly, turned to sobs. But after that last stroke he once again went still and even after Wainwright removed the restraining straps he still lay there. Shirt up his back, trousers around his knees, lacerated bare bottom kissing the air. Still, silent, unmoving. Good birching, strange lad.

 

 

 

Constable Wainwright

I reckon the first of the two twelve year old birchings unnerved old Colefax a little. Never seen him like that before. Reckon it affected the second one, that boy was dealt with so quickly he hardly had time to get his trousers down. Howled through all his eight strokes and was in and out of the birching room within about five minutes. But the blonde lad, well that was different. Inspector couldn’t resist making a comment as we were all leaving. Good days work Colefax, and you Wainwright, very good days work. That blonde chappie bit of a strange one though. Only twelve, but if I didn’t know different I would say he was almost enjoying it. Do you know different inspector, I thought. Doubt it. We get all sorts in here and one or two of them seem to take it in their stride. Rarely from Colefax though and usually a bit older than the blonde lad. He looked scared to death when they brought him in but I noticed a change as I tied him to the bench. He was still struggling a bit but he seemed to relax when I pulled his trousers down. Almost, and I say this carefully, almost as if he was conditioned to it. And when Mr Colefax laid that birch, bloody convinced it was an adult one, across him he went still as a duck pond and raised himself up. Offering himself. It went on like that throughout. Colefax was definitely spooked by it. Didn’t stop him whacking the arse as hard as he possibly could and getting a few howls and gasps into the bargain. But spooked all the same. Especially as no matter how hard he lashed his birch rod into that pleasing behind it still raised itself, dutifully, for the next one. Like a well trained dog who regularly gets whipped. And I became even more convinced that this lad both took and accepted beatings stoically, if not pleasurably, after it was over. He lay still on the bench for an age, pants round knees and red wealed backside in the air, no desire to get up or get dressed. I had to nudge him. Strange lad, strange birching. And as he left, still sobbing a bit because it clearly hurt, he said something even stranger. Thank you sir, he said to Mr Colefax, my father would approve, you beat so well. It is the first time ever that I have seen the inspector lost for words.

 

 

The Inspector

A most satisfactory day, some excellent birching, and some excellent backsides. Two in particular. There is something very satisfying in seeing Mr Wainwright strap the boys down and bare their bottoms. And it amuses me to see the reactions. Bottoms of all shapes and sizes quivering and twitching in anticipation of what is to come. And do those bottoms wriggle when Mr Colefax gets to work. An expert wielder of the birch. I think it was a piece of administrative genius when I paired him and Constable Wainwright together. Much my best team in these matters. Wainwright gentle and sympathetic and Colefax stern and eager. One comforts and the other concerns. And I think they appreciate my little comments. When a boy’s bottom is pleasing, as some surprisingly are, it does not hurt to mention it. I think it puts everyone at their ease. Except the boy being birched of course. That would never do.

 

Alfred Roy (2020)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Monday 18 October 2021

My Post Lockdown Visit to Mistress Sapphire

Had promised myself this treat through all the dreary months of Lockdown, self isolating, and social distancing. The vaccination programme gave me the courage. And much needed therapy after a few traumatic months that had seen the loss of both my favourite brother and his lovely son. As Miss Sapphire, lovely lady, said as she pulled down my pants, perhaps they are watching. A nice thought that made us both laugh. And I had not done that for months. Alfred Roy

So this is it. After nearly two years, double vaccinated, I am making a long overdue visit to a favourite lady. In those two lockdown years I have missed this indulgence more than practically anything. To have my pants taken down and be whacked on the bare behind by a dominant mature lady is still sheer heaven. Or at least the anticipation of it is. But hardly surprising that nerves kick in as I near my destination. When you have not had a cane strike into your backside in earnest for so long you wonder if the shock and pain will subvert the pleasure. Will endorphins serenely float or will you finally decide that such indulgences are no longer for you.

I am well prepared. White rugby shorts, pale blue jumper and matching pale blue underpants. Change and present the erstwhile schoolboy. Chastisement needs to be bearable to begin with, hence the rugby shorts, comfortably thick, and a second layer underneath. Usually I wear fairly thin grey schoolboy trousers. Not this time, much padding is the order of the day. The lady is very understanding, senses the nervousness and the long absence. Checks my attire, approves, and says that she thinks she will start with a gentle spanking. Over her knee. A little bizarre but not that gentle. This is schoolboy punishment after all.

After a pleasant five minutes things start to get serious and I bend over her impressive leather bench, or horse if you like, for a well overdue introduction to a hefty strap. The first ten or so whacked into my pristine white rugby shorts and created a pleasing warming glow. The next twenty were with those pristine shorts removed and strap applied with vigour to my tight pale blue underpants. These made me squirm a little but were just about bearable to a bottom deprived for so long of such sensations. Getting warm in the rear I steeled myself as she took those underpants down. A heavenly indescribable feeling that those of the disciplinary faith totally understand.

This was now it, what I had waited for and wanted for so long. A heavy strap lashing into my bare and willing backside. A divine feeling, helpless, naked from the waist down, submissive. And a dominant lady raising her leather strap to blister a bottom that both welcomed and relished. It was heaven. I did not want her to stop. I reckon she lashed that strap onto my naked cheeks at least fifty or sixty times. I could have taken more. At least a hundred. But we were both exhausted. I rose, rubbed my burning bottom, smiled thankfully and pulled up my pants and shorts. Still pristine. A short respite. And then the cane. The final curtain from this long lockdown wait. I reckoned I was now ready.

Ready for my Edgware lady. Mistress Sapphire, one of the best in the business if not the best. Put her on the National Health and many of us would not need tablets. And now she held that cane. Not too thick, not too thin. Shiny and threatening. I was nervously ready to bend over that leather bench again. A warm up twenty or so over the rugby shorts, they stung, and a further twenty or so on the gleaming and tight blue underpants. And they stung even more, but I was now in the zone. I could not wait for her to pull those underpants down, and bare behind beckon for the ultimate caning. And I told her to do it hard. The endorphins were surging and feeling the raised ridges on my lacerated bottom I was eager for the final act. A sixty stroke therapy, a la the Leicester Governess, was the requested finale. And Miss Sapphire delivered them in spades. Five at a time, twelve sets, her maths are good. I spread my legs, underpants long pulled off, and shamefully exposed my private bits. I cared not, I cared only for the final lashing cuts of an Edgware cane. My bottom was desperate and I was conscious of keenly raising it to meet each rapturous stroke. Harder, harder, it was saying, whack me to a burning and long desired posterior fire. She did, and when I rose both feeling the burn and floating at its effect I was in that longed for blissful state of disciplined serenity. It had been a long wait but my Lockdown caning was well worth it. A bottom on sensuous fire is a pleasure that should not be denied.

Later on, spent and dressed, we chatted over the traditional tea and biscuits before I left. On my warming car drive home I vowed it would not be too long before I lowered my pants for her again. It makes all those vaccine jabs worthwhile.

 

 

Saturday 24 July 2021

The Importance of Beating Earnest - Summer 1932 -Spanking excerpt


The recently posted story is pretty long so I thought you might like a taster to see if it appeals. It certainly appeals to me, as being spanked by a dominant lady on my bare bottom is still one of my abiding pleasures. It happens to Earnest in the summer of 1932 and all else that follows in the full story emanates from this defining moment. Pants down opportunities in Lockdown are few and far between. May my imagination compensate. Alfred Roy

‘What you did was reprehensible, Earnest.’

‘She asked for it.’

‘She did not ask to be kicked. There is no excuse.’

‘She annoyed me.’

‘And you, Earnest, showed a temper. A very childish temper.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll go and apologise.’

‘You certainly will.’

‘Yes.’

‘After I have dealt with you.’

‘Sorry?’

‘After I have dealt with you. You were very childish, Earnest, and as such you will be punished as a child.’

‘What?’

‘You will be punished as a child would be punished Earnest. Am I making myself clear?’

‘No.’

‘I am going to spank you. Spank you for kicking your sister. And after I have done so you can go and apologise to her. Now, take down your trousers.’

And, saying this, she stood up and I saw and sensed her full height and the severity of her demeanour.

She had meant what she said.

 

My mind was in turmoil. A woman I had not known less than a week before was proposing to take down my trousers and spank me. No, she wasn’t proposing, she was going to do it. I sensed it in her eyes and her stern expression. I stood frozen to the spot, letting the unfamiliar words sink in. My mother had never spanked me, not that I can ever remember, even though she had occasionally threatened both Holly and me. And our father, regularly absent on diplomatic trips abroad, considered it a distasteful task best left to the boarding school pedagogues. Or so he told me on the rare occasions when I displeased him. But my school used a cane or strap and I, mercifully, had suffered only the latter and only once. Three strokes, bending down, for inattention in a Latin class. A spanking, especially from a woman, especially with my trousers down, was to be an alien experience.

 

‘I have never been spanked. Can’t you just stop my pocket money?’

‘I could, but you need, in my opinion, a harsher lesson.’

‘What if I refuse?’

‘Refuse what, Earnest?’

‘Refuse to let you spank me.’

‘You can’t.’

‘Or refuse to take down my trousers.’

‘Then I shall do it for you.’

‘You have no right.’

‘I have every right. I have your mother’s permission.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Believe what you wish Earnest, but if you do not take down your trousers this minute it will be the worse for you.’

‘But I have never been spanked.’

‘Then it is time you were, this afternoon shows it is richly deserved and overdue.’

‘Please miss, let me off.’

‘Earnest, trousers down. Now.’

 

The last instruction, her first sign of anger, cut off my tearful pleading. As I fumbled with the belt of my short summer trousers, she pulled out the chair and sat down in it again. Standing to the right of her I saw her smooth her skirt and pat her knee. The indication was clear. I was to be spanked as a small boy, even though I had just turned twelve. The shame of this realisation coupled with the dropping of my shorts to my ankles increased my distress and I started to blub even more. I pleaded with her again to let me off but her answer was to pull me towards her by my left arm and up end me over her lap. It was a strange position I had never been in before. I saw the carpet rising up to meet my lowering face, I felt the warmth of her body on my waist, and I experienced her lifting and positioning me so that my bottom was exactly where she wanted it to be. If I had any doubt about being spanked this was the moment when it deserted me. And strangely it was also the moment when I seemed to calm a little. Faced with the inevitable I had to steel myself for this new and unfamiliar experience. I took deep breaths and waited for her to begin. For a moment she did nothing, clearly looking at my prone figure and determining her action, or so I thought. Everywhere seemed to be so quiet, as if the birds had stopped singing, the wind cease blowing, and my sister stopping play. The latter, I later discovered, was certainly true. In the stillness I held my breath, ceased the incipient tears, and irrationally thought if I kept very quiet she would forget I was there. Forget I was over her knee, trousers down at ankles, bottom in the air, waiting to be spanked. As I said, an irrational thought killed by a sudden recommencement of action. And with hindsight I should have known. I felt her soft hands on my small summer top, lifting it up my back and then those same hands and fingers inserting themselves into the waist of my underpants and deftly pulling them down. All the way to my knees, both front and back. I sensed my nakedness. I sensed my small penis pressing into her skirt and I sensed the summer air on my now exposed bottom. All this happened in a moment and then those hands touched my bottom cheeks, almost exploring, and I gritted my teeth and screwed up my eyes. And then the left hand tightened at my waist and the right hand firmly slapped into my naked right cheek. I was being spanked for the first time and Miss Prudence Cavell, Aunt Prudence, was determined to make sure I remembered it. I was getting it on my bare bottom.

 

I do not know how long I was over her knee. Probably no more than five minutes, but in that five minutes I suffered the most painful experience that my small behind had ever endured. Aunt Prudence spanked with a vigour and a will and left not an inch of my naked bottom untouched. She only used her hand but it was a hand rich in expertise at finding the most tender flesh. Only my bottom and the uppermost part of my thighs felt her relentless sting but, much as I tried to anticipate, I never knew where she would strike next. After the first twenty or so I was in tears and pleading for her to stop but this only seemed to will her on to even harder slaps and by the time I had received another thirty or so those tears were practically exhausted and involuntary blubs and sobs had taken their place. Suddenly the smacks from her avenging palm got harder and slower and I both sensed and hoped that my spanking was coming to an end. Eventually it did, with two resounding slaps to each bare cheek, and in the silence that followed I could hear her breathing hard. I made no attempt to rise and she made no attempt to make me do so. I just lay there, exhausted and semi naked across her lap, as a calming influence came over both of us. My bottom was on fire with a burning and throbbing alien to my senses and my mind was still in turmoil from the whole experience. But gradually a warmth came over, a warmth which translated into an emotional feeling for my chastiser. Even whilst still over her knee I wanted to get up and kiss her and say thank you. Thank you for spanking me. Perhaps she sensed it, for after what seemed no more than a few seconds she gently tapped my scorched cheeks and bid me rise. The spanking was over.

 

The Importance of Beating Earnest (F/m) - Summer 1932 - Winter 1999

 This is a long story and was written during a period when I was waiting to say goodbye to my lovely elder brother. He would understand, it was a distraction needed at a traumatic time. If you liked the taster, posted above, then hopefully you will enjoy Earnest's journey. Alfred Roy

The Importance of Beating Earnest. (Summer 1932 – Winter 1999)

 

Summer 1932

 

I shall never forget my Aunt Prudence. She wasn’t really my aunt but that is what I later called her. She was more of a governess, first employed by my mother one summer for some reason I have forgotten. I was about twelve and my sister, Holly, was two years older. We lived in a large house in the coastal town of Lyme Regis and during that particular summer my mother was away for a few weeks, some relative had died I think, and Prudence Cavell was employed to look after us. Only a jobbing gardener and his cook housekeeper wife, both in their sixties, lived in the grounds of our house and were not considered suitable chaperones. Miss Cavell had come highly recommended by my mother’s sister. Thinking about it I think it was her who had died, but it is all so long ago I cannot be sure. I have forgotten the details. But I have not forgotten Aunt Prudence, as I prefer to call her. I haven’t forgotten her because about a week after my mother went away she spanked me. And it was no ordinary spanking.

I had been playing in the garden with my sister when she did or said something that angered me. Again I cannot remember what but I remember kicking her and her howl was almost instantly followed by a call from Aunt Prudence. My name, Earnest, rang out in stentorian tones. I had been seen and I was in trouble. I knew that. Aunt Prudence struck both Holly and me as pretty stern and house rules had been studiously laid down by both my mother and her. They did not bother us too much as we were both boarding school pupils and were used to petty and not so petty regulations. And we could circumvent most of them. And, besides, Prudence Cavell wasn’t an ogre and mild transgressions were amusingly tolerated. But this wasn’t mild, I had kicked my sister, and making my way into the house I knew that I was going to get a strict telling off. Or so I thought.

We were in the large living room which overlooked the garden and Aunt Prudence was sitting at a window table writing a letter. This was the 1930’s and people did such old fashioned things in those days. She was an elegant woman. Slim, quite tall, and with a pleasing face framed by short burnt ginger hair. At the time I would have said she was about forty years of age, young boys have little idea of such details, but later in life I realised that she could not have been more than twenty eight. She continued writing her letter and calmly told me to stand and wait until she had finished. There was an edge to her voice which I had rarely heard and I steeled myself for a long and boring lecture. After what seemed an age she put her pen down and turned to me.

 

‘What you did was reprehensible, Earnest.’

‘She asked for it.’

‘She did not ask to be kicked. There is no excuse.’

‘She annoyed me.’

‘And you, Earnest, showed a temper. A very childish temper.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll go and apologise.’

‘You certainly will.’

‘Yes.’

‘After I have dealt with you.’

‘Sorry?’

‘After I have dealt with you. You were very childish, Earnest, and as such you will be punished as a child.’

‘What?’

‘You will be punished as a child would be punished Earnest. Am I making myself clear?’

‘No.’

‘I am going to spank you. Spank you for kicking your sister. And after I have done so you can go and apologise to her. Now, take down your trousers.’

And, saying this, she stood up and I saw and sensed her full height and the severity of her demeanour.

She had meant what she said.

 

My mind was in turmoil. A woman I had not known less than a week before was proposing to take down my trousers and spank me. No, she wasn’t proposing, she was going to do it. I sensed it in her eyes and her stern expression. I stood frozen to the spot, letting the unfamiliar words sink in. My mother had never spanked me, not that I can ever remember, even though she had occasionally threatened both Holly and me. And our father, regularly absent on diplomatic trips abroad, considered it a distasteful task best left to the boarding school pedagogues. Or so he told me on the rare occasions when I displeased him. But my school used a cane or strap and I, mercifully, had suffered only the latter and only once. Three strokes, bending down, for inattention in a Latin class. A spanking, especially from a woman, especially with my trousers down, was to be an alien experience.

 

‘I have never been spanked. Can’t you just stop my pocket money?’

‘I could, but you need, in my opinion, a harsher lesson.’

‘What if I refuse?’

‘Refuse what, Earnest?’

‘Refuse to let you spank me.’

‘You can’t.’

‘Or refuse to take down my trousers.’

‘Then I shall do it for you.’

‘You have no right.’

‘I have every right. I have your mother’s permission.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Believe what you wish Earnest, but if you do not take down your trousers this minute it will be the worse for you.’

‘But I have never been spanked.’

‘Then it is time you were, this afternoon shows it is richly deserved and overdue.’

‘Please miss, let me off.’

‘Earnest, trousers down. Now.’

 

The last instruction, her first sign of anger, cut off my tearful pleading. As I fumbled with the belt of my short summer trousers, she pulled out the chair and sat down in it again. Standing to the right of her I saw her smooth her skirt and pat her knee. The indication was clear. I was to be spanked as a small boy, even though I had just turned twelve. The shame of this realisation coupled with the dropping of my shorts to my ankles increased my distress and I started to blub even more. I pleaded with her again to let me off but her answer was to pull me towards her by my left arm and up end me over her lap. It was a strange position I had never been in before. I saw the carpet rising up to meet my lowering face, I felt the warmth of her body on my waist, and I experienced her lifting and positioning me so that my bottom was exactly where she wanted it to be. If I had any doubt about being spanked this was the moment when it deserted me. And strangely it was also the moment when I seemed to calm a little. Faced with the inevitable I had to steel myself for this new and unfamiliar experience. I took deep breaths and waited for her to begin. For a moment she did nothing, clearly looking at my prone figure and determining her action, or so I thought. Everywhere seemed to be so quiet, as if the birds had stopped singing, the wind cease blowing, and my sister stopping play. The latter, I later discovered, was certainly true. In the stillness I held my breath, ceased the incipient tears, and irrationally thought if I kept very quiet she would forget I was there. Forget I was over her knee, trousers down at ankles, bottom in the air, waiting to be spanked. As I said, an irrational thought killed by a sudden recommencement of action. And with hindsight I should have known. I felt her soft hands on my small summer top, lifting it up my back and then those same hands and fingers inserting themselves into the waist of my underpants and deftly pulling them down. All the way to my knees, both front and back. I sensed my nakedness. I sensed my small penis pressing into her skirt and I sensed the summer air on my now exposed bottom. All this happened in a moment and then those hands touched my bottom cheeks, almost exploring, and I gritted my teeth and screwed up my eyes. And then the left hand tightened at my waist and the right hand firmly slapped into my naked right cheek. I was being spanked for the first time and Miss Prudence Cavell, Aunt Prudence, was determined to make sure I remembered it. I was getting it on my bare bottom.

 

I do not know how long I was over her knee. Probably no more than five minutes, but in that five minutes I suffered the most painful experience that my small behind had ever endured. Aunt Prudence spanked with a vigour and a will and left not an inch of my naked bottom untouched. She only used her hand but it was a hand rich in expertise at finding the most tender flesh. Only my bottom and the uppermost part of my thighs felt her relentless sting but, much as I tried to anticipate, I never knew where she would strike next. After the first twenty or so I was in tears and pleading for her to stop but this only seemed to will her on to even harder slaps and by the time I had received another thirty or so those tears were practically exhausted and involuntary blubs and sobs had taken their place. Suddenly the smacks from her avenging palm got harder and slower and I both sensed and hoped that my spanking was coming to an end. Eventually it did, with two resounding slaps to each bare cheek, and in the silence that followed I could hear her breathing hard. I made no attempt to rise and she made no attempt to make me do so. I just lay there, exhausted and semi naked across her lap, as a calming influence came over both of us. My bottom was on fire with a burning and throbbing alien to my senses and my mind was still in turmoil from the whole experience. But gradually a warmth came over, a warmth which translated into an emotional feeling for my chastiser. Even whilst still over her knee I wanted to get up and kiss her and say thank you. Thank you for spanking me. Perhaps she sensed it, for after what seemed no more than a few seconds she gently tapped my scorched cheeks and bid me rise. The spanking was over.

 

I was a bit subdued for the rest of the day but like most young boys of the time I soon recovered. I was a bit nonplussed when my sister told me she had witnessed it all, or most of it through the garden window. Had heard the smacking and, curious at the sounds, arrived in time to see my bare bottom in the air getting the last thirty or so slaps. Fascinating she said and giggled. I wished her a similar experience, sadly never to come, and went to my room to reflect. Now that the burning had calmed down the after effect was not unpleasant and that, coupled with a rekindling of a picture of me over Miss Cavell’s knee, shorts and underpants adrift, played with my emotions. If I had no desire for a repeat I equally had no fear of it. As it happened I did get a repeat whacking from her but it was of a very different form and with a weapon much more fearsome than her palm. Three weeks after that unexpected bare bottom spanking Miss Prudence Cavell, my aunt Prudence as I now fondly remember her, caned me. A week later my mother returned home and I was not to see her again for two years. But she was constantly in my mind.

 

Summer 1934 – Part One

 

Looking back I am now convinced that Miss Cavell had a completely different approach to girls and boys. No matter what trouble my sister Holly got into she never received more than a mild disapproval of her conduct. The worst punishment she got, for staying out late one evening, was to be confined to her room the following day. And she was never threatened with anything else. I, following that sudden spanking, was conversely threatened at every turn. Behave Earnest, you know what happened last week, was a constant retort when I displeased. Allright, I was only twelve and my sister was a developing fourteen year old but that did not really explain it. I reckon my mother had said that she could smack my bottom if needed, a thing she had never done, but did not extend that rule to Holly. I ruminated on all this when my mother informed us that Miss Cavell was coming back for a few weeks this second summer. She was going to join our father on one of his many diplomatic trips and given the successful previous visit was happy to employ our governess again. After all, neither Holly nor I had complained about her. Quite the contrary, my mother enthused, you were full of praise for her. Surprisingly that was true, even though a few days before she had left Miss Prudence Cavell had given me a second taste of her disciplinary powers. If my mother had arrived home the same or following day I would probably have pleaded with her to never employ the woman again. But by the time she did arrive home six more days had passed and my experience had moved from exceedingly painful and humiliating to pleasant and confusing physical and emotional warmth. And now she was coming back.

 

She had waited until Holly was out. The gardener and his housekeeper wife had taken her to Sidmouth for the day. I thought I was going with them but Miss Cavell declined. Earnest is in trouble, she said, he can stay here for the day but you can take him as well the next time you go. I knew I was in trouble and, naively, thought this was to be my punishment. The spanking long forgotten. Two days earlier I had been brought home by the local police. A local Lyme Regis boy and myself had been caught stealing fruit from a market stall. We had done it before, mainly out of devilment and boredom, and the stallholder was getting wise to it. He tried to grab us and in our eagerness to escape we knocked over one of his wheelbarrows and a variety of vegetables cascaded down the street. The local bobby, apprised of the possibility by the stallholder, saw all and grabbed the pair of us before we had gone too far. The stallholder, a reasonable man, had no wish to press charges even though he was a bit miffed at having to rescue his sprawling vegetables. The bobby took us both to our respective homes and suggested, both to my pal’s father and to our ageing gardener, that warmed backsides would not come amiss. They all grinned and I and my friend sheepishly joined in. It was clear later that Miss Cavell had been informed of the situation but she said nothing, either then or the following day, and I assumed all was forgotten until the denial of a Sidmouth trip. And, much later, a call to join her in the garden living room. As on a previous memorable occasion she was sitting at the window table but not, as before, writing a letter.

 

‘I think it is time we settled this problem, Earnest.’

‘What problem, Miss Cavell?’

‘Do not be obtuse, Earnest, you know exactly what problem I mean.’

‘The market stall?’

‘Yes. And how to deal with it.’

‘I thought you had, Miss.’

‘How?’

‘By stopping me going to Sidmouth for the day.’

‘You think that is enough?’

‘Yes.’

‘A little unfair on your friend, do you not think.’

‘Why?’

‘I saw his father yesterday and we chatted about it. We both thought the stallholder was very lenient with you both.’

‘Yes.’

‘He could have pressed charges.’

‘Yes.’

‘Which would have been very distressing.’

‘Yes.’

‘For all of us. Not least your mother.’

‘You don’t have to tell my mother, do you?’

‘No, but I would have if you had been taken to a juvenile court. As it is your friend’s father dealt with the matter himself. And I intend to do the same.’

 

When she suddenly stood up I had an inkling of where this was going. We were alone in the house, in the very room where I had received my unexpected spanking. She was dressed in the same dark blouse and tight fitting skirt that she had worn that day. The same burnt ginger hair framed the same pleasing face but the dark eyes, usually so friendly, had a determined and frightening look. She towered over me, or seemed to in that moment, and I became very conscious of my small frame and my thick dark blue summer shorts. It was then that my stomach began to churn.

 

‘Your friend smarted profusely under his father’s strap and will probably not be able to sit comfortably for a while. Unfortunately I do not have a strap, otherwise you would definitely feel it Earnest.’

‘Yes, I suppose so, Miss.’

‘So I will have to consider alternatives.’

‘Are you, are you, going to spank me again?’

‘Good heavens no. This is far too serious for that. I understand from your friend’s father that the strapping consisted of a good two dozen across his son’s bare behind. He is probably still crying. Deservedly so. To spank you, in my opinion, would be practically to let you off.’

 

Remembering my previous experience I did not think so but was not prepared to say. I sensed that things were getting serious.

 

‘I do not have a strap, but fortunately I do have a cane. It is time you felt it, young man. And do not protest, I think you know that when I make up my mind it is not deflected. Bend over that armchair.’

 

Three things registered with me in that moment. We were alone, conspired and arranged, in the room where I had first experienced Miss Cavell’s disciplinary powers. Echoes of bare bottom in the air, over her knee, zapped my brain. The chair, incongruously in the centre of the room, registered its significance for the first time, and on the table I finally saw the cane. Long and smooth and brown, it had been there all the while but only now did I see it. She picked it up and I started to cry.

 

‘I said bend over, Earnest. Do not keep me waiting or it will be the worst for you.’

‘Please Miss, I am sorry.’

‘Of course you are, and you will be even sorrier after your caning. Six on your shorts and the rest, as I decide, more severe.’

 

The words, threatening, reduced me to further tears and I bent over the back of the upholstered chair, as instructed, and gripped the arms. Resistance was useless. We both knew that. I was about to be caned and I knew not how many or in what state.

 

I was very soon to find out.

 

My tears were now flowing copiously and this was before I was caned. I screwed up my eyes, gripped onto the chairs side, and waited. I had never been caned, either at home or school, and had no idea how much it would hurt. All I knew was that my bottom was in the air and was soon to feel incredible pain. Or so I thought. And, how, I was not wrong. The cane tapped on to my trouser seat and Miss Cavell informed that I would get six and she expected me to take them without rising. I muttered something, I do not know what, and my response was instantly followed by a resounding thwack across my behind. The pain stung so much I was tempted to rise and beg forgiveness. There was a burning in my behind that I can only describe as excruciating. And that swipe, instantly followed by two more induced howls and discomfort. How I stayed in place I will never know. But I did. Six strokes she had said, only three more to go, and if I absorbed all without rising then maybe, just maybe, I shall receive some sort of approbation. How strange to feel such thoughts when your backside is being lacerated. And lacerated it was. The three that followed cut into my short covered behind, both high and low, and I howled even more. But I did not rise. I only did so, when sobbing and contrite and pleading, she said I could get up. But only to lower my shorts and underpants. I was to get twelve more, she said, on my bare behind. Be thankful, Earnest, she said, if this was a strap rather than a cane you would get twenty four. I wailed.

 

‘Please Miss’

‘Lower your shorts, Earnest.’

‘Please Miss, let me keep them on.’

‘No, Earnest. It would not be fair on your friend. Lower your shorts.’

 

I did so reluctantly, still sobbing.

 

‘And your underpants, please. Right down.’

 

I did as she bid. I knew there was no point in arguing with her anymore. My bottom was aching from the first six of the cane and now, I knew, I had twelve more to come. On my bare behind. My pants came down slowly, revealing everything below my waist. I did not care that she saw this, I was only twelve, but I did care about the cane in her hand and what it was shortly to do. I rubbed my sore bottom and turned to glance at her, pleading eyes saying please do not hurt me. Or not too much. I somehow knew it would be a futile plea. She was tapping the cane impatiently against her thigh, eager to continue my chastisement. I sobbed again, almost wailed I think, and opened my mouth as if to issue one final begging to be let off.

 

‘Bend over the chair, Earnest. Do not keep me waiting and then this will soon be over.’

 

I gulped and slowly did as I was told. I grip tightly onto the arms of the chair, trying to take comfort from the soft upholstery. I sensed her step towards me and lift my summer top, a pale blue cotton, away from my naked behind. I equally sensed her assessing that naked target area for her unrelenting cane. Hold still, she said, as she tapped it against my bottom. I steeled myself and inwardly sobbed again, an involuntary signal that I was ready. As ready as I ever would be. There is a moment when being caned, especially in this sort of situation, when time seems to stand still. A moment when all breath is held and the action frozen in time. And then the cane swoops down, lands emphatically across the arched and perversely welcoming backside, and leaves a weal and a sting that transmits to both bottom and brain a fiery pain that engulfs the senses. Broken only by the ensuing scream. I howled and wriggled when that first stroke struck into me. The fire was corrosive, the throb and sting all embracing. I wriggled and howled again. It did not deflect my chastiser. She brought the cane down again with a vicious swing and as it connected in a similar place to the first I howled even more and by the sixth, I could take no more, I rose, pleading and sobbing for reprieve. I clutched my bottom, sore and tender and on fire with ridges I could feel were inches high. My shorts and pants were at my feet and I begged for forgiveness. I must have made a sorry figure.

 

She looked at me, calmly, waiting for me to regain my composure, if such a thing was possible.

 

‘Take them right off Earnest. Take off your shorts and underpants. They get in the way.’

‘Please Miss, please Miss Cavell, don’t cane me anymore. Please let me off.’

‘No, Earnest, I said you were to get twelve strokes of the cane on you bare bottom and twelve strokes of the cane it will be. You only have six to go and then you will thank me.’

‘No.’

 

I wailed again.

 

‘Not now maybe, but later.’

‘I hate you.’

‘I doubt it, but I understand. But now take those shorts and pants off and bend over the armchair again for your final six. Think of your friend.’

 

I did as she bid again. You could not argue with Miss Cavell. Everything she said made sense, if only afterwards. I sobbingly pulled off my shorts and underpants and stood facing her, covered only by my summer top. I was still rubbing my behind, desperately trying to ease the sting, when I bent over for my final six. And then she said something which has remained with me for the many years of my adult life. It has remained with me because her saying it and my reaction said much about my incipient sexuality. I was only twelve but one day I would be a man. I understood none of it at the time but maturity fills in many gaps. She said, raise your bottom Earnest, raise it up so that I have a good target, and I can give you what you know you deserve and need. And I did so. In spite of my sobbing, my wailing, my protestations, my pleading to be let off, I did as she asked. I raised my lacerated bottom, six of the cane on shorts, six on bare, and silently invited the final six strokes. Higher she said, and I did, compliantly. Two in a dance of pain. One to wield and one to suffer. I screamed and howled at those last six, stroke after stroke searing lashing my naked cheeks. I writhed and wriggled but I stayed in place, absorbing every fiery sting. And when she had finished I ran from the room, clutching my burning bottom, and ascended the stairs to my bedroom and flung myself down on the bed. Cursing my tormentor and rubbing, furiously, at a behind I was convinced would never recover. I think I cried for nearly an hour.

 

She came into my room later. I think my crying had stopped. I felt her hands and some cold cream on my bottom, gently and soothingly easing my pain. I will still laying face down on my bed and I welcomed her touch. Soon be better, she said, but had to be done. And then she left. And a week later with little else said she left our house for good. Sadly missed in spite of everything. And now she was coming back and I had so many questions to ask her. I was now fourteen and I had never forgotten. Never forgot all she had done to me. I both feared and thrilled her return and understood neither emotion. All I knew was that Miss Prudence Cavell was returning and I could not wait to see her.

 

Summer 1934 – Part Two

 

‘Where did you get the cane?’

‘Why on earth do you want to know that, Earnest?’

‘Because I know you have brought it with you again.’

‘Did your friend tell you that?’

‘Yes, when I saw him yesterday.’

‘I see.’

‘He told me you had lent it to his dad.’

‘I hope it was put to good use, Earnest.’

‘It was. His dad caned him twelve times with it.’

‘Not enough, considering what he did.’

‘They were on his bare behind.’

‘I should hope so, Earnest.’

‘You still haven’t told me where you got it.’

‘And I have no intention of doing so. It is the one I brought with me two years ago. I am sure you remember that.’

‘Yes. Have you always had one?’

‘Since I became a governess, yes. Almost ten years. A very useful weapon.’

‘I know. Have you caned many people with it?’

‘You are asking too many questions, Earnest. Finish your meal and then come and help me with the washing up.’

 

I was asking too many questions. My Lyme Regis pal told me that his dad had borrowed the cane from someone and he thought it might be my governess. He had started a fire at the bottom of their garden, to roast some spuds he said, and almost burnt down their shed. The fire brigade was called and there was mayhem. I thoroughly enjoyed watching it all. I didn’t see my pal for a few days and when I did he told me how his dad had reacted. The same night, whilst the embers of the fire were still emitting faint traces of wet smoke, he had been taken to his room and whacked on his bare behind with the most vicious cane. He knew he would be punished but he thought it would be his dad’s strap, the usual weapon of choice. He was gobsmacked when his dad came into his room brandishing the cane. Borrowed this from a lady friend, he said, so drop your pants and let’s create another fire. I just knew it was Miss Cavell’s, it had to be. His dad knew that she had caned me two years before because his son had told him at the time. What I did not know, but was to find out later, that in exchange he had lent her his strap.

 

It came about quite out of the blue. Miss Cavell had been with us for about a month and apart from a couple of occasions when, frowning at some minor misdemeanour, she alluded to her disciplinary powers we had got on very well. You are not too old at fourteen to be spanked Earnest, she said a couple of times. Once when I dropped and broke a posh dinner plate whilst washing up and once, slightly more seriously, when she caught me trying one of my father’s cigarettes from a fancy case in his study. But she smiled when she issued these minor threats and I sheepishly grinned. But all in all we got on very well. She regularly took both Holly and me to the cinema and to restaurants, most enjoyable, and shopping which wasn’t. Women shopping, and Holly was now nearly a woman, is very boring to fourteen year old boys. And we often did jigsaws together in the evening and listened to music on the radio. But one evening, a particularly rainy one I seem to remember, whilst Holly and I were reading she came into the living room and told Holly to go to her bedroom and to stay there until called. I thought for a moment that Holly was in trouble but within a few moments I realised it was me. Miss Prudence Cavell had that familiar look in her eyes that, two years before, had painful consequences for me.

 

‘Well, young man?’

‘Well what?’

‘Well what, Miss Cavell.’

‘What Miss Cavell?’

‘I think you know perfectly well, Earnest. But I would like you to tell me so that I can decide how to deal with it.’

‘I don’t.’

‘I think you do and the more you prevaricate, the worse it will be. I have already spoken to your mother.’

‘My mother?’

‘Yes. She telephoned me this morning to see how things were going with you and Holly. Very well I said. Except for one pressing problem.’

‘Concerning me?’

‘Concerning you and a Mr Peabody.’

‘Oh that.’

‘Yes, Earnest, that. I think I deserve an explanation.’

‘It was nothing to do with me.’

‘Mr Peabody says there were three of you and you were trespassing.’

‘We weren’t trespassing.’

‘Oh, so you admit you were one of them.’

‘We were just mooching around. Nothing much to do in Lyme Regis when it’s cold.’

‘Mr Peabody says you were trespassing on private property. A group of flats of which he is the warden. He told you all to clear off.’

‘Which we did. Honest.’

‘I see little honesty here Earnest, not unless you tell me the rest.’

‘He threatened to shoot us. Was going to get his gun, he said. Stupid man. We just laughed. But we went.’

‘But not before doing a considerable amount of damage to his vegetable plot.’

‘Well, wouldn’t you take the quickest way out when threatened with a gun?’

‘I am asking the questions, Earnest. You answer them.’

‘There isn’t anymore.’

‘There is Earnest, and you know it. As they left two of the boys pulled down their shorts and exposed themselves to him and two middle aged ladies who had come out to see what all the fuss was about.’

‘That wasn’t me.’

‘No. It wasn’t you. Mr Peabody recognised the boy who did not pull down his shorts. But he was encouraging them and laughing. That is how I came to be told.’

‘What did my mother say?’

‘She said I should deal with the matter as I saw fit.’

 

I gulped.

 

I knew then that I was in serious trouble. I should have realised when she entered the living room wearing a similar severe looking blouse and skirt that echoed earlier unpleasant previous experiences. Usually in the evening she wore slacks and a loose top. I protested that we had only ambled around the flats, that Mr Peabody was a danger to the public, and any damage done was because he had scared us with his threat. There then followed a lecture about public schoolboys setting an example for the local youths and, far from being frightened, we were all laughing at the ridiculous man and exposing ourselves to both him and two sensitive women. Not me, I said, and not willies. It did me no good. Mr Peabody was the stallholder who had got me in trouble before and that is why he recognised me even if I thought I had changed in the two years since I overturned his wheelbarrow. Like the previous occasion he would not press charges, providing I gave the names of my companions and that, in his words, we all got a damn good thrashing and he got to see the results. I could not comply with the request to reveal names, schoolboy honour, and in not doing so I knew that the second part of his ultimatum would be doubly fulfilled.

 

‘What are you going to do?’

‘What do you expect?’

‘That you will cane me. Or spank me.’

‘Spank you? I think you are a little too old for that. Besides, that punishment would be too mild.’

‘What did my mother say?’

‘She has left it in my hands. I said I would do what is necessary.’

‘To please Mr Peabody.’

‘Do not be flippant. Earnest, it does not suit you.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I have borrowed your friend’s father’s strap. It seems to me to be appropriate. After all, he is well acquainted with it and I have no doubt he was one of the other two boys. Boys you refuse to name.’

‘I can’t.’

‘No’ I understand that. But it will not lesson your punishment. I intend to give you eighteen strokes of his strap. I have no choice. On your bare backside. So get yourself ready. You know what to expect.’

‘Must I?’

‘Yes. And then we shall have to take you round to Mr Peabody. He was insistent on that.’

 

And with that final declaration she moved to the chair, my punishment chair as I strangely thought, and placed it in the middle of the room. I moved towards it, trembling, fearful, but resigned. It was as I fumbled with the belt of my shorts, readying myself to lower them, that I saw Holly standing in the doorway. Transfixed. I paused. I thought Miss Cavell was going to send her back to her room whilst she strapped me. But for some reason she decided against it. Holly said she realised quickly why she had been sent out. She had seen my first spanking two years before, never forgotten it, and knew that I had also been caned. She could tell from my demeanour when she came home and, besides, the cane was still lying around. Almost as a message to the household. She had guessed, or more likely hoped, that it would happen again sometime during this visit. She would like to watch. I just stood by the armchair, blushing violently and keeping silent whilst my sister and our governess had the weirdest debate I have ever heard. By the time they finished talking I was crimson beetroot, breathing heavily, and on the verge of tears.

 

‘Watch, Holly?’

‘Yes, watch.’

‘Watch me give a strapping to your young brother?’

‘Yes.’

‘On his bare behind?’

‘Yes. Why not.’

‘Why not what? Why not on his bare behind, or why not allow you to watch?’

‘Both.’

‘Why would it interest you?’

‘It doesn’t, but you are going to strap him anyway. I know that, and I know you have done it twice before. I could stay in my room and imagine it all.’

‘But you don’t want to.’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘It might be worse in my mind than seeing it. I love my younger brother but I know he can be a pain. Probably deserves all he gets. Seeing you deal with him makes it more bearable.’

‘But what about Earnest? If you stay I could let him retain his shorts and underpants. Save some embarrassment.’

‘Somehow, I don’t think you would do that.’

‘No, definitely not. This will be as much for Mr Peabody as anyone. It has to be on his bare behind.’

‘Which you have seen a few times, at least twice, so Earnest must be getting used to it.’

‘I will not hold back, just because you are here. It is to be eighteen strokes of the strap and I shall be obliged if you remain still and silent whilst I administer it.’

‘I promise.’

‘It will add to Earnest’s humiliation. After all, he may not have exposed himself, but he was happy for others to do so. Knowing his sister can see his bare bottom being strapped may add to his shame.’

‘Yes.’

Earnest. Lower your shorts and bend over the chair. We have waited long enough.’

 

I was mortified. It clearly did interest my sister to see me get strapped, in spite of what she said. Her face was flushed and her eyes sparkling. I reckon Miss Cavell knew this and decided it would add to my shame especially as she would not be deflected and I was to get it on the bare behind. If I had any fervent wishes as I undid my shorts and pushed them down it was that one day I might see Holly getting the same treatment. And as I bent over the back of the chair and clung on to the arms my futile wish was that she would be devoid of knickers when it happened. Miss Cavell approached my prone position and lifted up my top. Nothing was to get in the way and I sensed this was going to really hurt. Mr Peabody wanted to see the evidence. The strap was made of thick brown leather, two strips sealed together, and was about eighteen inches long and a couple of inches wide. I knew all this because I saw it on the armchair when she had crossed to move it into position. She had just picked it up when Holly came in. It could do a lot of damage to a boy’s unprotected behind. I waited and that behind, mine, felt the underpants being pulled down. Not all the way down as when I was caned, probably because Holly was in the room, but enough to make sure both of my bottom cheeks were fully exposed. I flinched and waited. Eighteen strokes, she said, and I would not get up if I were you Earnest if you wish to avoid any extra embarrassment. Just for a second it all went quiet, Holly was clearly holding her breath, and then the strap landed right across the centre of my behind with a resounding thwack. I gasped, the pain was awesome. And then the next followed, and the next, quicker and quicker and harder and harder and I gasped and squirmed even more. Aaagh, I said, ineloquently. The strapped lash into my naked backside and sent fiery pain both across it and up into my brain. After seven or eight I jumped up, clutching my now burning bottom, and crying tearfully for her to stop.

 

Looking back I can only think that Miss Cavell was unfamiliar with the weapon and was testing it out quickly to see its effect. But a combination of her speed, power, and accuracy as it savaged my poor bottom made it impossible to stay in place. Fortunately the half lowering of my underpants meant that, even as I cavorted, decency in front was maintained. I am sorry I tearfully said as looking into Miss Cavell’s strangely sad face, I bent over again and presented my throbbing and scarlet rear. And then something very peculiar happened. She said, very quietly, just four more Earnest, we will stop at twelve. I think we can satisfy Mr Peabody. Then she gave me those final four. They were as hard as the previous eight but slower and more measured. Easier for me to absorb even though I gasped and howled at each one. I rose and turned and, remembering Holly, pulled up my underpants and shorts and left the room. Half an hour later, bottom still a glowing fire, the two of us walked to Mr Peabody’s. The ten minutes I spent there were the strangest ten minutes of my life.

 

‘I trust you have dealt with the boy?’

‘That is why we are here Mr Peabody.’

‘Has he told you the names of the other two boys?’

‘He will not do that.’

‘Schoolboy’s honour eh?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Then you ought to thrash him again.’

‘That was not part of the agreement.’

‘No.’

‘You said, Mr Peabody, that if Earnest was chastised for his part in the unfortunate incident that you would not press charges against him.’

‘I did.’

‘And you are also an honourable man.’

‘I am, but I want to see the evidence.’

‘That is why we are here. Earnest, show Mr Peabody your bottom.’

 

I had not said anything, and was not to do so now. I undid my shorts and turned my back to Mr Peabody and lowered them to my knees. He walked over to me, so close I could smell the beer and tobacco on his breath, and roughly pulled my underpants all the way down. I was glad Holly was not there. Then he lifted my top and gave a small whistle.

 

‘That is certainly a well tanned backside, Miss Cavell, no doubt about that. Lots of scarlet bruises across both buttocks, just as it should be. He won’t be sitting down for a while.’

 

So Mr Peabody was satisfied and when we got back home and I looked myself in my bedroom mirror, boys always do, I could see why. There were numerous thick red strap marks across both of my cheeks, going purple at the edges. I knew from my previous experience of Miss Cavell’s cane that these would last quite a while. But unlike that previous experience, I was only twelve then and now I was fourteen, that night I had my first nocturnal emission. I had a boy’s first wet dream.

 

I never told Miss Cavell.

 

Spring 1938

 

I had seen Miss Cavell a few times in the years between 1934 and 1938. Things were getting very unsettled in Europe and my father was regularly away and, occasionally, my mother went with him. Even when she didn’t Miss Cavell would come and stay with us for a week or so for a holiday. My mother and she got on terribly well, too well I sometimes thought thinking back to their arrangement regarding me. But I was no longer a twelve or fourteen year old boy and was in no need of a governess. In the holidays I often stayed with my father’s parents in the Cotswolds and Holly, now nearing twenty, had a flat in London. It was quite fun when Miss Cavell stayed with us because, even though there was never any danger of me getting smacked, it was occasionally alluded to. Even in front of my mother. Once, I think I was nearly seventeen, I got a bit drunk on some sweet wine at an evening dinner and knocked over a vase of flowers and was soaked. Much laughter followed and then Miss Cavell said, quite seriously to my mother, I would have spanked him for that a few years ago. I had the decency to blush before we all laughed again. But in the spring of 1938 we were thrown together again. And this time it was just the two of us in her delightful small cottage in Northumbria. It was only for ten days but it was memorable. Especially memorable for me as it was the last time Miss Cavell caned me. The weekend before I left. And it was at my request. I need to explain.

 

I was in love with her. Had been ever since that afternoon when she took a twelve year old over her knee and spanked his bare bottom. I remember thinking on that memorable day that I had an overwhelming desire to hug her and kiss her after she had dealt with me. The caning and the strapping I had, the latter when I was fourteen, were momentous and painful but surprisingly the aftermath of both was not unpleasant. I particularly remember the Peabody strapping, as I call it, because I gazed at my backside in the mirror for ages afterwards. I was fascinated by the wide blazing red strap marks across both of my cheeks, heightened by the pure white of the surrounding skin. I could not stop touching them, feeling the hard ridges and the warmth. I reckon it was then that I realised, although the complete realisation did not come for some years, that I was a total submissive. I enjoyed pain, humiliating and painful pain, as long as it was on my bottom. Ever afterwards I had fantasised about Miss Cavell and what she did, and in my mind I had many repeats. And my body had many emissions. And now, due to my parents being called away suddenly and not wishing me to be on my own, I was spending ten days in Miss Cavell’s cottage. Just the two of us. I would soon be eighteen, my hormones were raging. But not for sex, certainly not with Miss Cavell. But how I wanted her to thrash my naked bottom. The question was, could I arrange it?

 

‘Earnest.’

‘Yes?’

‘You seem distracted.’

‘I am.’

‘Why? Surely you are not worried about what happened today?’

‘Only for you, Miss Cavell.’

‘Prudence. Prudence, Earnest. I have told you often enough that you are now old enough to call me Prudence.’

‘I can’t. It does not seem right.’

‘Aunt Prudence then,’

‘Yes, that sounds better. Aunt Prudence.’

 

We both giggled. Wine after a super meal had freely followed a trying day.

 

‘Aunt Prudence. Smacker of naughty boy’s bottoms.’

‘Not anymore, Earnest. You are not a boy anymore.’

‘That is what you said to the policeman.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes. You said, when this young man was fourteen I would have smacked his bottom for this. As it is I shall just have to pay his fine.’

‘He laughed.’

‘I know.’

‘But he also said, he don’t look too old to me Miss. My boys are his age and they still get my belt when called for. You looked aghast.’

‘I was embarrassed.’

‘At being reminded of your stupidity, or at being reminded of what could have happened if you were  a few years younger?’

‘Both.’

‘Well just be glad you are nearly eighteen because, believe me Earnest, much as I have enjoyed having you with me, a couple of years ago I would have had you dropping those pants.’

 

I went very quiet.

 

‘Earnest, do you want to say something?’

‘Yes.’

‘Go on.’

‘I think you should.’

‘Should what?’

‘Take my pants down and smack my bottom.’

 

There, I had said it, and the evening air stilled.

 

Miss Cavell had a chappie who used to come round every couple of weeks to tend her garden. Whilst I was there he brought his fifteen year old son with him. He needed to go to the local market for some new plants and his son was to tend the garden whilst he was away. About an hour. Miss Cavell decided to go with him to help choose the plants. They left in the gardeners van. Her own car was in the road by the cottage. It was quite a flashy two seater, bright red, and so unlike Miss Cavell it had fascinated me when she had picked me up from the station at the start of my visit. Shortly after they left I saw her car keys on the kitchen table. I could drive, even though I did not have a licence, and in an inexplicable moment I decided to take it for a short spin. Showing off I took the gardener’s lad with me as a passenger. The rest is inevitable history.

 

‘Why?’

‘What I did was wrong. Taking your car without permission, getting stopped by that policeman when I nearly knocked him off his bike, and not being able to produce a driving licence because I don’t have one.’

‘I mean why do you think I should discipline you? I can get your mother to take the fine out of your allowance if it makes you feel happier.’

‘Don’t tell my mother, please.’

‘I won’t.’

‘And I shouldn’t smack your bottom. I think you would enjoy it too much. Lots of men do.’

‘I am not a man.’

‘No, you are a boy, but a growing one. As I said, you will be eighteen soon.’

‘And I won’t enjoy it. I never have, or only afterwards.’

‘I have always suspected that. Especially after your Peabody strapping. You spent a long time in your bedroom.’

 

I blushed at the memory.

 

‘So no, Earnest, I will not smack your bottom. Not spank you as if you were still a little boy but, as you will be leaving soon, I will cane you. For old times’ sake. But I promise you, you will not enjoy it. I shall be thinking of the nasty scratch marks on my lovely car. And also the possible consequences if you had lost control. I reckon that deserves eighteen, don’t you?’

 

I said nothing.

 

‘So let us do the washing up and then you can go to your room and get ready. I suggest that you take off your trousers when you get there. And take the cane. I know you are aware of where it is. I saw you looking at it the other day.’

 

And with that she rose from the table and ruffled my hair. Twenty minutes later I was standing in my bedroom in only shirt, vest, and underpants holding the awesome weapon that was soon to sear my behind. And I was both scared and anticipating. Surging with inexplicable excitement and trembling fear. I touched my penis beneath my underpants; it was filling and stiffening as I knew it would. My hand was still on it when Miss Cavell entered the room. She looked but said nothing. Her eyes had that familiar gleam I had seen before and she had changed into a strict black dress. She took the cane off me and said, quietly and calmly,

 

‘Bend over Earnest and touch your toes or as far down as you can, and present me that bottom. It will probably be for the last time.’

 

That memory, that instruction, has remained with me for years. It was the last time and looking back on it, I now realise how mature my strange sexuality must have seemed at the time. Seventeen year olds are supposed to be confused about their sexuality. I was not, either then or now. From that day in 1932 when she had taken me over her knee and bared my bottom and spanked me I was hooked on discipline from dominant females. Miss Cavell may have later regretted her part in my awakening but I am convinced it would have happened with or without her initial push. The three with a strap at boarding school had released strange emotions in me and later canings, watching or receiving, produced sensations in my being that I did little to understand. I just knew they were there. Painful experiences followed by fascinating aftermaths. But nothing compared with being caned or strapped by Miss Cavell. I had waited three years until this next opportunity arose. She knew, and I knew. I was a boy, she was a woman, but in this one strange dance we were almost equals. I bent over and nearly touched my toes and, pushing out my bottom, waited for her to lift my shirt. It was a long wait.

 

‘You present a lovely picture, Earnest. Beautifully submissive.’

 

I said nothing, just waited for that exquisite sensation I knew was to come. My shirt was slowly lifted up my back, rolled up in fact to ensure it stayed out of the way, and my tight fitting white underpants were slowly pulled down. I had worn these especially for this caning and being tight they had displayed my obvious erection. Miss Cavell could not possibly be unaware but, bizarrely, I felt no shame as she pulled the underpants down releasing a stiffness that sprang to its full height. As the pants slipped to my knees I was deeply conscious of my burgeoning boyhood and my naked behind awaiting chastisement. I knew she would expose my flesh. There was no chance of the promised cane strokes being on my covered bottom; indeed I would have been disappointed if they had. Miss Cavell had spanked and caned me bare when I was twelve and strapped me in the same manner when I was fourteen. At seventeen, her decision made, it could be no other way. I had nothing she had not seen before, albeit not in its current state. She pressed on my back, told me to stick out my bottom, and tapped the cane across it. Eighteen Earnest, she said, and I intend them to hurt. Do not get up. I did not. She gave me the strokes in three sets of six, allowing a short pause between each set so that I could steel myself for more of the rising pain. As the first stroke lashed across the centre of my behind I gasped. It stung far more than I expected. How I absorbed the next five I do not know, but I did. I slightly rose and rubbed my burning cheeks and noticed that the rampant penis was already flagging. I bent again and readied myself for the next set. They and the final six followed fairly quickly and when I finally rose, vigorously kneading my lacerated backside I had signs of tears in my eyes and a complete extinction of penile excitement. My shirt dropped, covering all in front and behind, and Miss Cavell smiled at me and left the room.

 

The penile excitement returned around an hour later. I was naked, examining my behind in the bathroom mirror and the fascinating marks and emblazoned weals across my cheeks mesmerised. Enhanced even more when I touched the hardened warm skin. I was in the aftermath of disciplinary heaven and, unsurprisingly, my body begged for the inevitable release. It only took a couple of minutes of gentle manipulation for the gushing flow to spurt. I slowly subsided and stepped into the waiting shower, already on to cover any vocal sounds as I ejaculated. I slept well that night.

 

Summer 1976

 

It was very hot that summer and lasted longer than any other of the twentieth century. I was directing an open air production of an Oscar Wilde play and had prayed, fervently, all along that the weather would stay kind. It was an important theatrical production. Lyme Regis had invited me to direct it because, to quote their own words I was a local boy made good. I had turned to theatre after the war and university and after struggling as an actor, not very good, found my feet in stage management and, much later, directing. That summer was the 25th of my directing career and may, or may not, have been another reason for the local council inviting me. At least my name was in the theatrical press and if they could capitalise on it, who could blame them. And the fee was pretty good. I had invited both Holly and Prudence Cavell to see it on the third run and, afterwards, the three of us had a sumptuous meal at a local Indian restaurant. Holly left early as she had a fairly long drive to the house she lived in with our ageing mother. I was staying locally in a house I had rented for the summer and Miss Cavell was my more than welcome guest. We had always kept in touch, mainly by phone and letters, but the last time we met was at my father’s funeral and she spent most of the time with my mother. Now we could imbibe for an hour or so more.

 

‘I wonder why she never married?’

‘Married to her job, I think.’

‘Cancer research isn’t it?’

‘Something like that, far too scientific for me to absorb.’

‘She always was the clever one, Earnest.’

‘Whereas me?’

‘Imaginative. Your play tonight showed it. Rich in ideas.’

‘Helps to have imaginative actors, although I don’t tell them. Far too conceited as it is.’

 

I paused and took a sip of brandy.

 

‘Neither of us have ever married, Aunt Prudence.’

‘Far too late for me, Earnest. I shall be seventy next year.’

‘I know. Makes you only about fourteen years older than me and yet....’

‘When you first met me you thought I was much older.’

‘Yes.’

‘I wonder why.’

 

She paused, laughed, and took a sip out of her own brandy.

 

‘No you don’t, you old fraud. You know exactly why.’

‘Because I spanked your bottom.’

‘My bare bottom. Lets us be factually accurate.’

‘Yes. Must have made an impression on Holly. She still remembers it.’

‘Really?’

‘We were in the ladies after the play. He’s a great success, she said, I am very proud of him. You must be too.’

‘I am, I said.’

‘So you should be, she said, you are the lady who smacked the great director’s bare bottom.’

‘He was only twelve or so.’

‘In a way he still is, she said.’

 

She paused again and took another sip of her brandy.

 

‘Are you, Earnest? Are you still a twelve year old boy inside?’

‘More like fifteen, really. Except when I am being theatrically bossy.’

‘And when you are not?’

‘I go to see people, people who satisfy a need.’

‘A need that I engendered?’

‘Not really. I reckon it was in me from a small child. You merely lit a fire that was already smouldering.’

‘I always found you amazingly mature, Earnest. Most people do not come to terms with their sexuality until in their thirties. If ever.’

‘I had a good teacher.’

‘Yes, and you had a delightful bottom.’

 

We both laughed uproariously and downed our brandies and, at her bidding, ordered another.

 

‘It is a good job you are not driving, Earnest.’

‘Yes. Earnest. Takes me back to childhood. Thank God, I changed it when I started directing.’

‘Earnest directing Earnest. Would sound a bit funny.’

‘I still use it though.’

‘When you go to see one of your, your people?’

‘My mistresses. Yes. When I play the faux schoolboy, in the faux schoolroom, I am always known as Earnest.’

 

She took a large sip of her brandy and smiled at me.

 

‘The Importance of Being Earnest?’

 

‘Yes. The Importance of Being Earnest. Your Earnest.’

 

 

Winter 1999

 

We are waiting for the ringing in of the millennium, if indeed that is what the year 2000 is. I am still around, obviously, nearing eighty and so is Miss Cavell. We still write. She is in a care home now. Have been to see her a couple of times but it is a long way, in Northumbria, and driving is not my favourite occupation these days. When she first moved in I met her son. Never knew she had one, she never talked about him. Born during the war so a good twenty years younger than me. He clearly loved her, told me so. The father, an American soldier, did a bunk before he even knew she was pregnant. Or so she always told him. The son’s name was Earnest, well Nigel Earnest to be precise, and it made me laugh. Loved my mother he said, brought me up single handed, combining teaching and me was a bit of a strain, he said. But she kept a firm grip even when I was in my stroppy teens. Amazing woman.

 

I agreed.

 

But I never asked.

 

Never asked if she ever smacked his bare bottom.

 

But I bet she did.

 

Earnest Silbury – December 1999