The Complete Diaries of a Young Lady

by Victor Bruno

  Title Page

  COMPLETE DIARIES OF

  A YOUNG LADY

  By

  Victor Bruno

  Kinks Books is an imprint

  of W&H Publishing LLP.

  Publisher Information

  This eBook edition published by Kink Books is an imprint of W&H Publishing LLP, Foresters Hall, 25-27 Westow Street, London, SE19 3RY.

  Digital edition converted and published by

  Andrews UK Limited 2011

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Previously published by The Olympia Press PO Box 148, Ryde, Isle of Wight, PO33 9BE.

  Copyright © Victor Bruno

  The right of Victor Bruno to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead and is purely coincidental.

  This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by the way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, electronically copied, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent.

  History

  It is not generally realised by this generation - or the previous one, for that matter - that before World War II discipline in the home, and in school, was far stricter than could ever be imagined today. Corporal punishment was a perfectly acceptable practice ... with parents, teachers and the Police. No good complaining that you had had a good tanning from your father or your school teacher, especially down at the Police Station. More likely the Sergeant would tell you that you had thoroughly deserved it. The Police, in fact, were not averse to giving some youngster a damn good hiding instead of charging him. Saved time and trouble and probably did the youngster more good.

  These practices applied to girls as well as boys.

  A strap, a leather belt and the cane were the most widely used instrument of correction. Not lethal, but quite adequately painful when properly applied.

  Do-gooders today hold their hands aloft, appalled at such practices. But do they ever consider how much better behaved was the youth of the Thirties and Forties compared with the louts and bimbos of today?

  June 4th

  Though it is nearly mid-summer, Elsie and I still have to go to bed at 8 o’clock, in broad daylight. Sitting here, I can hear the laughter of children still at play in the fields nearby. It’s not fair. Also it’s not fair that I should have to go to bed at the same time as Elsie, who is only 16. At 18

  I’m getting quite grown up. Nowadays men look at me a lot, particularly Mr Mason in whose office I work. He is an accountant. Frankly, I don’t like the way he looks at me very much.

  Anyway, he must be in his mid-thirties.

  The other day he remarked about the jumper I had on, saying how nice it was. I think what he liked was the way my breasts (which have developed considerably recently) were pushing through it. His remarks made me blush which annoyed me.

  Elsie, of course, is still at school, but she will be leaving in the Autumn.

  Poor Elsie; she’s in for it tonight. I found her crying in the kitchen and it seemed that Dad had told her he was going to give her a ‘damn good hiding’. When I asked why, she flushed and looked uncomfortable. I guessed Dad had caught her playing with herself, probably in the bathroom that morning. He caught me at it once and I got, until then, the worst caning I had ever had. That certainly made me keep my hands off myself for some time ... and also be very careful in the future.

  At about nine o’clock, I hear Dad coming up the stairs. They creak. I get quickly into bed in my nightie, in case he looks in to check up on me. But he doesn’t and I hear him going straight into Elsie’s room. By then her nerves will be stretched to snapping point. Dad will be in his shirt sleeves and will have the cane in his hand. It is an ordinary sort of cane with a hooked handle but I just wish it was a little slimmer. It is the kind of cane which the Headmistress uses at the school I went to and where Elsie goes now.

  I can hear Dad going on at Elsie.

  He seems quite angry and gives her a tongue-lashing for couple of minutes, which won’t do Elsie’s nerves any good. Then he goes quiet and I can hear Elsie sobbing and pleading. It won’t do her any good. Then I hear the bedsprings squeak. Elsie will have got up on it, kneeling facing the head. In moments Dad will be tying Elsie’s wrists to the iron railings at the head of the bed. Next he will be tying a silk scarf tightly around the lower part of Elsie’s face. He does this, as he explains, so that ‘neighbour’s won’t be disturbed’. She’ll be in a right state now that she is just about to get it.

  She’ll endure the final humiliation of Dad lifting up her nightie high to expose her bottom bare. That’s really awful but he always does it. He says a caning isn’t a proper caning unless it’s given on the bare though, in my opinion, one’s nightie is so thin it would be just as bad to be caned over that. I can hear Elsie whimpering and snorting down her nostrils. Poor thing; I know just how she feels.

  Then I hear the first shrill whistle of the cane as it descends, followed by the sound of it cracking into Elsie’s soft bottom. The whimpering and snorting intensifies and becomes high- pitched. If she weren’t gagged, Elsie would be yelling.

  There is a pause, quite a long one, for Dad never hurries when he is handing out a punishment. Often I wish he would cane faster, so get it over with, but he seems to like to draw it out.

  Another whistle of the cane, another crack, more high-pitched snorting. It sounds to me as if Dad is really laying on hard. I count the strokes as they fall, hearing the snorting sounds getting ever more urgent. Occasionally my own nates clench in mute sympathy for my poor sister.

  The strokes mount to six and I wait, tense. Perhaps that’s it. But no ... I hear the seventh stroke come whistling down, which means that Elsie is going to get at least a dozen. Dad only goes over the dozen if he considers the offence particularly serious. Perhaps that is the case now. The most I’ve ever had is 18, which was for being caught doing what Elsie did. But she’s only 16; surely he wouldn’t be so severe?

  Nine, ten, eleven. The strokes, well-spaced, fall remorselessly. Elsie’s bottom will be throbbing and smarting with burning pain, the weals running over both buttock cheeks. I cannot truly describe how painful it is when a cane is laid hard on bare flesh.

  Twelve! That must be the end, surely?

  Then my scalp seems to tingle all over as stroke number 13 whistles down. Oh poor, poor Elsie, she is going to get 18! I grit my teeth on her behalf, almost as if I were suffering myself. The whimpering sounds are even louder and I can hear Elsie howling and choking through her gag.

  Perhaps he’ll only give her 15, I tell myself. But not a bit of it.

  He gives her the full 18 and the final strokes sound as if they are falling as hard as they did at the beginning.

  When it is at last over, I hear Dad speaking again. Most likely warning Elsie it will be worse if it happens again. Elsie’s heaving sobs come louder through my bedroom wall. The gag will have been taken off and her wrists will be being released.

  The floor creaks, the door opens and shuts. I hear Dad descending the stairs. He has done what he thinks is right for his step-daughter.

  Elsie goes on sobbing for a long, long time. I would like to go in and comfort her but dare not, since it is forbidden

  June 5th

  Elsie comes down to breakfast the next morning, moving stiffly and looking red-eyed. She says she doesn’t want any breakfast but I know what she means. S
he doesn’t want to sit down to have breakfast. Dad, however, insists that she does. So, wincing and gasping out loudly, Elsie takes her place on the hard wooden chair. I know just what she is going through because I have been through it myself. She will still be rather sore by the end of the week. I can only hope she won’t do anything silly and earn herself another punishment while she is still so burningly tender. Even the blue serge knickers she wears under her gym slip and blouse will feel horribly uncomfortable.

  At 8.45 Elsie picks up her satchel and leaves for school.

  I leave ten minutes later to walk to Mr. Mason’s office in the town. I see Dad taking a rather long, hard look at my breasts thrusting through the pale pink blouse I am wearing. The sort of look Mr. Mason gives sometimes gives me. I don’t think Dad approves. He says nothing about the events of the previous evening and gives my bottom a friendly sort of pat when I kiss him on the forehead before leaving.

  I am glad, when I arrive at the office, to find that Mr. Mason has already gone to meet a client ... so I won’t have to endure all that business about ‘how nice’ I look that morning.

  I check the Petty Cash float, which seems remarkably low, then get on with some book- keeping.

  Elsie looks very pale and wretched when I get home that evening, which is scarcely surprising.

  June 6th

  It is Friday and, in the evening, Dad always has the same guest in.

  It is Sergeant George Faraday from the local Police Station. They have been friends for over a year now. They sit in the front room smoking and drinking brown ale, talking away for hours. They say women chatter a lot but men are just as bad.

  Strangely enough, it was myself who initially brought them together.

  At the time I was just 17 and getting pretty desperate about home discipline. That week I had been caned at school by Miss Elliot, the Headmistress. For cheating while doing a weekly Test Paper, she had me in her study and gave me six strokes of the cane with my knickers down around my ankles. It was awful and I made such a fuss that a school Prefect had to be sent for to hold my wrists. It was really most shaming. Later on in the week, Dad gave me 12 with the strap for breaking a cup and saucer. ‘Sheer bloody carelessness’ he called it. The strap is not quite as painful as the cane but laid on a bottom that is already striped and tender it hurts like fury.

  That night, I decided I had had enough; I wasn’t going to go on like this.

  Rather desperately, not to say daringly, I decided to go to the local Police Station to try and get some restraining order on Dad or maybe even a summons for assault. Nervous and blushing, having refused to tell the Bobby on the desk what I wanted, I was at last shown into Sergeant Faraday’s office. He looked quite a kindly man and had a big brown moustache. All the same, I was in a state of confusion and didn’t know where to begin.

  “Some kind of trouble?” he asked. I nodded.

  “At home?”

  I nodded again. “Tell me about it.”

  That was very difficult and I became tongue-tied for a while. Then I blurted it out. “M-my ... Dad ...b-beats me!”

  He didn’t look surprised or indignant; just nodded complacently. “Badly?” he asked.

  “Y-yes .. Sergeant ...” I replied.

  “What some people think is badly, others don’t,” he said almost kindly. “A parent is entitled to control his children you know, my dear ... to chastise them if necessary.” I stayed quiet. Was he on my side or not? There was a long silence, then he spoke again. “I think you had better show me ... er ... Joan, isn’t it?”

  I was totally shocked; I gasped and my hand flew to my mouth. “Oh ... I couldn’t do that!” I cried.

  He maintained that friendly, complacent look. “Well, in that case, I don’t think we can take the matter any further.”

  “Wh-why ... oh why not? You have my word ...” “No evidence, my dear.” He was smiling now.

  Thus I was in a cleft stick. Either I showed him what I had had done to me or the matter would go no further.

  “Isn’t ... isn’t there a ... a nurse ... or ... or some other lady official?” I asked.

  The Sergeant shook his head. “‘Fraid not,” he said. “This is a small Station. A Sub-Station, they call it.”

  What was I to do? Had I made this shaming journey in vain? Was I going to go on being punished for next to nothing all the time I stayed at home? In my mind’s eye I saw Dad entering my bedroom with the cane in his hand. I shuddered. I MUST do something! This could be my last chance. A terrible struggle went on within me.

  Then, finally, I conceded. “All right,” I whispered.

  “It’s up to you, Joan,” said the Sergeant in a matter-of-fact tone. He stood up.

  “I suggest you just bend over the edge of my desk ... and lift up your gym slip.”

  My cheeks were scarlet. I was trembling, but I knew I must somehow make myself do it. I stood up, weak-kneed, and stumbled to the edge of his desk. Then I bent down and lifted my gym slip, but only a little way.

  “Higher than that, my dear,” he said in avuncular fashion.

  Feeling the total shaming humiliation of it, I lifted it right up. Then I waited, for what seemed like a long time. “I’m afraid, Joan,” said the Sergeant, “I can still see no evidence that you have been maltreated. Those knickers will have to come down.”

  A protesting cry burst from me, but it was useless and too late. “Don’t worry, my dear, I’ll do it.”

  And with that Sergeant Faraday tugged down my blue serge knickers.

  My instinct was to get up and flee but a heavy hand and arm pressed down on the small of my back, trapping me. I kicked and twisted but couldn’t escape. I could almost feel his eyes boring into my nakedness. It was hideous.

  “Hmmmm ...” he said, after an interminable time, “that doesn’t seem too bad to me. Certainly wouldn’t term it assault. Just ordinary home discipline.”

  He paused, and I hated him. He was definitely not on my side.

  “It seems to me, young lady, you have been caned and then strapped.” To my horror, he patted my bare bottom. “Alright, you can pull your knickers up now.” I did so with the greatest alacrity, my cheeks still scarlet. I was trembling like an aspen tree in the wind. “Would you mind telling me why you were punished, Joan?” he asked in a sympathetic voice.

  Stammering, I told him I had cheated at school and then broken crockery at home.

  There was a long silence before he spoke again. “Frankly, Joan,” he said, “I think you got off lightly at school. I reckon you deserved a dozen. A dozen of the strap from your Dad seems about right, though.”

  Tears welled up in my eyes. Oh the horrible injustice of it!

  “I think I’d better come along and have a chat with your Dad!” said the Sergeant.

  Desperately, I tried to dissuade him from doing any such thing, but he was quite adamant. Thus, early in the evening, I arrived home ‘under escort’, as it were.

  Dad was naturally startled to see me with a Policeman and we were both conducted into the front room. That was the beginning of what was the worst evening of my life, up to that point anyway.

  The Sergeant explained to Dad that I had come to try and get an Assault charge against him. Dad flushed with anger, puffing out his cheeks. “Damn cheek! What damn cheek!” he gasped, then sat down abruptly. I thought he might he having some kind of nasty turn. “Just because she got a strap across her backside,” he spluttered. “And rightly so!”

  “Justified, I agree, Sir, from what she has said. And the cane, of course.” “At school. Nothing to do with me,” said Dad.

  “So I understand.” The Sergeant nodded approvingly. I just stood there, humiliated, being discussed like an object rather that a young woman.

  “I gather you inspected what had been done?” asked Dad. “Evidence!” said the S
ergeant.

  “Yes, indeed. Quite right.” Dad looked up at me. “You are a disgrace to the family,” he almost snarled. I was very frightened. “Go and make some tea, girl,” he ordered abruptly, and I was thankful to be able to leave the room.

  Ten minutes later I was back with the tray, sensing they had had quite a discussion in my absence. I poured, sugared, and waited. They drank. Dad offered the Sergeant a cigarette which was accepted. The feeling that they were now allies came to me strongly. I must have been mad to go to the Police Station!

  “You have nothing against corporal punishment then, Sergeant?” asked Dad.

  “All for it!” replied Sergeant Faraday. I had indeed, it seemed, been supping with the Devil! There was ruminative silence before Dad spoke again. “You realise, Joan,” he said, “that this heinous act cannot go unpunished? It’s unbelievable ... YOU ... trying to get ME into Court!” He paused. “I shall have to be stricter with you in future.”

  I froze inwardly, seeing the Sergeant nod.

  “Have you any suggestions, Sergeant?” asked Dad.

  The Sergeant stroked his big brown moustache almost lovingly. “Personally,” he said slowly, “I think the girl should be caned for this offence against a member of her own family ... a member who deemed he was acting quite rightly, as he was responsible for the girl’s behaviour. After all, it IS a heavy responsibility looking after immature young girls.”

  “Quite so,” nodded Dad.

  “However,” continued the Sergeant, “in view of the condition of Joan’s bottom at the moment, I do not think she should receive more than 12 strokes.”

  “Hhuuummpphhh ...” said Dad, looking dubious.