Or in some cases the maid spanks back. Just a bit of filler fun for Sunday.

LSF have published another short story collection of mine. This one based on the adventure the Master and the Governess.

The headstrong Amelia urges Lucy to follow her lead and run naked into the woods … two wood nymphs scampering through damp grass in the sunset. But when their little adventure is over and they flee back to Weighbridge Hall, it is to find the back door locked. They find another way in but are caught by Amelia’s father, Sir Richard Weighbridge, and, given his daughter’s wilful nature, he employs a governess for her. Despite Amelia’s protests, Miss Caroline Cambridge is tasked with turning her into a lady and is also charged with disciplining the young woman. However, it takes one particular incident, where Caroline feels her master’s anger herself, before she understands that she needs to be stricter on her young charge…

This volume also includes the following short stories: An Edwardian Establishment; The Governess; An Interlude in the Drawing Room; Letter to a Friend and Miss Andersen.

It is available from Amazon and LSF Publications.  There are more details in the book shop.

Something pretty random.

Amanda’s tummy ached. It had been giving her trouble since the whole affair had begun and now she was beginning to get tired. It wasn’t quite the adventure she had signed on for, but now that she thought about it, she could not even remember what she had expected.

The 36-year-old sunset-haired business executive shot a glance down a side street half expecting to see a Victorian carriage or even one of them, but the alley was clear. It was one of the old undeveloped kinds that still had cobbles and was bordered on one side by a series of greying London brick railway arches of the type that normally housed lock-ups or backstreet mechanics.

Her short black jacket felt heavy now and the mix of adrenaline and rapid evasion had made her hot. The first set of doors in the arch had peeling purple paint and were set back somewhat so that she could step off the street and not be seen by anyone looking down it from the main road. This brief haven provided scant hope but at least she could catch her breath.

If only she knew all the rules, she thought, it was the uncertainty that was so stressful. As it was they could be almost anywhere at any time. She took another look down the alley back at the main road and wondered if she should make for the railway station.

Nothing much had been explained, Edward Carlisle had merely offered her the chance to go on or return to her old life in some kind of Faustian pact.

She remembered the first time she had seen him; a young Morgan Freeman with salt and pepper hair in a collarless Beatle-suit. It had been as if she had stumbled upon some chance sexual tryst and her best friend Jessica was draped half-naked across his knee getting a spanking; not a playful one either from the looks of it. He had given her an easy smile and winked as she had stepped into the room. While Jessica, not seeing her, had continued to kick and bawl under the heavy onslaught of his hand as her bare bottom turned steadily red.

“I-I I’m sorry, I’ll…” Amanda had backed up transfixed by embarrassment, “… go.”

But she hadn’t gone. She had stood there gaping while Jessica now seeing her wailed in distress, “Amanda, get out.”

“I have much to do here, so perhaps you had better do as asked,” Carlisle had said in a dark chocolate voice, the slamming of his hand on Jessica’s bottom not missing a beat.

It had been a wrench and despite both women’s mutual embarrassment, Amanda had backed away using only the smallest of steps as she watched the spanking.

“Go on now,” he had urged gently, “Before I put you across my knee too.”

Amanda had waited in the café opposite for almost three hours just watching the warehouse conversion that she shared with Jessica. Finally the dark elegant man had emerged into the street pausing to brush something from the shoulder of his unusual dark grey suit. For a moment Amanda could have sworn that he looked at her. No not at her, but into her almost. Just a small glance at the café on the other side of the road where she sat behind a curtain, but even from there she could see his easy smile and he had winked at her.

The present assailed her and a black car rounded the corner and crept past her as if it were going to stop. Amanda’s throat jammed at a half gulp for three beats until it had passed. She was still looking at its retreating tail lights when the clatter of hooves behind made her whirl around. The horse-drawn hearse was black and gold with two dour men in Victorian dress at the reins. The whip in the drivers hand made her shudder.

It was a prosaic enough sight in that part of London and she didn’t know if it was part of her world or the other. So she ran. Her world, which was her world now? More and more it was the cars and buses that seemed part of a dream, an anachronistic even. The coaches and horses, top hats and crinoline seemed all too real. Not that everyone was so overdressed. Amanda thought of the carriage she had seen that morning and what was pulling it. Amazingly no one but her even blinked, although she suspected that more outlandish characters on the street saw it too. They just didn’t care. Or… she didn’t follow that thought. She was running hard now, back the way she had come.

The train, she thought, she could get to the train and go to… panic, as she breathlessly ran she could not remember where he had said to meet her. An H hung on the tip of her tongue as she ran likely sounding place names through her head.

“Hushley, Hushington… Hushbourne, it was Hushbourne, that was it,” she muttered aloud.

*

As she rounded the next street the smell of coal smoke hung in the air and the streetlamps looked all wrong. The houses running down her right had the early evening glow of television at every window and here and there were satellite dishes. But there were no cars and the streets were all cobbled where there should be tarmac and white lines.

The people to the left of the street, the side she avoided, wore strange dress, like Victorians, but not quite… she tried not to stare. One couple walked arm-in-arm stepping quickly from one puddle of gaslight to the next. The man had the usual grey frockcoat, but on his hat were strange goggles with one monocular eyepiece hanging over his right eye.

The woman was even more oddly attired. From the tight-nipped waist upwards she wore a pastel green 19^th century tunic and bowler-like as a country woman of that time might wear for riding. But under the ensemble she wore obscenely tight pale-grey trousers that were almost like leggings. Not that is was the strangest thing she had seen that day.

Amanda hurried on.

At the next corner was the way to the railway station. Or at least it was in her world. This hunch was confirmed by the hoot of a horn. A hoot, Amanda wondered? Surely… but her thoughts were confirmed by the whistle of steam train.

The cobbled street ran right into the station so that carriages could load and unload. But Amanda could still see modern trains on the far platform.

“Oh hell, it is here too,” she cursed.

The outburst drew a glare from an elderly man in a more conventional frockcoat and top hat. But when Amanda offered him a broken smile of apology, he seemed to bluster and quickly hurried on. His parting glance had been at her attire and Amanda realised that as she became more and more of the other world she would look ever more out of place.

She looked down at her once smart blue jacket and skirt, but what to wear? If she straddled both worlds then she would look wrong whatever she wore.

“Can I help you miss?” said a voice.

The man wore an old-style railway uniform with a gold watch chain at his waistcoat and a small round cap on his head. She noted too that he had pork chop whiskers in grey and white and a face that suggested he drank too much.

“I eh, I want to get to Hushingbourne, I mean Hushbourne,” Amanda said breathlessly.

“Platform two, miss,” the man replied pointing casually to where the steam trains were gathered.

Amanda hesitated. Although she had already made her choice, rightly or wrong, she somehow felt that getting aboard a train to a place she was certain did not exist in her world was an irreparable step. She was still pondering this when she saw the man on the other side of the road.

He was as big as a house and looked like an old-time circus strongman who had been squeezed into a coarse tweed suit. His short black curls were parted exactly down the middle and he had moustache reminiscent of Lord Kitchener in all those First World War recruitment posters.

More than that he was looking right at her with hard calculating eyes she could see at 100 paces. One of them then, she gulped and felt her buttocks clench. One of the rules she did know was that the man could do anything to her that he could make her agree to. Allying his over-massive build with her recent past experience, she knew that that might cover a lot of ground.

As he stepped purposefully from the curb she turned and with as much dignified haste as she could muster she bolted for platform two.

*

The carriages at platform two were of dark wood and unpainted. It was impossible to see down to the front because of the smoke and steam. Nevertheless Amanda was pretty certain that amid the cacophony of the eclectic mix of styles where her world attempted to blend with the faux Victorian one she kept glimpsing, that the train was pulled by a steam engine.

She paused at the carriage door bearing the legend Third Class. She gaped at this for a moment and then looked hastily down the platform for any sign of a pursuit. Then she pulled open the old wooden door and clambered aboard.

The carriage smelled of varnish and distressed leather, with an undertone of something rancid. Inside there was a narrow corridor with compartment doors running at intervals, but the first one was empty and she could see only hard narrow wooden benches. Far from luxury travel, the accommodation looked like a mobile prison and she decided to jog up the passage in search of a second class compartment.

She thought back to her last meeting with Carlisle. He had been effusive with charm and his easy smile had been disarming.

“You are intrigued then?” he suggested.

“I…” Amanda had blushed.

“There are worlds within worlds and nothing is as it seems,” he said, holding up his hand as he continued, “In a moment a cab will arrive. If you get aboard it will take you to wherever you want to go and when you get there you will remember nothing. If not then I will assume that you wish to know more. No further than that, forgive me; if you do not avail yourself of this chance then my world will swallow you.”

“But…” Amanda’s mind had raced. She was too curious to just flee, but she needed to know more before she could just choose. What was she getting herself into?

“If you choose my world then… well then you are mine as Jessica is mine,” Carlisle assured her still smiling. “But others will seek to take you or at least dally with you as they will.”

She had tried to interrupt him, but he had silenced her with a commanding stare and expanded on his theme. Amanda had remembered Jessica and her spanking as she remembered it now and blushed. That was the least of what she would endure, he had assured her.

“You will see clues of your possible fate, mark them well,” he had told her.

“But none of this makes any sense,” she had whined. But somehow she knew more than he had said, as if she had always been a part of it and merely waiting her turn.

The taxi came and went leaving her on the pavement.

“When the time comes try and get to Hushbourne, ask Jessica,” Carlisle told her, “I suggest a train. I will explain everything there.”

“But what if I change my mind?” she wailed as he turned to go.

“Hushbourne, I will explain there, hurry now they will have your scent. They love fresh meat and if they take you, you will be theirs to do as they will.” Then he was gone.

That had been… what a day, two days before? She couldn’t remember. Somewhere behind her Samantha heard a carriage door of the train and thought of the large muscle man she had seen watching her and hurried on.

As she ran she remembered the naked girls she had seen hitched up to the carriage and the curious Victorian-style BDSM slaves on leashes so casually displayed in the streets. Her pulse raced as she wondered at her fate if she were caught. But strangely she was not as afraid as she might have been.

There had been another incident and she blushed. That had been a close call. Still she ran on even as she remembered.

First Class came upon her suddenly and she passed seamlessly into the carriage. This one was cleaner and the seats were arrayed in smooth red velvet all set in neat compartments to her right.

“What happened to Second Class?” she mused aloud, but she already felt safer and carried on.

She had still to secure a seat when the train pulled away with a lurch and she had to seize a hanging cord to steady herself.

“Okay,” she muttered as she eyed the empty six-seat cabin. All I have to do is sit tight until the train gets to Hushbourne.

*

The ticket inspector had fierce brown eyes and short wiry red hair set under his cap and continuing down his cheeks to meet under his nose in a heavy moustache. He was a large powerfully built man with a brusque no-nonsense manner and he fixed Amanda with a curious gaze as he tried to decipher her clothing.

“Tickets please,” he demanded.

“I… eh… I was going to buy one at Hushbourne,” she told him nervously.

He frowned.

“You wouldn’t be one of Edward Carlisle’s recruits would you?” he asked.

Amanda wondered what to say. He might be one of them. She remembered how since that morning they had appeared with alarming frequency to chase her down this street or that.

“I am meeting Mr Carlisle, yes,” she said, deciding to bluff it out.

The inspector nodded.

“Your ticket?” he demanded again.

Amanda spluttered and began patting at her clothing as if one might materialise in her pockets.

“I know, I know, in your haste you got aboard without one and hoped to acquire such at Hushbourne,” the man growled.

Amanda nodded.

“I am sorry, but that is just not good enough,” he said sharply. “It is a serious offence to board a train without a ticket and worse still you are in First Class in rather outlandish attire. I am sorry but I really should put you off at the next station and notify the authorities.”

Amanda swallowed and tried to think of an excuse.

“But then I suppose the hunters will get you,” he said thoughtfully, “And even if they don’t, you will face quite a time of it as a vagrant.”

“Look, I just want to get to…” Amanda began.

The inspector put up one officious arm to stop her and sighed heavily.

“I suppose under the circumstances I should be lenient,” he said wearily, “But you have to learn that in this world there are consequences for breaking the rules.”

“This world?” Amanda gaped.

“You are an out-worlder are you not?” he sighed.

“I… I don’t know, I hardly know what world I am in anymore,” Amanda admitted.

“Then permit me to enlighten you,” he said sternly.

Then he turned her about and pulled the compartment door shut and latched it.

“Fortunately for you I am acquainted with Edward Carlisle and his habit of trafficking souls back and more usually forth between worlds. My father was something of gatekeeper himself. But I will not tolerate fare dodgers or disrespect for the railway company,” the man told her as he sat down on the seat next to her.

In a moment he had pulled firmly across his lap and had begun to strip her of her skirt.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she squealed.

But her outburst was nothing to her protests once her yanked at her underwear and pulled it quite off her legs.

“Your attire is clownish and your under things an obscenity, as an officer of the Great Western and London Railway company I am going to confiscate them,” he snapped at her, “You will attract far less attention that way, well up to a point anyway.”

“But…” Amanda spluttered as she struggled across his lap.

“Now I intend to deal with the matter of fare evasion young woman,” the inspector said sharply.

His hand made sharp contact with Amanda’s bare bottom extracting a gasp.

“You can’t do this,” she wailed, but she remembered Jessica across Carlisle’s knee and… and that other time. She knew that part of her had expected this would figure in her life now.

“I can and I will,” he barked, “And if you were in my permanent charge I would take a belt to bare backside at the very least, and soundly.”

His hand struck her three more times making her gasp and kick her heels like a movie heroine in distress.

“You bastard,” she wailed.

“Moderate your tongue or you will feel my belt girl,” he said angrily, redoubling his efforts as he spanked her.

“Jesus, oh God, ahh,” she grunted and squirmed vigorously as he continued.

By now her bottom was deep pink and getting darker but the inspector had only begun.

“How dare you arrogantly assume that you can board a train when you feel like it? How dare you dress so recklessly? Don’t you know what they would do to you if they caught you? And the authorities? Have you any idea…? Any idea?” The man was furious now and set to spanking Amanda’s exposed bottom in earnest.

“Oh please,” she wailed and clawed at the seat, her breathing now laboured as the burn in her bottom became more than she could bear.

“Please nothing, I am going to give you the spanking you so richly deserve,” he told her as he blasted down on her bottom again and again.

“Oh Jesus, oh… oh,” she moaned.

“That’s enough, mind your tongue girl,” he bellowed.

Just then the door rattled and after catching for a moment burst open. The matronly woman in green seemed unfazed by the scene, but the young woman with her was bug-eyed and gaped in horror at the sight of Amanda’s red bare bottom.

“Send them out,” Amanda screeched.

“Let them watch I say, you bad mannered girl,” the inspector scolded her.

“That’s the way,” the woman applauded him, “See Antonia, that’s how young women should be handled. Come away now, the man is busy.”

The couple only made a half-hearted attempt to slide the door shut and left it ajar as they went. Not that it was on Amanda’s mind as she kicked and bawled with her bottom pointing at the gap to the corridor.

“Please, oh please,” she said miserably, now close to tears.

“There is no hurry, it is four stops to Hushbourne,” the inspector told her as her set his slaps to her lower less red curves.

There was some laughter in the corridor, quite masculine by the sound of it, and Amanda saw some movement in the corner of her eye.

“Oh God please, close the door, close door,” she shrieked.

“I warned you,” the inspector snapped.

In a moment he set her on her feet to dance and clutch at her behind while he stood up and removed his jacket.

“Kneel on that seat with your head down and your bottom sticking up,” he ordered.

Amanda noticed that he had drawn his belt through his trouser hooks and was folding it in two.

“The door, please, the door,” Amanda wailed as she doubled over to hide her exposed front.

“Do as you are told and I will consider it,” the inspector snapped, “Else we will move our business to the third class buffet car.”

Amanda took several gulping gasps and looked first at the seat and then at the semi-open door.

“Do you think I jest?” the man said sharply.

Amanda took another gulp and then hesitantly clambered onto the seat on all fours.

“Present your bottom more,” he said firmly.

She buried her head in arms, a gesture that elevated her bottom. Thankfully she heard the door firmly close behind her.

“No more foul language, no more argument, you know you deserve this,” the inspector said gently, “Don’t you?”

“Yes Sir,” Amanda agreed meekly, astonished at her submission.

The belt stroke was a lick of flame that stole her breath and she yelled. But it was the shock more than the burn and she stilled her cries for the next dozen heavy bites of leather before wet spluttering came in earnest.

The blister-bruising of the belt continued at a pace until the train slowed and pulled into the first station. By then Amanda was lost in copious tears and her bottom had purple red rash welted to pads marring both ample curves of her bottom.

“Right you,” the inspector barked, “Get down to third class and find the first empty compartment and kneel up on the seat with your hands on your head. And if you delay or I find you anywhere else, then I will begin over, do you hear me girl?”

Amanda gaped at him. He had already rolled up her clothes and had bundled them under his arm. She wore now only her blouse and hold-up stockings and was quite naked from her hips down.

“But…” she gaped.

“I suggest you don’t dawdle,” the inspector growled and then he was gone.

As it was Amanda waited until the train pulled out of the station before venturing into the corridor. Mercifully it was empty and fearing for her modesty she made a break down the passage back to third class.

Amanda encountered no one on her way to back down the train and gratefully ducked into the first empty compartment she found. This is insane, she thought as she hastily drew down the blinds at the door and the carriage window.

The seat looked hard and she eyed it in horror. The inspector was gone now; it was too much to just adopt a humiliating posture. Instead she eased herself into the seat in the hope if anyone did enter her state of undress would not be apparent. The hard bench sent her back to standing in a searing moment.

“Ow,” she wailed and she grabbed at her bottom and hoped about.

Right on cue she heard the cry of “tickets please, all tickets from Barnes.” Then she heard the next compartment doors slide open.

Oh, oh, she thought waling out an “oooh” as she spat angrily and stared at the seat.

By the time the door slid open again she was kneeling meekly in the seat glowering at the worn wooden slats just inches from her nose.

“Oh it’s you,” the inspector muttered, “See that you stay there until your stop.”

*

The inspector had checked on her once or twice, his tone as he addressed now more paternal and friendly.

“That’s the way, take your licks and it will soon come right,” he chuckled the last time.

She almost swore at him, but held her tongue.

But Amanda didn’t dare show the least defiance and by the time she heard someone call out “Hushbourne,” her knees ached from contact with the hard wooden seat. So gingerly she stood up and peeked through the blinds before opening the carriage door. By now it was full dark and Amanda hoped the night would hide her. A situation helped by the fact that no one else got out at Hushbourne. But all the same Amanda felt an utter fool standing on the platform naked from the waist down. The chill on her legs served to emphasise the throbbing heat in her exposed bottom as she contemplated how she would slip past the ticket office.

It was only then that she remembered that beyond this stop she had absolutely no idea where she was going. At a crouch she tottered nervously to the red brick building at the end of the platform, looking wildly about her with every step. It wasn’t until she reached it that she saw she could slip into the lane outside without being seen. Not that there was anyone to see her.

“See you made it then,” said a voice.

Amanda whirled around at stoop tugging her shirt down in front.

Jessica was dressed as a Victorian page boy, but with her hair piled up on her head like an Edwardian lady. She was sitting on top of a small one horse carriage grinning from ear to ear.

“Mr Carlisle sent me to pick you up,” she said.

“Jessica,” Amanda exclaimed excitedly and in great relief.

“I see you have been having adventures,” Jessica chuckled, “I thought they would get you for sure.”

Last week I launched the vintage spanking and erotica Tumblr All Our Yesterday’s. It has been a slow start so far, but hopefully it will be a repository for all those pictures featured on Vintage Sunday.

The clock ticked slowly, almost like a dirge to match the gloomy dark hall that led to the Dean’s office. There was a musty smell of polish and old wood here and with all the doors closed against them it was like a gaol-cell as they waited to be seen.

“It will be alright won’t it Rachel?” Emily Conroy asked her friend.

Her eyes, as blue as the sky in August, danced at the edge of her creamy blonde fringe; a deep sad blue that almost matched her crinoline frock so respectably buttoned to her neck in small pearl buttons and so provocatively flaring at her hips.

The rest of Emily’s hair was tied back and piled on her head as was the norm for a woman of her age, but she looked somewhat uncomfortable in such a grown-up style. Not like Rachel Wendover who would look at home in frontier buckskins.

She was almost a head taller than Emily and her piled-high mid-brown hair gave her a more authority than her more apprehensive friend. It was a colour that matched both her deep dark eyes and the powder brown of her long bodice-tight dress.

“It will be won’t it?” Emily asked again.

Rachel tilted her head so that her nose was set arrogantly against the world and pondered. For the first time since embarking on her protest she wasn’t entirely certain.

“I don’t see why not, our position is perfectly sensible,” Rachel said with confidence.

“But perhaps Mr Bartram won’t see it that way,” Emily said in a voice that was altogether too whiney for Rachel’s liking. “Mrs Lavender certainly doesn’t.”

Rachel adjusted her stance to one she imagined the noble Cicero would have adopted, her arm set almost as a classical rhetoric.

“This is a new age,” she announced, “Women no longer need be ashamed of their bodies, and we are ready to take our place among men in the world.”

Emily hated it when Rachel got political, and began to despair. The more she thought of it the more she was convinced that Dean Bartram was not going to be sympathetic. Her parents would be beside themselves if she were to be expelled.

“After all, we stand at the dawn of the 20^th century,” Rachel continued, “Are we not surrounded by art celebrating the human form?”

Emily blushed. She had had quite enough of the human form for one semester. She didn’t think Corrigan College for Young Ladies was quite ready for any more either. The bicycles and knickers had been quite enough in her view. It had certainly caused storm enough under the circumstances. It was only supposed to be a short ride around campus to protest the removal of the classical statues from the quad. The adventure into town had been so embarrassing in such attire; people had even thrown rocks. Then there was the other matter.

“But we were naked,” Emily hissed, the last word softly spoken, “Naked in…” here she mouthed the next word, “public.”

“Nonsense, we were merely exercising our right to bathe,” Rachel said pompously, “How were we to know that those… those scoundrels from the so-called gentlemen’s college would be so caddish as to spy on us?”

“Well we were out of bounds,” Emily said meekly.

She eyed the Dean’s door nervously, certain now that Mr Bartram was not going to be at all sympathetic.

“A small matter set against the principle of privacy,” Rachel said piously.

Emily might have said more but just then the door finally opened and the middle-aged bespectacled Miss Hardham stepped out. She was an imperious woman with a quite officious manner Rachel always thought, but ultimately she was of no account, she decided.

“The Dean will see you now,” Miss Hardham announced in a cold hard voice.

“Thank you Miss Hardham,” Rachel said perkily and brushed past the Dean’s secretary with a dismissive wave.

“Not at all Miss Wendover,” Miss Hardham replied.

Emily fancied that the woman was smirking.

If the two women had expected tea and a civilised chat then it did not show one jot on Rachel’s face. But Emily took half a step back and gasped when she saw the bucket and what was within it. Next to this and its implication, the sight of the Dean in his shirt sleeves rolling up his cuffs was a mere distraction.

The Dean was not an elderly man, not like his predecessor and the gossip around campus was that he had been an invalid from the army. He certainly looked the type, with broad shoulders and a bearing complimented by a huge red walrus moustache.

He had been known to smile and make great witticisms at public meetings but that persona was at odds with the glowering man who now confronted them.

“Have we called at an inconvenient time Mr Bartram?” Rachel said airily.

Emily could not believe her friend’s sang froid in the face of the bucket.

“Not at all Miss Wendover,” the Dean replied stiffly, “Not for me at any rate, although I do mean to inconvenience you somewhat.”

“I see,” Rachel said tartly her attention finally regarding the bucket.

Within the old iron pail were a number of bundles all tied up into birchen rods of the type that were occasionally used at Corrigan College in lieu of expulsion.

“Are we not to be allowed to give a defence?” Rachel asked.

The Dean frowned and cast his gaze at Miss Hardham and then back again.

“Oh you have something to say by way of mitigation for your outrageous behaviour?” he said impatiently.

“Can’t we just apologise?” Emily wailed anxiously.

Rachel shot her an old-fashioned look and then turned to regard the Dean.

“Indeed I have,” Rachel began.

“I don’t want to hear yet another speech Miss Wendover, please spare us,” the Dean groaned. “You were out of bounds were you not?”

“Yes but…” Rachel tried again.

The Dean silenced her with a hand.

“You were what is commonly termed as ‘skinny dipping,’ is that correct?” Bartram said sharply.

Miss Hardham gave a gasp from behind them.

“Well surely Sir but…” This wasn’t going the way Rachel had presumed at all.

“So your words of mitigation concern the wearing of knickers, riding bicycles and riding around town like hellions I can presume?” Dean Bartram had finished rolling up his sleeves and had begun to stroll towards the bucket.

For a moment even Rachel looked somewhat disconcerted at this move and licked her lips before continuing. “We were modestly displaying the athleticism of the female form in light of the crass decision to remove all classical statues from around the quad,” Rachel told him.

“Your claims of modesty might have cut a modicum of sympathy from me if it had not been for the blatant and defiant display you later put on for the benefit of the town’s young men,” Dean Bartram shot back. “Not that you are excused such behaviour.”

“Merely college boys I assure you and I soon gave them a piece of my mind…” Rachel replied irritably.

Bartram sighed heavily.

“I am not here to discuss semantics Miss Wendover, you both brought the college into disrepute. But as the mayor and various authorities see the humour in the situation I can offer you leniency on this occasion,” he groaned, “Will you accept it or will you resign and accept permanent exclusion?”

“We will accept it,” Emily cut in hastily.

“Very well, Miss Hardham,” the Dean barked.

The secretary quickly stepped forward and began rucking up the back of Emily’s skirts. It was a quick efficient action as one by one she pinned the layers of the apparel to the small of the girl’s back.

“You don’t mean to thrash us,” Rachel protested.

“I certainly do,” the Dean said sharply.

Rachel opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again. Her father would hear of this of course, but she knew he would hardly be sympathetic. Angry possibly, but more likely and much like her older brothers somewhat amused. Her mother would be livid of course, but who would suffer the most ire was anybody’s guess.

She was not too old for a sound spanking now and again, she knew that, but such an indignity for standing up for her rights was outrageous. But then what could she do? She would be a martyr then, she decided, and put her nose haughtily in the air.

Miss Hardham had finished fussing with Emily’s skirts and directed her to step out of her bloomers. Emily gasped and shot a mortified look at the Dean.

“At once,” the secretary snapped.

Rachel half expected Emily to rebel, but she didn’t and Miss Hardham was left to cross the room to address herself to Rachel.

“Oh this is too much,” Rachel sighed and rolled up her eyes.

*

Despite her outward display of ostentatious dignity, Rachel had never felt so vulnerable and exposed. She and Emily now stood facing the Dean with their bare bottoms turned to his mantelpiece as he absently handled one of a great many birch rods from the bucket. The man was half-way through an epic scolding that even made Rachel doubt that she had been entirely reasonable about everything.

As yet he had not laid eyes on their exposed posteriors, having politely averted his eyes during the denuding procedure conducted by Miss Hardham, but all the same just having him know set Rachel at two’s and eight’s, while Emily was in a perfect funk and the colour of ripe cherries.

“Did you have no thought to your reputations at all?” he bellowed, “Do you imagine that this will be a jolly jape that you will one day recount at matronly dinner parties?”

Emily was wide-eyed now and her hands absently tickled at her tail. So much so that Rachel wondered if it was the rod her friend feared or the future shame. Poor Emily, Rachel sighed.

“You may well sigh Miss Wendover, you may well sigh indeed, but your behaviour has been an outrage,” the Dean barked at her.

“I did only what…” Rachel began, but she did not like the uncertainty that had crept into her voice.

“Now we come to it, don’t we?” the Dean said wearily, seeming now to abate his anger, “It is you isn’t it, all you? You have led this poor girl astray.”

“Please Mr Bartram,” Emily offered meekly, “I am as much to blame, really I am.”

“And so you are,” the Dean agreed and let out a long slow breath. “I ought to put you both across my knee and treat you like the foolish girls you are.”

Miss Hardham smirked at this even as Emily went peony and Rachel spluttered.

“Who is first?” the Dean asked suddenly taking a swipe through the air with his chosen rod.

Rachel clutched at her throat and Emily stepped back to cower a little behind her older larger friend.

“They rebelled together did they not?” Miss Hardham put in.

“Indeed they did,” the Dean said sharply, “Alright Miss Wendover, bend over my desk.” He smiled at his own little joke. “You too Miss Conroy, I want your rebellious behinds side by side for this.”

Emily looked to Rachel to make the first move and the elder obliged, drawing herself up and boldly walking forward not even pausing to blush as her bare bottom thrust out at the Dean.

“I can’t, I just can’t,” Emily wailed as she surveyed the scene.

Miss Hardham made to move but the Dean pursed his lips and waved her away prepared to be patient. As this happened Rachel jostled a little and pressed her heels tight together and pushed her bare bottom backwards and up a little more as if in pride.

“Come on Emily,” she said softly, “It’s licks for tricks,” she added remembering something from home when she had been rebellious there.

Emily sucked in a breath and then following Rachel’s example reluctantly pulled away from the relative safety of the fireplace and went to join her friend. An act that was strangely surreal, comforting and mortifying all at once. Then as she jiggled her thigh against Rachel’s their bottoms almost touched as they lined up together to receive the punitive gift.

“I am glad to see such an improvement in your attitudes,” Bartram said sternly, not entirely unmoved by either the comely scene or the young women’s humble submission. “I shall of course be writing to your families about this matter.”

Licks for tricks, Rachel thought ruefully, oh well, I wonder why I always go too far; poor Emily. The rash of fire that suddenly blazed across her backside transported her back to a certain New York State woodshed and she gasped. The man was no amateur then, she decided. A decision confirmed as another thousand biting flames nipped at her tail, not once but three times in as many moments. Rachel even began to wonder if she could stand it at all and got ready to cry out. My face must be quite a comedy, she pondered as she tried to contain herself under the onslaught.

Then saving Rachel the indignity the Dean switched targets and lay three strokes across Emily’s bottom. The younger girl was not so stoical and squealed from the first, her feet lifting as it they had encountered hot coals. But that was not at all where the heat was burning her.

Next Bartram put six across Rachel’s bottom, taking the pinkness to a somewhat ragged rash of red, but no skin was broken and although she hadn’t cried out as with Emily, she was breathing heavily now.

I will break this one, he thought, knowing it was both just and necessary. But he would be both fair and slow in his work. So in short order he switched back to Emily giving her six more too.

Emily had been spanked and hard, an experience that brought an unrelenting heat to her bottom and left her in tears. But not only were these private events rare, they were never so harsh and already she was bawling under a short duration of the birch as ever she had at her father’s knee.

To the viewer her bottom held a deep pink stain that held mottles of red, but some primeval instinct told her the matter was far from concluded.

“I’m sorry Sir, so sorry,” she wailed, a tear dripping at her nose.

Her face unseen, Rachel frowned; peeved that Emily should surrender so early in the game. Then it was her turn again.

The rod was becoming quite a trial now and she had to clamp her jaw against the waves of burn that clawed deep into her nether curves. To think it had been a mere bicycle that had brought her to this place and with so much less perspiration and breathlessness, Rachel considered by way of a distraction. Well I doubt I shall sit upon a bicycle any time soon, she thought ruefully.

Bartram laid nine thwacking strokes across Rachel’s exposed rear, frustrated that she had not once cried out or expressed regret. Her bottom was a multiplicity of reds, some deep in blotches while others hugged texture, and now looked rather raw.

Emily’s turn was a noisy affair and she bucked and shrieked as her bottom finally moved from dark pink to true red too. The girl was sobbing now and her shoulders dipped up and down as she made great laboured breaths.

“Have pity on her Sir,” Rachel said in a strained voice that was on the edge of an abyss, “She was trained up on slippers and the hairbrush.”

Bartram nodded and turned to regard Miss Hardham for a moment.

“Take this girl and once she is set, take her over your knee and spank her silly little bottom for her,” he said in gruffness that belied the kind thought, adding, “But soundly mind you.”

As he spoke he discarded the first rod and took another.

“This is not your first birching is it Miss Wendover?” Bartram rasped as flicked the rod.

“No Sir, I had it twice last semester, but at home I feel the strop and switch, both of which have their own charms,” Rachel said bravely, but her bottom felt like skinned knees and throbbed worse than it ever had under correction.

“You have never been chastised by me though have you Miss Wendover?” Bartram said as he lined up the rod to Rachel’s punished tail.

“No Sir,” she said emphatically, words that escaped her in a gasp.

Behind them Miss Hardham had already helped Emily to her feet and was leading her sobbing into the corner for a good cry.

Rachel was about to thank the Dean for his kindness to Emily when the fresh rod struck and she gasped. With no consideration for the meeker girl, Bartram was free to make his point. He first plied her with 12 in under a minute, an act that left her panting like a horse and grunting somewhat on contact, and then he paused.

“You are a rebel aren’t you Miss Wendover?” he said, some admiration creeping into his voice.

Rachel considered this for a moment and realised that she had been. It was a proud thought but all in vain now. She had been defeated, and knew it. But it was too hard to take that last step of surrender; it had been ever thus with her. So consequently she didn’t answer.

Rachel’s bottom, unconsciously or no, was thrust up more than ever, more plums than peaches now on account of the colour and Bartram considered it a little tender. Her punishment had outlasted most he had administered; young college women usually given to sobbing to surrender before the first strike and yielding totally at little more than a dozen strokes. But she was stubborn and would have to reap what she sowed.

The Dean wiped his brow and then brought the rod in wide sweep across both buttocks in a slow steady motion to another count of 12. Each biting swish-thwack made Rachel jump now and once or twice she lifted a leg and let it hang. Her breathing was laboured to grunts and she groaned little at each blow as it landed.

Her bottom too was more than raw and the colour of tawny port wine. It put him in mind of beefsteak before the fryer.

“Miss Wendover, are you alright?” he whispered.

She nodded and looked back, her face a picture of misery and tears pooled in her eyes. It was enough he decided and tossed away the rod.

“Then we are finished,” he sighed in relief.

Rachel clawed her way to a standing position, but remained at a stoop as she contended with the fresh fire of blood assailing and assuaging her posterior parts. She would have given dollars to rub at her behind but her pride would not allow it.

“Mr Bartram,” she said in strung out voice so close to cracking, “Thank you, that was most instructive.”

As they shook hands she started to cry and for the first time he was uncomfortable. To hide his consternation he reached for his coat and took his kerchief from his top pocket and handed it to her.

“You are most welcome Miss Wendover,” he said with a cough and turned away.

Miss Hardham too was feeling the strain and to cover it she reverted to type and turned her attention to Emily.

“Right you madam,” she barked, “Let’s have you across my knee for that good sound spanking.”

It was almost amusing to watch the hapless Emily mewling like a child as she was spanked by Miss Hardham until she regained her posture of abandoned tears. It was hard going on a bottom that had been first birched, but at least she was on familiar ground and felt better for it.

As Rachel watched she felt she had earned the right to enjoy it somehow and identified with her friends cathartic punishment as she kicked and sobbed across Miss Hardham’s knee. As she looked on she even felt a little homesick for simple times. Licks for tricks, she thought ruefully.

“I’ll be good, I’ll be good,” Emily bawled as the secretary’s hand spanked on for some minutes.

Then at a nod from the Dean Miss Hardham brought the spanking to an end and set Emily on her feet. They all waited in silence while the Bartram replaced his jacket and Emily’s tears abated. Rachel even risked a surreptitious rub of her behind only to wince openly enough to collect a chuckle form the secretary. She blushed.

“Now young ladies, since you like to celebrate public nudity but can’t seem to behave yourself in town I have some news for you,” the Dean said sternly, his hands grasping the lapels of his coat.

Rachel suddenly had a sinking feeling and gulped. There was a rare sanction for rebels she had heard of and even giggled over. But surely… she swallowed down some dread.

“You are restricted to campus until further notice and for the remainder of today your skirts will remain pinned to the small of your back,” Mr Bartram intoned.

Emily gasped and Rachel felt as if she were falling.

“Be warned, I know my pin-work,” Miss Hardham scolded with a wag of her finger.

“Yes and you can collect your bloomers when you report to her to have the pins removed after supper tonight,” the Dean announced.

Supper, Rachel started, but that would mean…

“But we have class,” Emily wailed.

“Yes and any tardiness or failure to report will see you back in my study,” the Dean growled. “Now ladies I bid you adieu.”

*

As Rachel and Emily collected their short shoulder cloaks and hats from the hooks at the door in the hallway, both of them wished they had chosen longer outdoor attire.

“Oh Rachel whatever will we do?” Emily wailed.

Rachel sighed and regarded the tree-lined quad beyond the faculty building with dread. An apt lesson the Dean was teaching, she thought, grudgingly admiring the man. But she had to show some spirit.

“We are restricted to campus remember, a place forbidden to men,” Rachel said with more enthusiasm than she felt.

“There is the Dean and old Professor Jenkins…” Emily moaned, fresh tears springing to her eyes.

And the old gardener, Rachel thought silently, remembering that sometimes he had a young companion. But she didn’t remind Emily.

“Nonsense, the Dean has already seen the goods my girl and Professor Jenkins is a gentleman and will not look,” Rachel said boldly, “Come on, best foot forward, we have quite a day ahead of us and we must not be late, my posterior would not bear it.”

Then arm-in-arm the two women stepped onto the quad and marched as if to war as they headed to class. No one who saw Emily’s face could doubt her recent fate, although Rachel hid it better. However, there was no hiding the proof of their chastisement from the rear and as they walked they gathered a cascade of laughter, a sound that would follow them until the nine o’clock bell when the refractory emptied out after supper.

“Chin up, nothing to be ashamed of,” Rachel said boldly and slightly too loudly, but all the while she was thinking, licks for tricks, licks for tricks…

The end

As ever, All Our Yesterday’s has more like this.

Eleanor Whitlow blew a stray strand of hair from her forehead. At least it was not plastered there with perspiration on account of the heat. The heat, it was barely March, as she remembered it Boston would only have just seen off the snow. But Eleanor was a long way from Boston and as strive as she did for it, she could not really mind.

For one thing in Boston she would be regarded as a slovenly woman for not taming every last brown hair piled upon her head. However, here in Cade County she cut quite a dash without such attention to detail. Most of the other women were farmers or helped husbands with various trades and had little time for flippity gibbets who fussed over much about their appearance.

It was an attitude that would have appalled her back in Boston, but by Northern standards she had already failed and would have been now unemployable. Here in Cade County their rough and ready ways had opened the door for a second chance and some forgiveness.

Eleanor dusted the chalk off her hands and turned back to the blackboard. There was still a faint ghost of that day’s geography lesson to be seen but it was the recent memory of long lines of repentance she had written there that were far from faded in her mind.

Her bottom still held mottled traces of brown and yellow from the paddle that hung on the wall and she blushed. For Eleanor, so far Cade County justice had been very rough indeed. But for the first time in her life she felt safe. There was nowhere to fall now and all she had to do was teach and tend her new garden.

Mr Vaughn had been so kind to her since her mortifying correction and even though she could not yet quite look him in the eye, strangely she trusted the man.

“Are you truly saying I can stay?” she had sobbed when finally he had finished with her that fateful evening almost two weeks ago.

“Yes Miss Whitlow, you can stay and this little matter will remain between us,” he had chuckled paternally. “But if you ever disappoint me again you and me will be having more conversations like this do you hear?”

“Yes Sir,” she had gushed in earnest agreement as she blushed.

She was still blushing now at the memory of it, a warm glow that suffused her in a fuzzy magical way that trilled her with longing and excitement.

Eleanor might have wondered further at her emotions but from outside someone was calling her name. Looking up across the single room school she tried to peer through the door at the far end left open by the last of her students dismissed by the bell.

“Hello?” she inquired of the rectangle of afternoon sunlight.

“Miss Whitlow,” said a male voice a moment before a shadow filled the door.

“Mr Vaughn,” Eleanor twittered, now thrown into to turmoil that the man that was so close to her thoughts was suddenly made so real by his presence.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Henry Vaughn said gently.

Eleanor clasped at her throat and half turned away, “N-no, not at all Sir.”

“I trust you have no more trouble from the hellions of Cade County today?” His voice smiled as he strove to put her at her ease.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she replied through an uneasy grin. Her gaze flicked to the paddle on the wall and he followed it.

“I am quite sure of that,” he chuckled, “From what I saw that night, I doubt that young Edith Caldwell can sit down yet.”

He might have added or you either, but his face held no trace of any such thought. All the same Eleanor blushed to her ears and ducked her gaze to her shoes.

“Edith is sitting just fine,” Eleanor replied carefully, “For the moment anyway.” And so am I Sir, she thought, although that had not been so some three or four days before. “H-how can I help you today?” she added to change the subject.

“Oh… I… well seeing as you are new to town I wondered if you might join us for supper tomorrow night,” Henry told her.

“Us?” Eleanor asked, cocking one eyebrow.

“My niece and I,” he smiled, “I am her guardian you know, or was, she turned 21 this winter. I thought you might want to meet someone of your own age.”

“I am 22,” Eleanor blurted. It was a detail that only a young person would think important.

“Well close enough,” he smiled. At 53 the distinction was moot to him.

“I… eh…” Eleanor was blushing again. How could she possibly sit down for supper with a man who had…

“I am not a complete monster Miss Whitlow,” he laughed, “And Carrie is quite charming.”

“Are you sure you consider me fit company for your niece? After all…” Eleanor knew her deception had been overlooked, after all the County was probably desperate for a teacher, but Mr Vaughn knew her true colours now.

“Miss Whitlow, that matter is behind us and not a soul knows about our… misunderstanding. Not even Carrie. Please come,” Henry pressed.

Eleanor sucked in a breath and nodded. “Very well Mr Vaughn, what time?”

*

Henry Vaughn lived in a large white clapboard house on a hill overlooking town. It had a white picket fence shading some flower varieties that Eleanor didn’t known and a winding cinder path to a thick pillared porch.

She had opted for a simple yellow dress with a yellow sash and bonnet, but despite the unseasonably warm weather the cool of the evening had reminded her it was not quite summer and she had donned a floral pattern shawl for the walk up the lane.

Before Eleanor had taken three steps up the path the front door opened and a beaming girl in a blue country dress bounded out girlishly to extend her arms.

“Oh Miss Whitlow, I have heard so much about you,” the girl gushed, “And Boston, you simply must tell me. I have never been further than Charlotte Virginia and… oh where are my manners?”

The young woman suddenly looked horrified as if she been cursed and seized her face in mortification. The sudden movement rustled her tight corn golden curls making her seem much younger in an instant.

“You must be Carrie… Vaughn is it?” Eleanor was totally disarmed.

“Carrie yes,” the girl frowned before another grin burst from her face. “But my father was called Thompson, not that I knew him. The late Mrs Vaughn and my mother were sisters. Oh but you don’t care about that.”

Carrie’s eyes danced as she stepped off the porch to take Eleanor’s arm to guide her into the house.

“We are having chicken for supper, isn’t that fine?” she continued, “I simply love chicken…”

Eleanor might have agreed but Carrie didn’t pause and by the time they reached the drawing room the young teacher learned that Carrie had lived with Henry Vaughn since shortly before she turned 18 and that she had been to a finishing school in Charlotte, but that her mother’s demise had ended that prematurely.

Carrie might have said much more but Henry gave her a withering look and the girl finally fell silent.

“So if you are not totally bored and wish to flee,” he chuckled, “May I offer you some lemonade?”

“Oh mercy,” Carrie squealed and hurried off to fetch some.

“She is quite…” Eleanor began.

“Oh yes,” Henry winked.

*

Supper went well and for the longest time Carrie kept wide-eyed and quiet as Eleanor told them all about Boston. But pretty soon they got onto teaching and how schools in Cade County compared.

“You have a paddle on your wall?” Carrie gushed, “Do you ever get to use it? I bet you do.”

Eleanor shifted uncomfortably wondering how to answer when Carrie warmed to her new theme.

“In Charlotte Miss Harrison had a nasty cane and paddle in her room, but she only got it out in private. Getting a spanking in front of everyone must be awful,” Carrie gasped, but her eyes had more wonder in them than horror. “I only felt it the paddle twice and the cane once, but I was younger then. I was pretty much still only a child when I came here.”

Carrie was blushing fully strawberry now but her face was lit up with a smile.

“I was such a brat,” she giggled, “But Uncle Henry soon taught me.”

“Indeed,” Eleanor replied in a strained voice. She risked a glance at Mr Vaughn but he was still smiling at Carrie indulgently.

“Oh yes, at 18 I thought I was too grown-up for a spanking.” Despite the embarrassing admission Carrie did not stint in her fulsome revelations and added in a loud whisper, “I wasn’t here a month before I went right over Uncle’s knee. Right there actually,” she added, pointing at an ottoman in the corner of the dining room. “On the bare,” she mouthed.

“Oh yes, I… I can well believe it,” Eleanor muttered. Then somewhat louder she asked, “Did this happen very often?”

“No, not so very much,” Carrie said in a slow considered voice, “Mostly I get taken to the woodshed out back where uncle keeps a strop. It is also handy for collecting hickory switches, which the beastly man made me fetch myself as often as not,” she added ruefully.

Eleanor might have been aghast at Carrie’s use of the present tense had it not been for her own experience, but now she was intrigued.

“You make me sound quite the wicked uncle,” Henry chuckled, “But when was the last time that was required?”

Carrie made a pout and blushed a little more before answering in a mock sullen voice, “About a week before my last birthday as you well know, but don’t pretend my poor bottom is safe from justice should I still deserve it uncle. For I know now that a girl is never too old. Don’t you agree Miss Whitlow?”

“Well I…” Eleanor shifted awkwardly in her chair and turned her gaze to the remains of the pie on her plate.

The room was silent now and two pairs of eyes were suddenly studying her with interest until the young teacher shot an accusatory look at Henry. Imperceptibly he shook his head, but allowed a small smile to play about his lips. Carrie was oblivious to the exchange and continued to stare so earnestly at Eleanor that the teacher finally cracked a smile and gave a small laugh.

“As a matter of fact I think you are right,” she said at last, “But I shouldn’t have said so before coming here.”

“Oh really,” Carrie said eagerly, “Whatever has happened to change your mind?”

Eleanor and Henry traded a knowing look and the older girl blushed.

“Good country air and the likes of Edith Caldwell, I shouldn’t be surprised,” Henry cut in to rescue his guest. “Now if you will get on with the dishes Carrie, I will escort Miss Whitlow to the drawing room.”

“Call me Eleanor please, both of you,” Eleanor said warmly.

“And you must call me Henry,” Henry said expansively.

“Oh no Mr Vaughn, I couldn’t possible do that,” Eleanor said as soon as Carrie had left them.

“Why, because I am your employer, surely…?” Henry protested.

“Because,” Eleanor said in a hushed voice, “Apparently young women in Cade County aren’t too old for a spanking and under the circumstances I could not possible accept such a thing from a social equal Sir.”

Henry smiled politely in acknowledgment and made a small exaggerated bow.

“Even if such a thing was never going to happen again,” Eleanor added tartly.

Henry bowed again and waved her into his front parlour, but behind her back he couldn’t help a stifled chuckle.

*

Three days later Edith Caldwell was bending over her desk in an empty classroom with her draws at her ankles and her skirts tucked into the small of her back. The carrot-haired 18-year-old was somewhat less defiant than she had been the last time she had been in that position. In fact as soon as Eleanor took up the paddle from the wall she at once became earnestly sorry.

“I didn’t mean to… I mean, please Ma’am…” Edith wailed.

“I know,” Eleanor sighed, “But somehow you did.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Edith agreed miserably.

“But you know better to cross me this time, don’t you?” Eleanor said as she patted the hard surface of the paddle against Edith’s proffered bare bottom.

“Oh yes Ma’am, I’m sorry Ma’am,” Edith said quickly, risking a backward glance as she nervously licked her lips.

“It has been barely two weeks,” Eleanor observed drily, “Do I have to paddle you twice a month between now and your graduation?”

Edith rolled down her bottom lip and shrugged.

“Probably Miss, I can’t seem to help myself,” she groaned.

“Well, let us see if I can dissuade you,” Eleanor sighed again and drew back her arm. “We will do this in two parts I think. I sound application of the paddle to get your attention and then you can write lines on the blackboard while your bottom cools.”

The paddle stung in hard and Edith gasped through clenched teeth.

“Yes Ma’am,” she squeaked.

“Then I will spank you in earnest until you are very, very sorry,” Eleanor said sharply and spanked the paddle down with almost full-force as she emitted a grunt usually reserved for competitive shuttlecocks.

“Ahh, uhg, yes Ma’am,” Edith groaned.

The paddle struck six times more before a moist-eyed Edith was allowed to stand up stiffly and take up the chalk. The red domes of her bottom emphasised her dishevelled state which she was not permitted to repair as she limped to the board to start her imposition.

“What must I… what do I write Ma’am?” Edith sniffed.

Eleanor looked wistfully to the side and for some reason thought of Henry Vaughn.

“Young ladies are never too old to be soundly spanked on their bare bottoms,” she said wistfully. “Write in your neatest handwriting won’t you? I might leave your efforts on the board for your friends to admire tomorrow.”

Edith’s expression of horror was not missed by the amused school ma’am.

More at All Our Yesterday’s.

Here is an 1898 excerpt from the London Gazette.

Landlady spanks wayward lady tenant
Metropolitan Police were called to a house in Putney following ‘reports of commotion.’ It seems that a landlady, one Mrs Edna Beverage, 36, took the law into her hands when dealing with a difficult tenant by spanking her soundly with a coal shovel.

The shamefaced tenant, Miss Irene Grey, 21, refused all offers of assistance reportedly stating that “The matter had been resolved” and that “Mrs Beverage and she remained on very good terms.”

Police were called shortly after 3 A.M. after shouts and screams were heard coming from a downstairs parlour. They were by all accounts quickly satisfied after suggesting that future disagreements be resolved in daylight hours.

It seems that Miss Grey had returned home in the early hours to this respectable neighbourhood and had entered into a dispute with her landlady after rousing her from her bed in order to gain entrance to the house.

Mrs Beverage is reported as saying that she looked upon Miss Grey as a daughter and added “I see nothing wrong with dealing with her in an effective and traditional manner.”

The Gazette hopes that she got to the seat of the problem.

Sent in by Stan B. Many thanks.

We knew the Victorians were keen on spanking on the birch, it went hand in hand with keeping young women in their place but just how far did they go? Here we have a true account of a woman offering a discipline service for unruly adult daughters.

I came across this tale in the History of the Rod, but investigation online reveals several sources for this tale including from the contemporary source the Truth magazine.

It seems Mrs Walter operated from Oakfield Road, Clifton, in Bristol England and advertised her respectable chastising service for unruly daughters in the national papers. One advertisement read: ‘Bad temper, hysteria, idleness etc. cured by strict disciple and careful training’.

The Truth sent an undercover woman reporter along to find out. She explained she had an unruly daughter she wanted tamed. For the sum of £100 Mrs Walter offered to take the unruly girl under her wing for a whole year. She even offered references from the Dean of Lincoln, an admiral, a general and several aristocrats.

Mrs Walter was well equipped with a birch table, several birches and evidentially made the girls dress in a gown that was open at the back. She claimed never to birch or punish in anger, but to always punish soundly on the bare bottom when the young woman was ‘needful.’

“Taking the birch, I measure my distance and, standing at the side, I proceed to strike slowly but firmly” Mrs Walter explained. “By moving gently forward, each stroke is differently placed and six strokes may well be enough if given with full force. If the fault has been such as to need severe correction, then I begin on the other side and work back again.”

Mrs Walter did not like the girls to resist or even scream and for such behaviour she would add strokes or even repeat the punishment.

At its height Mrs Walter ran a respectable business advertising her services openly and contracting via the church magazine for a supply of birch rods from a reputable supplier.

Here is the The Truth article in full.

Some months ago I called attention to the advertisements on the part of the women, offering to flog unruly girls of any age on payment of a fee. It struck me that this sort of thing ought to be exposed, and I endeavour to enter into correspondence with the “operator.”

She probably, however, suspected the hook, for she did not rise to the fly. On October 5th the following advertisement appeared in the Daily Telegraph: — Bad temper, hysteria, idleness, &c, cured by strict discipline and careful trainer. Three girls received. — Address G., care of Mrs Clapp, St. John’s Wood, Clifton.

This was followed by this further advertisement in the Times of October 21st:— intractable girls trained and educated. Excellent references, “Hints on Management of Children,” “Training of Children,” and “The Rod,” Is each. Advice by letter, Is.— Address, Mrs Walter, Clifton. Since then several other advertisements of the same nature have appeared.

A friend of mine has thrown a fly, and the fish has risen to the bait. He got a lady of his acquaintance to write to say that she had an intractable daughter, whom she wished to be “broken in,” and requesting the advertiser to send pamphlets, and letter of advice. The books and the letter were sent. Here is the letter, together with a list of persons to whom references are kindly permitted:— Clifton, October 24. Dear madam, —Thank you for your latter of to-day. I am prepared to take another girl at any time, and offer her a comfortable and refined home, with educational advantages.

With much experience I am able to say that those girls who will not work at home, do so when they are taken individually. I have one girl here who had been troublesome for five years, yet who is most amenable to me and my wishes.

Her friends live near London, but I prefer not to refer to them unless I am obliged, because the daughter’s neglected education is a very sore subject with them. You will see from enclosed testimonials and lift of references that I can be recommended. Mr Christopher Heath knows the parents of one of my pupils, and will, I am sure, be happy to answer any questions you may like to ask him. My old friend, Admiral Strode, will be iu Town next week, but a man at, his club is not easily seen by a lady.

Mr proper name is Mrs Walter Smith, “Walter” being my nom-de-plume. My second daughter assists me with the girl and I have professors for music, painting, dancing, &c. I could take your niece for £100 per annum, entering at any time, if she is under twenty years of age. If more, I must have some little extra for holidays. My present arrangement is to be in Town about the 11th of November for a day, but I may be called there on Saturday for a few hours.

You will, perhaps, let me know as soon as you have come to a decision about your niece. My fees are usually paid three months in advance. Enclosed please find the explanation of my system. Believe me, dear madam, yours faithfully, E. Walter, MODUS OPERANDI WITH IXTRACTAULE CURLS.

Unwilling as I may be to say it, very often the fault of the girls is merely the natural result of careless training. Parents do not always realise the fact that unless the girls are well occupied and carefully trained at all times, much mischief will accrue. Some girls are idle constitutionally, this must be cured; others have a superfluous amount of energy, this needs to be well directed.

Whether at lessons or play, real interest should be taken so as to do it thoroughly. It is better if girls have got troublesome to make plans, and then completely change their system, beginning in a new groove. Change of scene is, of course, helpful but if for fresh habits are formed, and on the return improved comfort shows itself.

My first object when a girl is placed with me is to show her kindly, but firmly, that I must be implicitly obeyed It is always a good plan to rule by moral suasion if possible. When that has been fairly tried and fails, then it is positively necessary to use some other means of making the girl obey. First I warn her of the consequences of repeated faults; then, when a direct act of disobedience, a lie, or very serious fault shows itself, I tell her that presently I shall punish.

Never birch when angry. During the interval she thinks over the fault. I make preparations. These consist in having ready a strong narrow table, straps (waist band with sliding strap, anklets and wristlets), cushions, and a good, long, pliable rod, telling her to prepare by removing her dress, knickers, &c, and putting on the dressing-gown (hind part before). Then I talk seriously to her, show her the nature of the fault, and the need of punishment as a cure. Next I put on the waist band, after having told her that if she submits quietly no one need know; if she struggles I must call in help (girls generally prefer to be quiet).

Placing her at the end of the table (on which there are cushions to protect the person) I turn her body over the table and fasten the straps underneath it. Then I fasten the knees together, wrists the same, unless I anticipate a struggle— then I use anklets and wristlets, and fasten the limbs to the legs of the table. This really takes less time to do than to write about. Unfastening the dressing-gown, the orthodox surface is found at the right angle for punishing.

Taking the birch, I measure my distance, and, standing at the side, proceed to strike slowly but firmly. By moving gently forward each stroke is differently placed, and six strokes may be enough if well given with full force. If the fault has been such as to need severe correction, then I begin on the other side and work back again.

For screams increased strokes must be given. If a girl tries very hard indeed to bear it bravely, then, perhaps, I give 10 instead of 12.

Directly it is finished I cover up the part exposed, unfasten the girl, and, finding her probably more subdued, help to resolutions of amendment. If this birching has been judiciously and conscientiously administered, the girl will bear against the operation no resentment, but be ready to “kiss and be friends.”

After allowing the culprit a little time to compose herself and re-dress, I expect her to join the others, and no mention of any kind is made of the punishment unless future misconduct makes it necessary, and this is not often.

Birching is an extraordinary thing, not an every-day work, therefore care must be taken that the operator has the proper nerve and patience for the operation. Mothers are the proper persons to whip girls; but if they have not the necessary nerve, then it is better to appoint a deputy. After this serious business is over, much steady patience is needed, for a birching is no use whatever if a girl is to be petted again and allowed to do just as she likes. She must be under firm, kind discipline.

None of my girls have been more attached to me than those whom I have been obliged to discipline severely. They have a great respect for those who can master them, and who do not taunt them with past misdeeds. One good scolding is worth months of “nagging.” Efforts at amendment must be encouraged, and those having the charge of girls must not expect to reform them all at once. ” Rome vas not built in a day.” The old Adam will sometimes show itself, and for checking his work nothing is so useful as a birch rod judiciously used. E. W. [Here follow the names of gentlemen whose reference? are kindly permitted].

My friend then put himself in communication with the woman, saying that he had an intractable ward, aged sixteen. He had three interviews with her at a boarding-house in Porchester Gardens. Subsequently, as he was passing through Bristol, he called on her.

He describes her as a tall, strong woman, arrayed in the dress of some sort of order, and wearing a medallion with the effigy of a “Good Shepherd” stamped upon it. As an inducement to him to confide his ward to her tender mercies, she said she had girls of twenty in her house, to whom a week or two previous she had administered 15 cuts with a birch rod, and she explained that she had a considerable number of clients in London whose daughters she chastised. This appears probable, for when my friend called on her, it was difficult to get more than a few minutes’ conversation with her, there were so many waiting for an audience. Each interview costs half-a-guinea. She had before her a book, in which her flogging engagements were registered, and they appeared to be numerous.

I append two extracts from the pamphlet entitled “The Rod”: According to some writers and physicians, flagellation is a remedy for torpid condition and lack of muscular energy; it clears the brain, and braces the nerves; in short, there is nothing it will not do, when properly applied _ The rod has been found to cure all feigned diseases. For hypochondriacally cases it is an excellent remedy.

To be effectual the rods should be of the right sort. They can be bought at Clifton of Mrs Clapp, St. John’s road, from 5d upwards, trimmed if required. They can be sent post free for 3d each. They should be made from 2. to 3ft. Gin. long, and very thin and pliable. I get mine from a family who have made them for generations. And here are two extracts from the pamphlet entitled “Hints on the Management of Untractable Girls “Parents who have not the necessary patience or nerve should depute some person for this office, and, having done so, let them not be restricted in any way, for something must be left to the discretion of the operator. Anyone who would be deterred by screams or struggles from carrying out what has been begun should never attempt whipping, because, unless it is thoroughly done, ground is lost, and the girl will rejoice in her triumph.

Bristol 1896

Dear Mr Bradshaw,

I am sure that you think me a silly little thing and of no account at all, and who is to blame you? My behaviour at our last meeting could only have confirmed any low opinion you may have formed of me. But the truth is I hold you in a very high regard.

I hope I can disassociate myself from what Mrs Bateman and her daughter said, although I realise that on Sunday after tea my courage failed me and for form’s sake I said some harsh things. I very much admire your stance on the common failings of our society and whole heartedly support your remedy for them.

Far from shocking me, your tales of how you tamed the wilful and disrupted young women in Indian thrilled me and engendered in me such admiration that I can hardly tell you. I hope you realise how difficult this admission is and accept my sincere apologies that I expressed any other view at our last meeting.

I hope you understand that your radical views are very much frowned on in some circles and it is difficult for a young woman in my position to be associated with them. Reading this last sentence back I am appalled at my feeble excuses for my behaviour. I hope you see now what a dreadful little coward I am and how I would benefit from your severest attentions.

This brings me to the point of my missive.

If you can find it in your heart to forgive me I would submit wholly and totally to any punishment you can devise. I am quite certain that any treatment of me, no matter how humiliating, would do me the power of good.

Yours obediently,

Miss Amelia Johnson,
Hartcliffe, Bristol, 3^rd March 1896

These were Amelia’s words of as sent to one Major John Bradshaw after a certain tea party at Clifton. This was his reply.

Dear Miss Johnson,

I am heartened that you have seen the error of your ways although I cannot think that you truly understand what you are saying and still less what you are asking.

When I spoke of young giddy girls comporting themselves like hoydens even though they were above the age of 21, I very much had young women such as you and that dreadful Hortensia Bateman in my mind.

Perhaps you think that I spoke figuratively when I talk of birch rods and the application of the cane to a naked posterior. I suppose you imagine that I am some dashing no-nonsense sort who makes girls go weak at the knees from a scolding. The truth is, what you and more especially Mrs Bateman and her daughter need is a damn good thrashing where it would do the most good in the most public place possible.

I do commend you however for at least trying to make amends and if it will salve your conscience then consider yourself forgiven.

Yours sincerely,

Major John Bradshaw.

-

On receiving this letter Amelia was giddy with shame and it was all she could do not to faint. But nonetheless she steeled herself and gathered up her courage to make a reply.

Dear Mr Bradshaw,

I will not consider myself forgiven, how can I? When you speak of sanctions and consequences I have earned but have not suffered. Indeed, far from assuming you spoke figuratively, I hope and pray you were in earnest.

I do indeed deserve to be soundly thrashed upon my bare posterior and before the Batemans as an example to them, although I doubt if they would benefit from it. I know however that I would, if you I were to be thrashed before them or anyone else you deemed necessary.

I am a giddy girl and very much in need of a firm hand, but I cannot blame you for dismissing my suit in this matter. I suppose I am hardly worth the effort after my behaviour.

Yours obediently,

Amelia Johnson.

-

That might have been the end of it but after a week the good major sent this reply.

Dear Miss Johnson,

I may have spoken harshly to you and see now that you are neither giddy nor insincere. Judging from your behaviour on the previous Sunday I am sure you are right about needing a firm hand. However, I am not sure that a young woman of your sensibilities quite understands the reality and gravity of what you ask. Few young women in this land really do.

If I were to thrash you upon your naked behind you would cry out most dreadfully and not be able to sit down for many days afterwards. Furthermore if I were to take you in charge I could not in all conscience allow you to lapse back to bad behaviour and would consider it my duty to take you in hand more definitely.

I am quite sure after one encounter with me you would not like that.

Yours sincerely,

John Bradshaw

-

Amelia could scarce wait to reply.

Dear Mr Bradshaw or should I call you Sir?

Nothing you wrote could have pleased me more. But be assured I could expect no less than to be thrashed until I cried out and more. For no doubt you would hardly consider my punishment begun until I did cry out.

As for not sitting down for many days could anything be more apt? If I could sit down after a week I would know that you stinted in my pains.

Let us be clear, if I may make bold, we allude to posterior and my naked behind, but I know you would say without shame that I would be whipped upon my bare bottom and soundly.

Yours very obediently,

Amelia

The Major kept Amelia waiting three days for his reply and then it was to suggest a meeting.

*

London 2006

Modern Miss looking for a firm hand. You are an educated professional over 40 and in good shape, but with a youthful outlook. I am a 26-year-old solicitor who is presentable and of middling build and height with short dark brown hair. I am looking for an old-fashioned gentleman with a hand and a resolve that are equally hard.

You will take no lip or cheek from me and if I should test you then I require a very sound spanking on the bare bottom and an extended corner time both before and after my punishment as you decide.

If this doesn’t teach me, or even if it does, then additional punishments with whips, canes and other equipment of your devising can be utilised as you decide.

Please contact Anna Bradshaw at email provided.

Sean Joseph read the post twice before clicking the mail link. There wasn’t much to go on and these uppity wannabe women were often more trouble than they worth. At best they had read 50 Shades and dived into the deep end without a clue what they were getting into; as if that book had a clue about his world.

Still, nothing ventured nothing gained and there had to be some genuine girls out there. He decided on a layered approach by way of a test, the first requirement being a rather more fleshed-out response to his email which he crafted with all the care of a routine business note.

Dear Anna,

You will get more responses to your post than you can possibly handle. So many in fact that it is unlikely that you will get to mine. Nevertheless, if you should persist in your quest long enough not to be daunted by all the clueless losers then let’s do lunch.

I am a 42-year-old barrister with ample experience in dealing with curious brats wanting to test their limits and mine. I direct you to a brief summary on my contacts page and as it says there, photographs are available on request.

Sean couldn’t be bothered to dwell on the reply any more than that, experience told him that even if this Anna wasn’t a time waster then she would undoubtedly indeed get swamped.

Bristol 1896

Amelia was surprised at John Bradshaw’s polite and easy manner this time. He had been most generous at lunchtime and despite her bone-shaking nerves he had discussed India and some mutual acquaintances as carelessly as he might have done the weather.

Then he said, “Miss Johnston, are you sure it wise not to invite a companion, after all I do have something of a reputation?”

“Mr Bradshaw, Sir,” Amelia blushed, “It is your reputation that has enticed me to meet you. I doubt I have a friend in all of Bristol that would understand that.”

“Very well then if you are determined to make your amends we will retire to my house a short walk from here,” Bradshaw replied with an inclination of his head. “There we will test your mettle.”

As he had promised the walk had been indeed short and with every step Amelia’s steps had felt as heavy as her head light. In fact now that she considered the matter she wondered if she wasn’t some kind of trollop. But of course that was foolish. John Bradshaw was a gentleman and experienced in judicial and educational matters and this was no romantic dalliance.

This image of him was confirmed when they reached his house on the edge of Clifton. It was large and well-appointed, with a heavy discreet door in the middle of a quite charming Georgian brick façade.

“Now Miss Johnson, are you sure you wish to enter?” Bradshaw intoned in his best severe manner.

Amelia caught her breath and tried to supress the cloud of butterflies that had taken flight in her lower belly. Both these actions quite took all her attention and instead of being bold she could only return a small nod.

“Very well Miss, come with me,” Bradshaw said sharply, his earlier solicitude evaporating.

A few moments later they swept into an airy tan-coloured hallway and on into his study. In the grate was a grand raging fire that threw up a furious flickering light onto the mantle where carved faces of Pan with an army of imps seemed to dance and laugh at her.

“I don’t suppose you will come here again after today whatever you decide, but I suggest you take a moment to compose yourself,” Bradshaw said with a cough.

“Decide?” Amelia said, now puzzled, how many more delays would there be? She began to doubt that her nerve would hold out.

“I am duty bound to give you every opportunity to reconsider,” Bradshaw said airily as he studied his pocket watch.

Of course a man such as he must be very busy. Amelia worked her throat to a gulp but held her tongue.

“I am going to leave you now and when I return you will be standing sans culottes in that corner like the naughty minx you are. If not, you will be so good as to have departed,” he said imperiously.

“Sans… sans culottes?” she said breathily.

“Don’t be coy,” he sighed, “Your dress, your drawers, everything in your attire between the air and your… lower person.”

Amelia blushed. She had expected as much but even so… but after a pause she nodded.

With that Bradshaw departed.

*

London 2006

Sean had completely forgotten Ann by the time she got around to replying to his note.

“I am not surprised,” she said sheepishly, “I feel a bit of a fool now. You were right about being swamped. I wasted the last few weeks replying to utter wankers and the few that seemed okay… well they weren’t.”

They were sitting in a coffee bar in a narrow alley in Soho. The café specialised in Lebanese coffee and sweetmeats but although it did a steady trade for a wet Wednesday afternoon it was quiet enough.

“I don’t appreciate you calling people wankers, even if they are,” Sean said sharply so that Ann blushed. “Anyway, what makes you think I am any different?”

Ann shrugged and looked uncomfortable. She was as she had promised, of average height with an athletic build and very presentable. She wore her short dark hair straight and cut to a low fringe that served to obscure her eyes.

Although he claimed to be 42 he appeared of indeterminate age, both looking older on account of an abundance of grey hair and younger owing to his solid build and modern tight fit business suit.

“Don’t mumble,” he scolded causing her to blush again.

“I wasn’t, I didn’t even say anything,” she replied in a slightly whiney voice.

“And don’t answer me back, especially in that tone,” he snapped.

“Sorry,” she muttered and then more brightly, “I mean, I am sorry.”

Someone at the corner table looked over and Ann noticed the counter maid smirking at her too. This was a cue for more blushing, but it also made her feel squirmy.

“Listen, I want you to think about this, you don’t need to impress me, you turned up and that takes guts. Although I am not sure I believe you about telling a friend you were meeting me,” he said seriously and carefully gauged her reaction.

“I have thought about it,” she replied in a tight voice that suggested uncertainty. “I think…” she shrugged, “You know.”

Sean gave her a thoughtful pout in a kind of parody of Ann’s own demeanour as he stirred his coffee.

“No, I don’t,” he growled, “Say it.”

“I think we could work out, I mean, you know, I think you could take me in hand,” she said shyly, “I have a good vibe about it.”

Sean considered this for a moment and then nodded.

“How do I know you’re not pissing me about? You took a month to reply to me,” he said sternly. He was actually pleased with her but he needed to keep her off balance, she was too casual and cocksure of herself.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Alright then,” he whispered back. “Take your knickers off and give them to me.”

Ann’s eyes widened and she really blushed this time. She even took a moment to scan all points of the room before she could gather herself.

“I am wearing trousers,” she hissed at him.

The world stood on its edge and she felt herself falling.

Sean smiled gently and shrugged.

“We can do this another time when you’re ready,” he said.

Ann swallowed and shot a glance around her. The counter maid had gone out back and only one customer remained across from them. He was oldish and absorbed in a book with is back half turned from them.

“N-no, alright,” she said quickly.

She lifted her bum off the bench seat and unhooked the clasp. Luckily she was wearing no belt and the zip was an easy one. But suddenly she realised that she would have to get her trousers all the way off under the table before she could remove her knickers.

It took some doing and halfway through the manoeuvre the counter maid came back and then to Ann’s horror came over.

“Is everything alright?” she said, “Do you need anything?”

Ann blanched and shook her head. What could the woman see?

“I’ll have another coffee,” Sean said evenly, adding a belated “Please,” on account of the distraction of Ann.

Ann gaped in horror in Sean’s direction as she blanched.

“You have something to do,” Sean said by way of a reply.

The waitress was about to ask before realising she wasn’t being spoken to and turned away to fetch coffee.

Working her mouth Ann shot a glance at the remaining customer engrossed in his book and then at the retreating back of the waitress. Then quickly and smoothly she stepped out her trousers and with the bob her tugged down her knickers to slide them all the way down her legs. If the man or the waitress turned now they would see a good side view of her naked thighs. But Ann didn’t wait she openly ducked down and hauled on her trousers and was doing them up by the time the waitress reached the counter.

It was with an embarrassed grin of triumph that she handed Sean her knickers.

“You really are a naughty girl aren’t you,” Sean said as he took them, “What with your laxity of reply and your attitude, and now this so readily surrendered. Tell me, have you ever been spanked?”

Ann was all wide eyes and open mouth as her head swung wildly to take in the room. There was no doubt both the customer and the waitress had heard him.

“Well you are going to be,” Sean assured her.

*

Bristol 1896

John Bradshaw entered the room at his leisure. He was only vaguely aware that Amelia was still there but instead of looking directly at her he savoured the moment. For one thing her gown was draped carefully over the back of a chair and upon it was a cloud of lacy cotton comprised of a lady’s undergarments. For another… oh to hell with it, he turned.

Amelia was standing at attention to face the very corner of the room with her hands neatly tucked into the small of her back. She wore only a blouse and stockings so that the fulsome curves of her deep-cleft bottom were well displayed and totally nude.  A veritable goddess that took away his breath and something even stirred within his trousers.

He eyed both her and her clothes for any sign that she had disobeyed him in the slightest regard and noted that among the clothing was a corset. No doubt better off but not strictly what he had ordered.

“You are not accustomed to obedience then?” he scolded her. “I said only remove that which comes between the rod and your bottom.”

Amelia wanted to protest, but upon opening her mouth she found she had nothing to say. She was his and he could thrash her for the crime of having a bottom if he so desired.

“Miss Johnson, come here,” he sighed impatiently as if she had displeased him.

Amelia felt her face surge with hot blood and jerked where she stood. She was certain now that she was nothing but a trollop and deserved all that happened to her. Nonetheless she slowly obeyed after backing from the wall as far as she dared she meekly turned around; an operation that was only accomplished after bowing her head and cupping her hands as her shield before the dark thick triangle of her sex.

“For the corset and to put you in your place I am going to place you across my knee and soundly spank you,” John told her. “Afterwards you will be caned.”

Amelia swallowed and ducked her head respectfully as she muttered, “Yes Sir.”

Then as she watched her removed his coat and sat as if on a throne upon a large padded armless chair as he beckoned to her.

It took an eon for Amelia to totter to him and as she reached him she almost fled. But like a man with a skittish horse handled her firmly and taking her arm tumbled her down across his lap. This so elevated her big bare bottom that she felt that it filled the whole of the room behind her.

Oh why do women have such big bottoms, she wondered? Although it was a truth she was certain was about to be revealed to her.

John dug deep for a sense of genuine outrage, suppressing all prurient thoughts engendered by the proximity of Amelia’s fulsome nudity. Or at least, he decided, that he did so as much as was necessary. There was no sense or honour in hypocrisy here and why shouldn’t a man enjoy his work?

His hand struck her sharply across both cheeks and she squeaked in surprise.

“I am sorry,” she mumbled, “It was a shock.”

John answered her with another firm sharp smack, which he followed with two more.

There was a satisfying handprint on Amelia’s alabaster skin and the red of it had begun to flow like a blush into the dark cleft and across both domes.

Amelia herself was gasping a little as she squirmed, but otherwise strove to be ladylike; an act of bravado even she felt was absurd and unworthy even. After all she was here to be tamed and made to surrender. Her dignity was to be spent cruelly as was deserved and if Mr Bradshaw chose to spank her until she bawled like a hungry brat before a host of his friends then she could never complain. Well she certainly could and probably would, but for such a sin she should be further punished and sent to the corner for an hour or two for humbling.

The spanking was sharp and steady, imparting a sting that set Amelia hissing and kicking her feet like a theatrical heroine. Her bottom soon had the hue of a coal in the grate and burned almost a hot.

“Mr Bradshaw Sir, oh… ooh I shall… please,” she gasped.

In truth she wanted to beg and beg hard for sobbing mercy. But what if he acceded? Could she forgive him? A spanking was what she craved and no childish smack-bottom would serve for her needs. But hadn’t he promised that this was but an hors d’oeuvre?

In the event she needn’t have worried. Bradshaw spanked her as hard as he might for a good quarter of the hour, his hand as relentless as an industrial machine and as taut as a man hunting at hounds. By then Amelia’s bottom was a dark blasted red and she kicked and howled like hoyden under a brand.

Amelia herself muttered oaths and cries, but knew not what she said. She only knew the cleansing burn and the mastery of a man as she spilled her tears into the carpet.

Finally the spanking was over and the sobbing woman was set on her feet where she clutched at her sore bottom eschewing all dignity as she hopped around the room.

“Enough of this comedy,” John barked as he pointed to the corner.

Amelia sniffed hard and nodded her head in acknowledgment, not yet trusting her words. But wild horses couldn’t tear her hands from her bottom hinds as she struggled to regain composure. But finally she tamed the sting as she had been tamed, well enough anyway so that she could stumble to the corner and represent her nose to where both panelled walls met.

“I am sure you remember the nursery,” John said sharply.

He didn’t explain and merely watch her as she struggled with her shame. It was satisfying to see the grown woman peel away her soothing fingers and place them humiliatingly on her head.

“Would that I could take a photograph for the newspapers,” John chuckled. “Unless you resign my guidance, one day I will have you so in a room of your peers for their edification and your utter shame.”

Amelia gasped at this news and her heart lurched as if she were falling. She would fall to boot-licking begging to escape that fate, but part of her knew she would never complete her life until she was so humbled for this man. Even the knowledge that such things could really happen was a fulfilment her life had not yet known.

*

London 2006

The paddle landed relentlessly as Ann bucked and bawled across Sean’s lap. Her trousers had been left at her ankles and now hobbled her as she clawed at the side of his thighs and shins.

They had arrived at his Warwick Square apartment in a taxi and she had been ushered through the grand entrance without ceremony. The moment they had entered she had been given two choices. Drop her trousers or leave. She had even giggled at the challenge and had poked out her tongue as she fumbled at her waist.

But what had followed was no giggle-game for novices. Sean had promised her a sound spanking and sound spanking was what she was getting.

Even when he had been using his hand she had at once known she was out of her depth and only a sense of futility had convinced her not to call the whole thing off. Never had fantasy and reality been so at odds. But the short heavy leather paddle was a revelation. He might just as well have sat her in a fire and left her there.

“I’m sorry, oh God,” she howled, “I’ll do anything, shit, shit, shit…”

Sean stopped abruptly and pressed the paddle like a sizzling grid iron to her cherry seared bottom.

“You made it clear you didn’t do safe words. Do you want to leave?” His voice was calm and lawyer-like.

Ann sniffed and panted like a dog on the moors.

“No but…”

“Too rich for your blood eh?” he pressed her.

She nodded and then immediately shook her head even more emphatically.

“I don’t want any say in this but… it’s hard,” her lip trembled as she sniffed to a small sob.

“Take a minute,” he said gently, patting at her bottom with the paddle.

“Not wimping out on me are you?” she shot back.

The paddled answered her and he even took it to new heights.

Bigmouth, bigmouth, bigmouth, she cursed herself, but it was great to beg.

“I’ll suck your cock,” she pleaded, “You can do my bum… you can do my bum and then I’ll suck your cock.” It was a litany of shameful release, but her voice was steady and challenging rather than entirely sincere. That was an attitude that would come later after she was utterly defeated.

“You little slut, just you wait,” he chuckled.

The paddle cracked down in a volley that set her to classic yelling. It was going to be along afternoon.

*

Bristol 1896

For the main event Amelia was set to kneeling on the floor and made to bend over a piano stool. The carpet was soft under her knees and there was something satisfying about the way that the padding of the stool pressed into her lower belly. But the posture it placed her in was obscene. Her big red bottom stuck up like a horse’s crupper and heaven knew what charms Mr Bradshaw could gaze upon.

An old school friend had once told her of a device that was used to wash a woman’s intimate parts following a union with a man. It was supposed to prevent issue, she had been told. But she had been quite shocked at the time and why she should have thought of that now was a puzzle.

Instead she considered her bottom and how bare it was before a man. But at least it had cooled down a little and there was no denying that she thoroughly deserved this punishment.

Mr Bradshaw, for his part, had taken up a long thin cane for the next operation and now stood behind her brandishing it as he contemplated the target.

After a long silence he said, “If you call on me again I will birch you soundly as an entrée for the cane. I have quite a collection, some of them quite biting. I once had a whipping-brothel madam sobbing in her gin and quite unseated for a month after a session with a Mandalay Monster. But have no fear this is but a senior girl tickler from a Ladies’ College in Sussex. An old acquaintance of mine gave it to me in remembrance of her school days.”

“You are considerate Sir,” Amelia whispered.

“As it is your first time I will give you… 12,” Bradshaw told her, “and I want you to count them. Miss one and I’ll repeat it.”

“Yes Sir,” Amelia said breathily.

The cane sounded soft and silky as it cut the air. The impact too was sharp and clean and not half so hideous as Amelia had been expecting. But her thought was too previous as the biting stroke cut deep and did not slice properly for a beat or two. Then it was as a sword and Amelia screamed.

“One… nuh,” she choked, then unbidden she added, “Thank you Sir.”

Still it took her half a minute to ride out the pain and compose. It was a luxury she would not have for the next eleven, which came quick and fast at her announcement over the next two minutes. It was an ordeal that caused her to miscount two strokes that had to be repeated. Afterwards the corner had been a heavenly place for a good long cry.

Jake Harmon swung the horse around and scanned the horizon. It wasn’t a very big column of smoke but it was definitely in the vicinity of the ranch and he felt sick. There hadn’t been any Indian trouble in these parts for years and besides he hadn’t heard any shots, but all the same he was crushed with dread.

Amy was no great shakes as a shot and he hadn’t let that brat Sarah near a gun. He knew Emma could shoot well enough; he had caught her with his rifle over at Bear Creek the previous summer. That day he had whaled the tar out of the youngest for it but he had to admit that she was quite good.

The trouble was, he had the rifle. He patted the stock for some reassurance and then broke into a gallop.

On occasions like this he wished he was leaner. The years hadn’t been kind and his solid muscle, so useful for ranch work, did sometimes slow him down. Not that he was old, but at 36 he was a good five years older than Amy and lucky to have her.

What he wasn’t so lucky to have were the girls. Amy called them cousins, but they weren’t really kin. However his wife had grown up with them and when their folks had died she had moved from the role of big sister to more like a mother.

Both girls were a handful with not a hatful of horse sense between them. Sarah at near 21 was a brat and a half; just itching to fly the nest. Emma having just turned 18 was in some ways still a kid. She even swung by the prairie school when she had a mind to, and took a licking when she didn’t. She never seemed to resent it overmuch. Jake remembered her saying ‘a spanking was just an occupational hazard of being a kid.’ Still he wished that she would prank less and grow-up some. That darn girl never seemed to know when to stop.

Before he reached the house and stockade the smoke had seemed to dwindle and it eased his mind some, but he wasn’t satisfied until he broke the ridge and looked down. From the crest he could see Amy beating at some smouldering straw with a horse blanket and the other two were dashing back and forth with buckets. There was still smoke wafting from the barn but with no apparent damage he eased back and walked his horse in.

“What happened?” he called out once he reached the picket.

Amy mopped her brow and kicked at the last of the ashes. She was a handsome woman with long raven hair piled on her head to reveal her delicate neck. Not that she was slightly built, at a spit over average she was a curvaceous women with full curves and dark smiling eyes that spoke of words unsaid.

“These damn girls,” she growled, “I don’t know where the hell they got tobacco from anyway.”

“They were smoking?” Jake gasped.

“In the barn,” Amy said sourly and shot a glare at both younger women.

Jake wheeled his horse and let it dance eagerly as he too eyed the girls. Then he dropped from the saddle and took a towering stance before them and folded his arms.

Sarah glared back at him for a moment before her face collapsed in a pout and her deep sapphire eyes dropped to find the ground. Emma was already looking rather sheepish and was biting her lip. One blonde curl, not as golden as her sister’s, dangled across her forehead as if lost adding to a general look of almost tomboyish dishevelment that often clung to the girl.

“Where the hell did you get tobacco?” Jake snarled.

“I only had a bit,” Sarah protested, “It was Emma.”

Half way between cheeky and apprehensively embarrassed, the younger girl stifled a laugh and tentatively offered him a wincey smile as if her teeth were teasing beans in the hopes of not breaking their tender skins. Although it might have been another skin she was thinking off.

“You gonna spank us?” she carefully ventured.

“A spanking!” Amy exclaimed, “They nearly burned down the barn, they were smoking for darn’s sake. I hope you are going to do more than just spank ‘em. You darn well ought to switch them 10 ways ’til Sunday and… and… heck you ought to raise welts like worms as thick as my thumb. If they can sit down come church time then Jake Harmon you ain’t no man of this house,” she went on spitting with rage.

“You can’t spank me, I’m 21… well damn near,” Sarah said indignantly, “As for a switching… it was all Emma’s fault.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed. He hated women cussing, but he was pleased to see Emma duck her head and take the blame without complaint.

“You ain’t 21 yet and besides you should know better,” Jake drawled, reserving the bulk of his ire for the elder sister. “Smoking is enough to get you a bottom blistering by itself, but the barn… you… you… Christ alive, I almost expect this from Emma, but you.”

“Please Jake, it was all my fault,” Emma put in. Her voice had a quaver with a sad tone mirrored in her eyes.

“Yes well…” Jake growled, “Don’t think I have forgotten you so don’t make those cow eyes at me. Come here.”

Jake seized the girl’s arm and tugging her over to an unburnt hay bale he tossed across his lap and rucked up her skirts and petticoats. Her draws opened at her hip with a string, once tugged they slid over her hips and down her pale white thighs easily enough. Resigned to her fate Emma even raised herself up some to allow the operation, not that she didn’t feel a head rush as her creamy bare bottom was exposed to Jake’s gaze, even her ears burned from the shame.

Jake swatted her tail hard for a score of swats, placing a sharp sting there as he drew some healthy yelps. In short order the once white behind turned sharp pink and then a deeper red. Then spying a short handled horse brush at his feet he snatched it up and lay a sounder thwack to her seat with the flat side.

“Nyah,” Emma squealed and kicked her legs in redoubled distress.

The brush spanked down a dozen times and then again with a biting efficiency that even had the hardened Emma bawling for pity. By then her bottom had transcended mere red and between burgundy blotches it had an almost purple hue.

Amy watched the action with a satisfaction usually reserved for haggling at the market and she pursed her lips to obscure her smirk.
Sarah stood bug eyed with her hand pressed to her mouth. There was something primeval, if not actually thrilling about the scene and even the vague suggestion that she was next couldn’t quell it. And vague prospect it was for at nigh on 21 she was certain Jake’s threats had been empty. Besides, it was all Emma’s fault.

Emma had been spanked too often to care what entertainment value she was giving, all she knew was that her bottom was a blaze and there was nothing, but nothing she wouldn’t do to make it stop.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please Jake,” she sobbed. She took comfort from the words and even from the futility of them as she endured the cleansing pain.

Jake spanked her soundly for a good while yet. He knew that the art of a good spanking was that it should not truly begin until the spanked one wanted it to stop; else there was little point to it at all.

“This is for smoking,” Jake told her, “You hear me?”

“Yes Sir,” Emma wailed.

“You still got something for hazarding the barn, you hear?” he continued.

“Sir, yes Sir,” Emma bawled.

By then of course Emma’s bottom held two purple pads of blistered welts, rubbery and raised at the cleft and curves. She was also a broken mess of sobbing regret.

Jake let her slid to the floor where she clawed at her hind parts and shook the ache out of his arm.

“I want that pretty nose of yours touching the barn wall with both your hands firmly on your head,” he said with an edge.

Miserably and slowly, Emma obeyed, remembering of course to fix her skirts at her hip in a knot so as to leave her bare bottom cooling in the breeze.

“Now you,” Jake told Sarah.

“No come on, Jake, you c-can’t,” she whined.

As Jake took her hand she dug in her heels and tried to pull away. But it was easy enough to haul her up and dump her without regard face down across his lap. Then with only slightly more difficulty than he had with Emma, he rucked up her skirts and dragged her draws down the same.

Sarah’s bottom was less chubby than Emma’s, but was prominently well-defined with dimples above her deep-set cleft.

“Amy don’t let him,” Sarah wailed.

Jake snorted derisively and shot a glance at his wife who just shrugged. Then again taking up the brush and swatted it against Sarah’s proffered bottom.

“Yiii omigosh,” Sarah squealed.

In Jake’s view Sarah didn’t get spanked half enough, not that it seemed to matter to her, she did take on so during every spanking. But undeterred, Jake brought his arm down again and again with a biting thwack that ricocheted off the barn walls until sounded like they were under a volley of pistol shots.

“Lemmy up,” she squealed , her legs kicking wildly, “You can’t do this…” she continued to wail and bleat on into something like boo-hoo.

As the spanking went on her bottom went a brighter shade of red than her sister and despite her cries, it more firmly resisted the assault. In any case in Jake’s mind she was the more culpable of the two and coupled with her seemingly unrepentant attitude she was far more needful of a good sound spanking. Determined to make sure she had it, he spanked her for some minutes beyond what Emma got until she too was sobbing out regrets and utterly defeated.

“Don’t think I am done with either of you,” Jake snarled as he spanked on.

“That’s the way,” Amy said with grim satisfaction hanging on every word, “You both need a good leathering as well as the switch.”

On this occasion Jake was of like mind but by this time the sun was low and although the chill might have been welcome on the girl’s naked behinds, he decided that the family should retire to the house.

“Alright, we’ll continue this discussion tomorrow,” he said bringing the spanking to a halt.

Sarah tumbled into a heap of tears at his feet and immediately regretted the contact her bottom made with the ground.

“Ooh, she squealed and grabbed at her behind.

“There is a corner for both of you up at the house,” Jake sighed, “I suggest you get your tender tails and noses correctly positioned before I get there or else you’ll get another hiney dusting instead of your supper.”

As the two girls scurried away, two naked smouldering bottoms bobbing in the twilight and Amy glowered after them. If she had her way they would go to bed without supper. She was still watching after them when Jake came alongside her and put his arm around her waist. With a grin he nodded his head in the direction of the fleeing girls and shrugged.

Amy chuckled dryly and rolled up her eyes. Another chore handled, she supposed, then she sighed and looked about her.

Where the sun had disappeared the sky had come alive in a blaze and already the early stars were breaking through the deep dark blue. The cattle too mooed and lowed around them, shuffling six dozen sets of hooves as they set for the night. For Amy with her man beside her it was the sights and sounds of home.

“Come on, you can fix supper and the girls can take theirs off the mantle,” Jake chuckled.

Amy dropped her head to his shoulder and cuddled in hard as arm in arm they ambled towards the house. Then looking back at the barn Jake to make sure everything was indeed okay he remembered something.

“I have to see to the horse,” he groaned.

“I’ll do it, you check the barn one last time for any lingering sparks,” Amy said with a final squeeze of her man.

By the time they finally got to the house both young women were standing in opposite corners of the kitchen-parlour with their skirts duly plied into the small of their backs. Emma was standing dutifully and meekly at the furthest point from the door trying to be as small as possible. Sarah on the overhand was sobbing copious hard-done-by tears and making little shadow stomps with her feet as she loudly sniffed.

No one spoke as Amy busied herself with the supper and Jake sat thoughtfully in a chair watching her. If the girls had hoped to escape their penitent vigil anytime soon, then disappointment awaited them. For despite their variously meek and snivelling presence the rancher had put them from his mind as he pondered something.

“Amy,” Jake asked carefully, “Tell me again about how you discovered the girls smoking?”

Amy had just been placing the first of the food on the table and she stopped to frown. She shrugged. “I was out in the barn looking for something when I heard them out back,” she said.

“So they weren’t in the barn?” Jake pressed her.

“Well just… you know by the side back door. They must have dropped a lit one just inside.” Amy was frowning. It had been all settled hadn’t it?

“What about the storm lamp?” Jake said casually.

Amy’s nose wrinkled up as if she was puzzling at some forgotten thing.

“I-I took it out to the barn… you know, with the late afternoon sun it gets dark some out in there.” Amy suddenly felt her tummy tighten. She was missing something and there was something about Jake’s demeanour that seemed worryingly familiar.

“So you had a lit lamp when you discovered the girls?” Jake said sharply.

“I…” Amy couldn’t remember. She had seen the smoke and heard giggling… then…? But the smoke had been from a drag and had drifted high. There had been no fire at that point, had there? She shook her head and shrugged.

“The fire was over by the tack boxes. It had been started by the storm lamp,” Jake explained. “Looks as if it had fallen off one of the crates; maybe set down carelessly while someone dashed off to attend to something urgent.”

Amy felt sick and the heat rose straight to her face. Then she swallowed. The girls too had heard. Sarah stopped her sniffing and Emma risked a look over her shoulder.

“Did you know that the fire was your fault?” Jake asked in a slow firm voice.

“No I… it wasn’t… I mean they were smoking,” Amy whined. “I just didn’t think.”

“No, I guess not,” Jake sighed. “Girls, I guess you have been spanked enough on account of the smoking. It seems I have another culprit for the barn fire. Girls, get to bed.”

“But… Jake? What about our suppers?” Emma asked.

Sarah had been about to round on Jake and Amy for getting a spanking, but she figured they were still mad about the tobacco and perhaps she should quit while she was ahead. She hadn’t been looking forward to eating super of the mantle in any case.

“Take it to bed with you,” Jake snapped.

The two women didn’t need telling twice and after snatching a plate and some bread they skedaddled up the ladder to the loft where they usually slept.

“Jake?” Amy said uneasily, “Why are you looking at me like that? It wasn’t my fault.”

Jake slowly got to his feet and turned around the chair. Then shucking off his coat he cross the room to take up a bath-brush hanging by the hearth. It was usual to bathe before the fire in winter and the only tub was a tin one hanging out back. Once in his hand he patted it firmly and then crooked his finger in a summons to his wife.

“Y-you can’t, Jake, please, the girls,” she said pleadingly as she backed away.

“Oh I think I can,” Jake growled. “For being so careless and then blaming the girls you’ve got a good sound spanking coming. As for hazarding the barn… what was it you said, a switching, ‘raise welts like worms?’ Someone I know won’t sit down for a week.”

“J-jjjaaaayke,” Amy wailed as she backed up even further.

Tired of waiting Jake reached out with a stride and seized Amy’s wrist. Then hauling easily back he sat down and hefted her across his knee.

“Jake,” Amy squealed.

Her skirts tumble dup and over her back along with her other fripperies, leaving her white cotton draws to be tugged down to a pool below her knees.

“Jake,” Amy screeched again, “You wouldn’t dare.”

He snorted and pressed the flat side of the brush to his wife’s bare bottom.

Amy gritted her teeth and rolled her eyes back like a wild pony as she tried to gauge when and where the first spank was coming. Then it came.

“Ah Jake,” she yelped, but most of her energy was needed to ride the pain and she was forced to grab at his calves so as not to reach back.

As with the girls, Jake delivered a fast furious spanking that landed a good 50 or 60 swats in as many seconds leaving his wife groaning through her clamped jaw and raggedly breathing from the strain. It was a story well told on her bare bottom, which quickly stained dark strawberry welts.

Above in the loft the sisters had opted to lay face down facing the rail overlooking the main room below. The stew was good and hot, a good match for their twin domed bottoms peeking above the blanket’s edge to cool off. Neither minded that too much now, the show below was such a fine distraction.

“I reckon he’s spanking her good,” Sarah giggled.

“I reckon she deserves it,” Emma agreed.

Sarah made a rueful face as she reached back to rub at her own bottom. “I know she does,” she said.

“To be fair, we deserved our spankings too,” Emma whispered at the implied criticism of Jake or Amy.

“I suppose,” Sarah said with a pout, and she winced to make sure Emma knew she still suffered.

Below the spanking was gathering pace and a red-bottomed Amy had given up gritting her teeth and her laboured breathing to give over fully to howls and hollering. This was unsurprising given the rapid and heavy pace of the spanking. Jake’s arm was like a piston on a jenny machine or one of those fairground steam engines.

“I don’t think he’s all that set to stop,” Emma said with a note of awe.

“I reckon not,” Sarah smirked as she took a health dollop of stew. “I was so dreading supper, but this is rather good.”

Emma gave her an old-fashioned look and tried to appear superior. She knew full well that Sarah wasn’t talking about the stew.

“Jake, aieee,” Amy was screaming; “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” she wept.

“Now that’s a spanking,” Sarah said emphatically.

“Indeed it is sister,” Emma said with a mock formality and they both regarded each other for a moment and then nodded in unison.

The spanking went on for a good while and long before Jake had finished Amy’s bottom was as raw leather and blistered to hell and gone. Then finally he pulled her into his arms while she collapsed sobbing into them.

“I’m sorry,” she wailed when at last she could draw breath.

“I know, I know,” Jake soothed.

“You still gonna take a switch to me?” she asked in the voice of a little girl.

“I reckon tomorrow I will,” Jake told her.

“Fair enough I suppose,” Amy said through rueful tears.

“Now young lady, you can go stand in the corner while I have my supper,” Jake ordered her.

“Yes Sir,” Amy groaned.

Then remembering something, she shot a glance up at the loft, but the impromptu theatre lovers had already ducked back into the shadows with supressed giggles. God if they looked down and saw her in the corner she would just die, she knew she would.

“Corner, now,” Jake barked.

Amy hustled to it furiously blushing as there was no way the girls above hadn’t heard that. It wasn’t even the end of it, tomorrow she had to cut a switch for a real hiney blistering. There was no way the girls would miss that, damn and blast, me and my big mouth.

Many years ago I saw a beautiful graphic portrait from the 1950s. It was of a very smart looking aristocratic woman with a young maid across her knee giving her a spanking. The drawing was within an otherwise vanilla collection and no particular attention was drawn to this image as if it was quite commonplace.

I have not seen this image since, but I do remember the caption was simply ‘spanking the maid.’

Now I have posted on this topic before but every now and then I chance on something I haven’t seen or don’t remember seeing before. This time I found some interesting articles on Google Reader.

This incomplete snippet was taken from Woman’s Weekly in 1911 was supplied under the heading ‘domestic discipline.’

Do you still spank your servant girls? Many perfectly sound housekeepers still do, although the practice seems to be in decline. Professional agencies have suggested that the decline is down to modern thinking and the growing shortage of girls willing to enter service in the first place.

The Modern Woman’s Guide to Good Housekeeping says that spanking of girls over 21 is very much a thing of the past and good servants will expect better conditions than previous generations.

Your grandmothers probably had girls in their house who had begun their service at aged 14 or 15 and who were treated as part of the family. But this way of things is sadly in decline and modern women are more inclined to move on or even get married younger.

In 1883, the Domestic Gazette, suggested that “birching your maid is decidedly old hat, and not to mention barbaric. If one has a girl in their house needful of such harsh treatment, then this humbler reporter is of the opinion that you might consider seeking a new maid.”

However, unlike the later article there is no doubt that maids needed punishing as the article goes on to say, “if your maid needs corporal chastisement then might this writer suggest that a good old-fashioned slipper applied to the naked posterior is quite effective enough. Or for the older more recalcitrant girl that one applies a patent leather strap to the same place.”

I particularly like an advertisement form an even earlier date that ran the legend ‘Domestic Trouble?’ above a crude line drawing of a nervous young maid and went on to offer: “Whips, crops, rods of all sizes for those difficult servants.”

No doubt the reality of this employee abuse was rather grim, but I chose to remember that drawing I saw of the 1950s maid and the romantic fantasies it conjures up.

Lady Arabella reached the rise above Grainger Manor with relief. The party had gone on for far longer than intended and against all expectations she had been winning all night. That arse Carstairs had lost game after game until she had nigh on £300 in front of her, which was all very well, but the trouble with winning was that it was very bad form to leave the table without giving the other fellow a chance.

None of this would have much mattered if Edward didn’t so disapprove of gambling; oh to be sure he would turn a blind eye if she were discreet. It was all very reasonable she supposed, but sometimes she wish he would stick to his guns rather and use a firmer hand.

Arabella sighed and plucked a stray tight coil of red from her face, she must look a sight, she thought wearily. She regretted now dismissing the coachman and deciding to walk the three miles home from Brantley. Her feet were killing her.

Oh well, she thought, to bed before anyone gets up for tomorrow’s hunt. No one will care at all by breakfast.

All might have been well but on reaching the terrace she was startled by a coach rattling across the gravel in the dawn light.

“Who the hell is…?” Arabella was indignant.

The coach was unfamiliar, but not the girl who stepped from it. Two girls, she amended as Henrietta stepped out behind her elder sister.

“Oh,” Georgina exclaimed when she saw Arabella. “Hello Arabella,” the 20-year-old said sheepishly.

“Oh cripes,” Henrietta gasped from behind her.

Both young women were in more of disarray than Arabella herself, and neither had a right to be, it being even longer past their bed time than their guardian’s wife.

“Um… we…” Henrietta tried to explain, her fingers pointing impotently at the coach. “Lord Uxbridge and…”

“His lordship and his brother were kind enough to lend us their coach after ours…” Georgina cut in somewhat haughtily, but she was careful not to continue.

“And what has Edward said about you and the Uxbridge’s?” Arabella sighed. “As to returning home at…” actually Arabella had no idea what the time was and bringing attention to it did rather offer the question to her own nocturnal tardiness.

“Do you think Sir Edward is going to beat us?” Henrietta asked meekly, her teeth now worrying her lower lip.

Georgina shot her sister a horrified glance as she racked her brains for an answer to that particular question before…

“Naturally, I shall insist upon it,” Arabella scolded them.

Henrietta winced and bowed her head.

“Oh Arabella, please speak up for us,” Georgina wheedled, “We only…”

“Yes?” Arabella said sharply.

“Well…?” Georgina pouted, not sure now how her sentence was going to end.

“What did you think would happen, returning at this hour in the Uxbridge coach?”

Henrietta proffered a single finger into the air like a student in the nursery. “We thought perhaps that no one would know,” she said honestly.

Arabella laughed warmly. “You and me both,” she chuckled.

“Ooh,” Georgina stamped her foot to set her soft brown curls shaking on her head.

Henrietta pulled a face and made a heavy sigh. “I guess there will be two very sorry sore bottoms by this time tomorrow,” she said ruefully.

“At least two,” Arabella muttered.

Georgina drew her face into a tight line and her expression was a heartfelt ‘damn it.’ Then a look of horror flooded her face, “Oh my God, I forgot: the hunt!” she exclaimed.

Henrietta drew three neat circles with her mouth and eyes before supress a gasp with a dainty hand. “Me too,” she squeaked.

“The hunt is the least of your worries, believe me,” Arabella sighed, and rolled her eyes.

She was trying to imagine what was worse, a well welted posterior tackling a hunting saddle or a naked one displayed in shame.

“Arabella, I really think…” Georgina had spread her arms wide in agitation as she began to launch into a plea for mercy.

“Oh do shut up Georgina, go to bed, we will face Edward in the morning,” she sighed heavily.

Somewhere a cock crowed and the sun lit up the horizon.

*

“Little brats, what?” Edward chuckled as he and Arabella waited for the girls to meet them in the study. “And those damn Uxbridge boys too… if wasn’t for that…”

“Edward,” Arabella began, her lips now pursed, “Don’t get soft on them, we have talked about this. We have a duty to safeguard their reputations and an unmarried girl, let alone two, who are not yet 21 have no business gallivanting about the countryside until dawn.”

Edward considered this and nodded sagely. At a little over 40 he was still getting used to young women, even his young wife was a mystery still. She was right about the girls of course, but he so hated being the villain of the piece. The role of wicked guardian didn’t suit him.

To this end he feigned reluctance and manfully stroked his firm square jaw and scratched at his grey peppered red sideburns for good measure.

In case her husband needed further encouragement Arabella moved closer and took his arm. “Remember how you were firm and fair in your army days?” she said softly, “That uncompromising manner of yours is what first attracted me to you.”

Edward nodded and drew himself up to attention.

A few moments later there was a tentative rap on the door and Edward took up a manly posture by the mantelpiece and composed himself.

“Come in,” he ordered in a firm but casual voice.

Georgina and Henrietta trudged in with their heads bowed like two women off to a hanging. Arabella noted with disdain that they were both wearing their jet velvet hunting attire, an impertinent presumption under the circumstances. She herself had eschewed it so far this morning; not at all sure that Edward would permit such activity after her own behaviour.

Edward waited imperiously for the girls to line up before him and tried to gauge their mood. Perhaps they were sorry, he thought charitably.

Only Georgina attempted to meet his eyes, but even this brief foray into bravado was aborted. Henrietta being the younger kept her gaze firmly fixed upon the carpet.

“I hear that you were entertained by the young Lord Uxbridge and his brother last night?” Edward said sternly.

“Yes Sir,” Georgina mumbled.

“Despite my forbidding you both to have anything to do with them,” Edward said insistently, his voice gaining a little in volume.

“Yes,” Georgina whispered.

Henrietta shrugged and then nodded in agreement.

“Please Sir, it was all my fault,” Georgina offered with some insistence.

Arabella, who had so far sat back quietly out of the way, now looked up in surprise. Georgina wasn’t given to taking responsibility. Arabella suspected a ruse. Then she saw it.

Edward who had been doing a splendid job as the stern guardian now displayed a change in demeanour.

Of course, it was a sympathy ploy, Arabella thought and decided to intervene, “Nonsense, you are both as bad as each other,” she put in, “Although, you are the elder,” she added to Georgina, “Perhaps you do deserve a more severe punishment. I presumed that is what you meant?”

Georgina’s eyes widened and she became flustered.

Edward frowned. “Well that is very…” he nodded as he tried to compose himself again, “Noble of you.” He would welcome the opportunity to show some mercy to Henrietta after all.

“Please Sir,” the younger girl spoke up, “I am just as much to blame as Georgie. I know we deserve to be punished.”

Georgina shot her a look that countermanded her earlier magnanimity.

“Yes you do,” Edward agreed, now happy to have that confirmed and even more so for having been given a clear direction to take. “So what do you mean by coming here dressed for the hunt?”

“But…” Georgina blustered, “Aren’t we…?”

“I told you,” Henrietta wailed, and then to Edward she said, “Georgie said…”

“Yes, yes,” Edward said dismissively as he reached for the bell.

It took a moment, but Jenny the senior housemaid soon arrived at the door and waited demurely for instructions.

“Take Miss Georgina and Miss Henrietta to their rooms and prepare them for a nursery punishment,” Edward said sharply.

“Yes Sir,” Jenny replied without a flicker, “Am I to conduct them the nursery afterwards or leave them in their rooms Sir?”

“No, no, you are to bring them back here,” Edward ordered impatiently.

Even Arabella was surprised as Georgina gaped at him. Henrietta looked more resigned.

“But Sir,” Georgina whined, “You can’t possibly…”

“Away with you now,” Edward waved her away.

As he turned he saw Arabella gazing at him with something like admiration admixed with awe.

*

Edward had expected the girls to be returned to him in their underwear, after all most of the servants were female and to his mind all those bodices, drawers and petticoats were quite enough to contend with for a whipping. However, he was surprised to see both girls dressed in juvenile attire of the sort that had been required of them long before their coming out at 16.

Henriette was meek and accepting but Georgina was flushed in anger and shame, looking as if she would bolt at any minute.

“I tell you this is too much,” she blustered to Jenny as she was ushered back into the study.

“Nursey rig as ordered Sir,” the maid said sharply as she gave Georgina a swat to the tail, “And not a moment too soon if you ask me Sir,” she added approvingly.

The maid, who had been carrying an large iron coal bucket, now set it down by the door so that inside could be seen two bundles of governess birches, an old school cane, a punitive strap and even a long-handled hairbrush.

“No one was asking you Jenny,” Edward said wearily as he dismissed her with her wave, although he took the trouble to study the bucket for a moment with a half-approving gaze.

Jenny executed a quick curtsy and then pursing her lips smugly she departed.

“Sir Edward, Arabella, please… you can’t do this…” Georgina wailed.

Arabella was about to scold her for making such a fuss, although she had to admit that Jenny’s interpretation of Edward’s instructions was highly amusing. Then she saw just how literally the maid had taken things.

Both young women were not only attired in childish short skirts and blouses, but the hems of their skirts and half-length petticoats had been pinned up at the waist at the back. This might have been scandalous enough but Arabella saw now that neither of Edward’s young charges had be permitted to retain their drawers and that their bottom were now quite bare and thoroughly exposed.

Lady Arabella stifled a laugh with her hand while the other slapped her thighs in glee.

“Oh I say,” Edward chortled, “I mean… well yes, just the ticket I suppose…”

“You can’t possibly… I mean…” Georgina was still protesting and vainly covering her exposed portion with fluttering hands.

“Well you didn’t think you would be chastised on a clothed posterior did you?” Edward said sternly, he rather liked the efficiency of the situation.

“B-But,” Georgina wailed.

Edward snapped his fingers and glared at her.

“How do you suggest I proceed, Arabella?” Edward asked, but he was already advancing on the hairbrush. “I mean I think we had determined that Henrietta’s carried the lesser fault?”

Before Arabella could answer Edward had taken up the hairbrush and was crossing the room again to an armless leather padded chair by the wall.

“Henrietta,” he growled.

Arabella let her mouth fall open and then frowned. “I do hope you are going at least cane her as well…” she muttered.

Edward looked at her sternly; his wife was beginning to irritate him.

“I mean, they were both out late and they met with Lord Uxbridge,” Arabella pressed him.

Her husband gave her one curt nod and then reached out for a reluctant Henrietta who had moved nearer. In fact she was still dragging her feet as she tottered forward as she was pulled down across Edward’s lap.

“I will consider that,” Edward said absently as he adjusted the girl across his knee.

Henrietta was beyond ashamed as her bare bottom was pushed up to meet both her guardian’s gaze and the flat side of the hairbrush her held in his hand.

Georgina couldn’t take her eyes off the vulnerable target and she swallowed rapidly know that she was next.

“A childish correction for a thoughtless disobedient girl,” Edward said sadly, then looking at Georgina he added, “But I have something else in mind for you. Meanwhile you may face the wall… and put your hands on your head.”

“Arabella please tell him,” Georgina wailed, but she found no sympathy at all in the woman’s face.

“Georgina,” Edward barked out soldierly fashion, “Face the wall, I shan’t tell you again.”

The 20-year-old made a face of frustration, and more than conscious that her exposed bottom would now confront the room, she blushed furiously before complying.

Meanwhile Edward, confident he would be obeyed, ignored the elder girl and addressed himself to Henrietta’s bare bottom with a healthy thwack of the brush.

“Ooh,” Henrietta squealed and kicked her legs childishly.

The brush made rapid advances and within a minute both the girl’s bottom and her eyes were a decided red and her yelling and wails were such that no one in the house could doubt what was occurring.

“You are reckless with your reputation and as for consorting with that cad Lord Uxbridge…” he expressed the rest of the sentence with a long volley of spanking that sent Henrietta well beyond any dignified composure.

Georgina, ever certain she could live her life scot-free, was fast giving up all hope for her poor bottom. She dared not even protest now and kept her nose pressed safely to the wall as she chewed vigorously on her lips.

Henrietta, although usually more accepting of a spanking, was bawling like she ever had under her nanny’s hand and great gouts of tears were sobbed on to the carpet as they would be for many minutes to come. Even her sister found some genuine sympathy as she cringed in her shaming position facing the wall.

“Now go and join your sister,” Edward said at last.

Henrietta could scarcely draw a breath to reply as she hiccoughed an incoherent response, but she obeyed her guardian now without question, so her actual words were of no account.

Arabella would have wished for a longer correction for the girl, but she was pleased enough with the dark welted red that stained both of Henrietta’s nether cheeks. Edward had certainly found some grit, she thought with some satisfaction.

Anticipating a grisly summons, Georgina risked a head turn, but to her horror Edward was reaching for the bell again.

“I will cane both girls presently, just on a matter of principle,” he said sourly, “But the elder girl needs harsher preparation I feel.”

Arabella caught her breath and felt a little dizzy. “Oh yes,” she whispered.

Tears pricked at Georgina’s eyes and she would have thrown herself on her knees to beg if she had thought it would have deflected her punishment.

“You rang Sir?” Jenny said as she entered.

“The horse, you know, that fold away contraption?” Edward said.

“Yes Sir I know it,” Jenny replied.

“Fetch it will you, and get some help to set it up in here,” her master told her.

The maid swallowed as mirk as she dipped in respect and hastily scurried away to obey.

*

“I’m sorry Sir, I‘m so sorry,” Georgina wept as soon as she reined in a scream, “I’ll never disobey you again, never Sir…”

But for her stockings the young woman had been stripped below the waist and was now firmly secured across the A-framed trestle in the centre of the room. Her bottom was taught and obscenely jutted skyward where it was set just-so to meet the fall of the birch rods.

Already her mottled red tail was beyond sore and was raked hither and thither with purple and maroon grazes that rose in scores like a relief map of the Himalayas.

Georgina was still begging when the birch rattled some way off behind her and then with a hiss-thwack landed across her bottom once again.

Arabella couldn’t breath and sickened by her own cruelty nevertheless silently prayed that this thrashing would never end.

“Please Sir, I am so much in error, I see that now, please…” Georgina sobbed.

“Do you? Do you truly?” Edward asked sharply, the rod descended again and then after a beat thrice more.

The woman panted like a rider at the hunt and nodded vigorously.

“And if I said we can finish this today or you can do penance otherwise what would you say?” Edward, “Perhaps you have been given too much privilege lately?”

“Oh yes Sir, truly, guide me as you see fit,” Georgina panted.

“Then if you truly repent and agree to it I will finish this punishment early excepting a schoolroom caning for you both…” Edward intoned.

“Oh yes Sir,” the well birched girl spluttered with relief.

“…provided that for the rest of the season you are attired and conduct yourself as is suitable for the nursery…” Edward continued.

Georgina gasped.

“We’ll do it,” Henrietta promised frantically from where she still stood facing the wall.

It would be a relief not to become embroiled in anymore of her sister’s reckless schemes, she thought, life was so much simpler before they had come out. They weren’t ready, she was certain of that.

“You will be caned in any event,” Edward told her, “You have no other punishment to face.”

Arabella frowned and waited expectantly.

“I am done birching you,” Edward finally heaved a sigh without striking another blow, “I am gravely disappointed.”

“I know Sir, but the nursery… it is so shameful,” Georgina sobbed.

“I mean it to be. Let’s see how keen Lord Uxbridge is to pursue a girl who is in juvenile rig and who takes her supper in the nursery before a bed time at eight. Who is spanked and sent to the corner for the least slip…” Edward rattled of a whole screed of restrictions as he remembered fondly how much simpler life used to be with the girls.

“Yes Sir,” Georgina sobbed miserably.

It has not escaped Arabella’s notice that both girls could have easily refused and that Edward would have relented within a day of calming down. Not that she intended for that to happen.

“Might we cane them both on Sunday?” she suggested mischievously. “I have a better idea for taking them down a peg in front of the Uxbridge’s…”

*

Georgina felt a stray tear roll down her left cheek and heaved a sigh. Now that the intense throbbing in her bottom had eased somewhat she had assumed that she had seen the last of those. But this tear was of shame. Shame because she now found herself still facing the wall in disgrace, only this time in the great hall amid the assembled huntsmen and women. To put matters completely beyond the pale she and Henrietta’s were still attired in juvenile rig with their skirts pinned up in back to reveal that both young women were decidedly sans culottes.

Henrietta seemed more sanguine about the whole affair, an attitude that suggested that she should never have left the nursery, but Georgina was among friends and possible suitors, she would never live this down, she thought bitterly. Or at least she wouldn’t for the rest of the season.

“I say, that’s the way to handle the fillies,” some oaf chuckled and he was joined by a chorus of womanish laughter.

“So I take it they won’t be joining us for the hunt then?” said another with barely concealed mirth.

“I would say not, it looks like they have been unseated rather,” chortled a nasal women with a shires accent.

Georgina swivelled her eyes as far as she dared to gauge who was there and saw Lord Uxbridge talking with Amanda Ponsenby. They certainly looked intimate and to make matters almost worse, they were completely ignoring the two girls’ plight. Then she saw Amanda throw her a smirk in her direction and whisper something that had them both laughing, doubtlessly at Georgina’s expense.

“Ooh, I hate him,” Georgina hissed.

Standing next to her a steady-voiced Henrietta murmured, “We deserve this, you know we do.”

Unsure whether her sister was mad or a latter day sage Georgina rolled her lips into a pout and began to cry in earnest.

“Oh poor girl, there, there,” said a matronly woman, “We’ll be off soon and you can go back to the nursery and put something on that bot-bot of yours. I expect in a few days you’ll be able to sit down again, just in time for your lessons.”

Georgina had no idea if the woman was mocking her or had entirely missed the point. The day before both of them had been the belles of the county and now…. Neither choice brought her much comfort. She had never felt so miserable, especially as she suspected that Henrietta was right. A year from now she would again be the toast of society with her reputation intact, which she suspected was more than could be said of Amanda Ponsenby.

Still, an entire season restricted to the nursery under the care of Jenny was going to be grim, especially since Edward had empowered her to spank them whenever she deemed it necessary. Georgina had a feeling that both the corner and the hairbrush were going to be very familiar to them both by Christmas.

“Do you really think Jenny will make us write out lines this afternoon?” Henrietta asked ruefully.

Georgina’s heart sank, she had forgotten that threat.

“Well if she does, I bet mine will be neater than yours and you’ll be the one getting another spanking,” Henrietta lisped.

“Oh I bet they will,” Georgina groaned as she felt herself sag. It was going to be a long season.

*

“I had better greet the hunt,” Edward said as he stood up. “Rum do eh?”

“You mean the girls?” Arabella said.

“What else?” Edward shrugged as he crossed the study. “Hadn’t you better get ready?”

He had to walk around the punishment horse, which Jenny had yet to clear away. He was undecided whether to employ it for Sunday’s canings or just make his wards bend over in the traditional manner.

“About that,” Arabella said carefully, her eyes were cast wistfully to one side. “The girls weren’t the only ones out past dawn…”

“Yes well… you do set rather a bad example,” Edward said wearily.

“I agree, and it has to stop,” Arabella said hesitantly, not meeting his eyes.

“Agreed,” Edward said in a puzzled voice.

“Well I won’t you know, not on my own, you will have to put your foot down,” Arabella told him lightly, steeling herself against either his understanding or his lack of it.

“And I suppose I should spank you too and then send you to bed without supper. Or perhaps, should I pack you off to the nursery with the girls,” he chuckled.

“Well that would be a start, whatever you think best,” Arabella replied tentatively.

Edward stopped and looked at his wife for the first time.

“I deserve it Edward, really I do.” Arabella bit her lip pensively.

“And what if I really did send you to join the girls and put you under Jenny’s care in the nursery?” he asked seriously.

“That, my love, is entirely a decision for you,” Arabella said breathily, “But I would rather you handled my discipline yourself, most of it anyway…”

She let the statement hang and time with it.

Edward regarded his wife for the longest moment and then he strode across the room for the bell.

“Had you been cavorting with young lordlings then I would send you to join the girls,” he growled, “Maybe one day I will. For now…” he rang the bell and then rounded on her, “You will go to the corner until Jenny comes to prepare you. When I return from hunting I will find you in that corner still and ready for a sound birching and a taste of that cane that you were so eager for me to employ in the girls.”

“Yes Sir,” Arabella gasped.

“I will make your excuses to the hunt,” Edward said as the door opened to admit Jenny.

By then Arabella was already in the corner and it was possible that a few of those gathered in the hall spied her there. The thought made her blush and her tummy tingled. “Yes Sir,” she said.

For some reason she wondered what it would be like to join the girls writing out lines and being spanked by Jenny for months on end. Surely it wouldn’t come to that, not for her…

“Marcus, please this is uncomfortable,” the inventor’s wife said in some annoyance.

“Hetty the world of science is a perilous thing, now stop your squawking and let me make some adjustments,” Marcus Tyler snapped.

The ever fashionable Mrs Tyler might have felt better if she had been allowed to keep some of her finery, but now she was strapped unceremoniously across a stiff leather saddle in just her shift and bloomers.

“Are you going to be much longer Marcus?” Hetty whined.

“I think all this underwear is affecting the fine tuning,” Marcus said impatiently. “I think perhaps if we lower these out of the way…”

“Marcus, don’t you dare,” an outraged Hetty gasped.

Too late for Marcus quickly tugged on the draw string to her voluminous underwear and lowered her bloomers down to her ankles to expose her naked derriere.

“Marcus, Marcus,” she said frantically in shrill tones, “Cover me up at once.”

“Now, now this is almost the 20^th century and I am your husband. Just think of all the fripperies I can buy you if the ministry approves my invention,” Marcus chided her.

“Invention, you fool, who wants to buy a God benighted spanking machine?” she spluttered. By now she was quite red in the face and exceedingly anxious that the made or worse the gardener would venture into the shed.

“Ready for the first test?” Marcus said in a serious tone.

“No I am not,” Hetty snapped back.

“Of course you are,” Marcus replied as he pulled the lever.

The clank was followed by a light hiss and the sound of a bicycle chain turning over a cog rattled the frame. As the wheel turned a medium sized stiff leather paddle swung down and delivered a firm smack across Hetty Tyler’s bare bottom.

“Yiiikes,” she gasped, “That’s too hard.”

“Well your bottom is only a little coloured and…” he peered at her upturned round behind coolly as the machine spanked his wife again, “It is only on setting four of 12,” he told her.

“Aaaah, you…” she growled, “That hurts.”

“Well it supposed to,” Marcus said sagely and made a note. “Test subject’s posterior moderately red after…” he watched the third spank, “Only three swats. Consummate with a brief slippering I would say.”

“Marcus, stop this infernal thing at once,” Hetty demanded before another swat made her yelp.

“I am going to drop it to a level two for a minute or so and see how it runs,” Marcus said thoughtfully, “It won’t be too bad.”

“M-Marcus, Marcus d-don’t you dare,” she warned and then added another shrill, “Marcus,” as she was spanked again.

“Maybe you are right, best leave it,” Marcus said absently as he got down onto his knees to view the mechanism running from underneath.

Distracted by the workings it was almost 15 minutes before he shut off the machine and during that whole time the only sound was the gentle clank of the device and an ever more distressed Mrs Tyler pleading for her husband to switch it off.

*

Lori Tyler frowned as she studied the bearing case and pondered where she might get a replacement. The postgraduate engineering student had found the Invention at the back of her Great Uncle Henry’s house in a shed. She knew at once what it was. Her Great, Great Grandfather’s spanking machine was something of a legend in the Tyler family, a kind of amusing monument to the eccentric old man and his work.

Few had ever actually seen it and until Lori had stumbled across it she hadn’t even known it still existed. But for the tom-boyish 26-year-old this family heirloom combined two of her passions in life: spanking and engineering.

If she hadn’t just had a monumental bust-up with Graham her boyfriend and if she hadn’t been between jobs, she might never have found the time for the venerable machine. But as it turned out, restoring the old thing to its imagined glory days had become this summer’s project.

Stooping down Lori sucked on a strand of dark brown hair and reached into her dungarees for a small bike spanner.

“Maybe if I just clean the bearings and repack them…” she mused aloud.

It would have been easier if she had had some plans or even a photograph of the intact machine, but then where would be the challenge? In any event, 10 minutes later the bearing canister slid home and she engaged the small sewing machine motor to watch it run.

“Finally,” she grinned and then whooped around the room punching the air.

Pity it wasn’t an achievement she could share with anyone. Graham might have cared, but sadly he was never much of a spanker. But who needed a boyfriend when a girl had a patented spanking machine?

She thought of all the times she had goaded him. His spankings had been lacklustre and he had never made her cry. He hadn’t even managed to bruise her bottom come to that. All in all, she was probably best without him.

“I bet you know how to be really strict,” she cooed as she patted the machine and then she giggled.

The remaining issues were making the right adjustments to the striking mechanism and testing it. Test subject: one little old Lori Tyler, tick, she listed in her head. But then who will operate it? She bent down and looked at the motor. Hmmm, a simple timer plug from the mains instead of a battery might do, she pondered, but then I might need a transformer. Then she was lost again in the world of engineering as she sucked on hair and made a face like her great, great grandfather over a hundred years before.

*

“What are you doing there?” the woman held herself with a stern demeanour in a way that had prompted Lori’s many fantasies. Pity she was just her uncle’s housekeeper.

“N-nothing,” a startled Lori said as she quickly threw a sheet over the machine. “I am just…”

“Well, I was just looking for you to say that your uncle and I are going out… I have to drive Mr Tyler into town for his monthly check-up,” Mrs Bailey said impatiently.

She had evidently taken some time to find her employers niece, but quite why the woman felt she needed to be informed Lori couldn’t guess.

“We will be a few hours, I expect there will be some shopping after,” the woman said dismissively as she turned to go. “Do you need anything?”

Lori glanced behind her to see if the machine was still covered. Not that she was sure why she had hidden it. “No, nothing thank you,” she said with an exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Alright then,” Mrs Bailey said as she walked away.

Lori sighed and turned back to her project.

The machine had been cleaned and polished. She had oiled all the moving parts and cleaned the bearings. The motor worked, although it was clear that this had been a later addition added sometime in the last 50 years. Now that was a curious thought, Lori decided.

She set the timer for two minutes and set the dial at four. She shrugged, she had run it empty a few times and it hadn’t appeared too brisk. Even allowing it to slap her hand had seemed feeble. But the main thing was that it worked.

Lori waited until she heard the car drive away and then she checked the time. It was doubtful that anyone would come back to the shed until teatime, if at all. There was no chance at all of that happening until after two. Lori nodded decisively and bolted the none-too-sturdy door.

Then with an excited sigh she slipped out of her dungarees and then slid her underwear off so that she was naked below the waist except for her trainers.

It didn’t take much bend over the saddle, which was pleasantly firm beneath her hips and she wondered if she should place a towel there in case… she shrugged as she abandoned the idle thought.

“Two minutes at level four, oh God, I hope this works and doesn’t kill me,” she said nervously to herself and with a cross of her fingers and tentatively chewing her lower lip she rammed home the operating lever.

The paddle swat stung and she gasped. Not too bad, she thought and she coped with another. The speed seems to deliver about… she gritted her teeth and counted as the third swat spanked her. It was a moderate struggle but hardly an ordeal and when the machine cut out she had barely broken into a sweat.

Her bottom tingled hotly enough and a quick inspection revealed two satisfying dark pink ovals covering the crowns and underside of her bottom.

“I wonder if I can increase the spank rate?” she mused and without dressing turned back to the machine’s workings.

*

Finally Lori was satisfied and she took a deep breath. “Round two,” she said in an expectant voice.

Her bottom still tingled, but much of the redness had faded and she gave it a rub. At the back of her mind she considered that elusive mind-blowing, bottom-busting spanking that had always been out of reach. She had long wondered what it would be like to cry, to be spanked so long and hard that her begging was as sincere as it was futile. She laughed, Graham had been a bastard sometimes, but the machine would be pitiless.

This time she set it for five minutes at setting six and she could already feel her heart pounding. The lever spring was a natural limiter for the spank rate but she reckoned that she had edged it up to 10 or 11 spanks a minute. For a sustained session it was more than adequate, but she would have liked to get it to 15 for a short sharp sustained beating. She repeated the phrase in her head and grimly wondered if she were mad.

Once across the frame a restraining bar lifted to stop her rolling and offering up anything other than her bare bottom to the paddle. The same feature would also make it impossible to escape the machine until it stopped.

“Oh God,” she sighed as she reached back for the lever, once pushed it would be out of her reach and she would be spanked for the duration. “I am going to regret this,” she muttered.

The paddle came down hard and she grunted at the impact. Her whole body rocked as she was slammed into the leather saddle. Thank God she hadn’t chosen a higher setting, she thought and then the delayed burn added heartfelt sincerity to that prayer.

“Sheesh,” she gasped as the machine spanked her again far sooner than she was ready for. “Okay, okay, this is going to be…. Uh, quite a… ooh… ride.”

It took a minute to leave her panting and by then her bottom was infused with a fiery sting and tears pricked her eyes. “Oh God, I wish I could see the time, I wish I had tested this setting for two minutes… I wish… damn that hurt, damn, hey…. Omigod, omigod, omigod…”

*

Lori thought that it would never end. Her bottom fizzed like a son-of-a-bitch and although the tears weren’t flowing, she had come close.

“Oh my God,” she said breathily and with a slow deliberation.

It was hard to gain her feet and free of the machine she did a little dance with her hands clamped firmly to her bottom.

An inspection in the mirror revealed a bottom that was as red and sore as she had ever seen. She attempted to sit for a moment and found the operation punitive so that she quickly stood again.

“I’m gonna spank you until you can’t sit down for a week my girl,” she quipped. If a man had spanked her like this she would have married him. “That Tyler, is a result.”

Somehow her bottom didn’t know the spanking had stopped and she took some time to rub it vigorously. She checked the time.

“It wasn’t so bad, I mean I could handle more,” she muttered aloud.

She looked in the battered mirror again. Her behind was red, but not heavily bruised. If I set the spank rate a little lower and… well maybe.

It wasn’t lost on her that this game could get addictive and she considered setting a 10 and running it for two minutes. In an empty test the machine had rocked at 12 and even the 10 setting was about as hard as a large man could manage. A useful application for a few minutes, but a girl would be bedridden for a month for a long session.

“Oh God, dare I?” she said to the machine and double checked the time. “Ooh, I’m crazy.”

The dial clicked to an eight and she set the spank rate to standard. Then she paused and her fingers hung over the timer. Without looking she twisted it to approximately 15 minutes and then remounted the machine.

The spank was a minor species of hell and Lori yelled. Okay, she told herself, she knew at once that she had overcooked it.

The second spank made her yell again and her bottom entertained something like a quick once over with a blow torch.

“Not good, not good,” she wailed, but the spanking was on now.

This time it took little over a minute for her to start to cry and the machine just wasn’t going to quit. “Please,” she sobbed, knowing that there was no one to save her and no way to stop it.

Not that she wanted it stop, not yet. This is what she had intended. Well kind of. I just have to keep telling myself… oh Christ, who am I fooling.

“Please help,” she yelled.

*

The fifteen minutes came and went and a sagging Lori had given up bawling like a banshee and was trying to keep it together. It had to stop, it had to.

“I’ll never do this again, never,” she sobbed at the universe. How approximate had she been with the timer anyway?

After 20 minutes Lori knew it would never end. They would find her in the morning and if there was anything left she would never live it down. The girl who couldn’t sit down for a year.

For Lori a small geological age had passed and she started running maths in her head. If I have been spanked for two hours then how many spanks have I had? But the burn and continued impacts robbed her reasoning power. Instead she started to beg again, there was at least some satisfaction in that.

*

The machine had stopped sometime before Lori had noticed. Her bottom felt like it had been skinned and she was exhausted. Realising that it was finally over she let herself break down into full hard sobbing as tentatively she touched her fire-throbbing behind.

Five minutes later the view in the mirror was impressive. “Narcissus rules,” she said ruefully, not able to take her eyes of the machine’s art.

Sitting was off the agenda for the rest of the day and probably the next. But all in all it wasn’t too bad. For one thing she had surely been punished for her folly, but she could hardly complain.

“I wonder if I could set the stroke number and change the paddle for a cane,” she mused aloud.

In the morning, or the next day she would look into that.