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It was not a school as you know them today. It was for girls and young women, many of them over twenty. It taught music and art, as well as all the usual subjects. But it also taught deportment and manners. In other words it taught the Victorian young lady how to behave. In particular a certain type of young lady. He smiled. “It’s all I need to do. All that I cannot fulfil elsewhere. It is hard to find a woman who will tolerate this. But, it arouses me, and if you wish, there can be a sexual element.” I try to pay as much as possible. I don’t want to spend five years paying them off. I want to be able to enjoy holidays and buy a house.” Karen took out the envelope containing the slip….the slip…the white crispy slip, the DETENTION SLIP, and walked gingerly by the stairs and into the kitchen. “Hello Mum. I got this today.”
I wept openly at the loss. Lucille was my rudder, my anchor—my disciplinarian, yes, but also my wife, guardian and lover. Although all of our friends knew Lucille was in charge, no one ever knew the details of the agreement and relationship we shared, at least not in full. I found I was lost without her. My performance at the office suffered significantly, and in my depressed state I ignored the solicitations of our friends, finding little remaining joy in life. I have researched the accounts of ‘the Lady With the Birch’ as well as I can. I have narrowed its location down to Oakfield Road, in Clifton, near Bristol. A rather well to do and respected residential district. I have scoured as many Victorian photographs of dwellings in that typical middle class suburban district as I can find, here is one of Rokeby House.
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When we entered the room, there was a large double bed for my parents, and a......I couldn't believe it! A white CRIB, covered with pink bunnies and of course, pink nursery printed sheets. She sighed. “Look, I was intrigued and excited by what you offered—the money was a bonus. I think I would have gone along with it anyway if you hadn’t treated me like you did afterwards.”
Now she had a vehicle for her pride. She had always been proud of her daughter, a bright intelligent daughter. Not many from the village had got into Grammer School in recent years. She knew that a lot of her peers in the W.I. Would be saying that very night…”I hear Karen got into Grammer school, she deserves it, her Mummy will be so proud.” I brewed a pot of coffee and took a cup to Vera, prepared as she’d requested (no need to be boorish, even if she had been a little rude in the manner of her request). I have a blasted degree, and I can’t do anything with it. Perhaps I can retrain. What about teaching? No, how will I pay my debts? She had friends there, she had respect, she even had a few who envied her. Also, quite possibly, a few ladies, especially the young mothers, were in awe of her, even, more than a little scared of her. It was then that the recent thought of the normality beyond the house returned, and Mummy noticed the bedroom window open. It was a secret no more, the sound of this spanking would travel! In a strange way it encouraged Mummy. Who stopped.Sitting in meetings with her at the prominent literary agency where we both worked left me feeling weak. Usually never short of things to say, in her presence, I’d marvel at her ability to drain all quips from my mind, leaving my mouth bone-dry. But I knew the cliché and I refused to succumb to the stereotype of being the young, ambitious 25-year-old who screws the boss.
Layla changed reluctantly into her bar uniform, refreshed her make-up, and made her way out of the office. Mr Larson was leaving the kitchen armed with a microwaved meal as she walked towards the exit. “Goodnight, Mr Larson,” she said. Once you are more accustomed to the arrangement, I may gag or blindfold you—you are under no obligation to accept this. This is a story version of one of the true real life spankings as told to me by a delightful lady who went to a Girls Grammer School and was kept in line at home by a slipper wielding mother, who used it on her daughters bare bottom… Often!
Grandaddy was dead anyway, long before I was born. Sometimes I wished I knew him. But then Daddy always said he was drunk a lot, and mean often. Maybe it was better not to have met the man. Daddy still loved him though, I could tell.
Layla had finished serving a group of office workers when she noticed another customer waiting on his own. She caught her breath. The journey to the end of the day was like some heroic trek in a fantasy novel. Long and arduous. The lunch time collection of the ‘death sentence’ sent a cold shiver to her tummy. The words left the slip and ran amok in her brain. There before her the words threatened her bottom.
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My sister was in the room with Aunt Janet. Shannon was displaced to a sleeping bag in the living room. She didn't complain, as this meant she would get to stay up longer. She ignored her thoughts, cleaned and dried herself, reapplied her make-up, changed into her uniform for her bar job, and left the toilets. She was relieved not to encounter Mr Larson before she left the office and pleased to get outside in the fresh air. Well, the city air, but at least the cool breeze on her face was refreshing. My mother stripped me down to my underwear to sleep in. Grumbling about it, I began to climb into the crib. Just as I got in, my mother said, "Hold on just a minute."
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