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
