by Victor Bruno
“It is quite simple, Joan,” he replied. “You are little more than a school girl still ... so you can be treated as such. As you know, Joan, naughty school girls often get their bottoms smacked. That is the alternative I am offering you.”
My cheeks seemed to turn to flame. I shrivelled inside. Could he possibly be serious? Was he saying that, if he did nothing further, I would have to let him smack my bottom? The next couple of minutes confirmed that was exactly what he meant. I was stunned. How could this be happening to me?
I am so exhausted I must break off now, but will resume this account tomorrow. June 17th
Even worse things have happened since. But I will write about those later.
Once I walked out of Mr. Mason’s office but then heard him lifting the telephone mouthpiece to call the Police. I went back. “I BEG you not to do that!” I screeched.
“You know the alternative, Joan,” he said calmly. “And you are beginning to try my patience too far. I have been lenient with you. Now I give you precisely five more minutes to decide.
I sat there in a daze. It was impossible to believe that Mr. Mason would do what he had just said. The pain of it didn’t worry me at all. It was the shame. The utter indignity. Though he said I was little more than a school girl, I was, in fact, a young woman. Not yet of age, but mature. Being chastised by my father was one thing; by a virtual stranger was quite another.
Yet ... yet ... I was desperate that my father did not know. Nor the Police. Perhaps if I submitted to this humiliation just this once then? It would all be over in a few minutes; my so-called ‘crime’ would be forgotten. Shrinking inside, I realised I had come to a decision. “Well, Joan?” asked Mr. Mason, at length.
“Alright,” I said in a feeble little voice. I saw his face brighten and I knew then how much he wanted to do this thing. That made me shrink from it all the more.
“Sensible girl,” he said. “No one will ever know.”
I felt thankful for that. In any case, it was something Mr. Mason would have to keep quiet about. He swung his chair round. “Come over here then.”
I stood up, my legs feeling as if they were filled with water. As if in a dream (or nightmare!) I went across the office. His face was pink and blotchy now. Was he trembling? He patted his lap. “Over my lap, Joan,” he said.
I almost fled at that moment. But the awful alternative was always looming behind me.
Stumbling as I moved closer, I fell across his waiting lap. His left arm gripped my waist tight. Very tight. I realised I had begun to sob. “The less fuss you make,” said Mr. Mason, “the sooner it will be over.”
Then, to my horror, he pulled up my black pleated skirt!
“NO!” I shrieked, kicking wildly. But he had me firmly gripped now; there was no means of escape. Suppose I screamed and screamed at the top of my voice? Surely someone would come? But we were in Mr. Mason’s small inner office which was windowless and thick-walled. I knew I was wearing thin white cotton knickers.
“STOP!” I screeched. “You CAN’T do this!”
“Don’t be a silly girl, Joan,” he said, his voice a little out of control. “You must know there is only one way to give a spanking ... and that is on the bare bottom!”
And, with that, he started to pull down my knickers.
I went berserk, kicking and twisting, fighting desperately, but to no avail. Mr. Mason was far stronger than he looked. I heard my knickers rip as my thighs pounded up and down.
“Now look what you’ve done, you silly girl,” he said. “They’re no use to you now.”
Then he ripped off what was left of my knickers ... and my bottom was totally bared to him. I went suddenly cold, feeling half paralysed. This was an indignity beyond anything I had imagined possible. I could almost feel his eyes boring down into my flesh. My cheeks were hot with shame and I felt as if my buttocks must be blushing too. I was no longer sobbing, I was weeping openly.
Much good that did me. “Now, Joan,” he said, his voice thick and tight, “I hope this will teach you to be an honest girl in future.”
But I am honest, my mind screamed.
Then Mr. Mason began to smack my bottom. Right cheek, left cheek, right cheek, left cheek, then across the middle. He smacked hard; it stung and burnt painfully. He must have seen the strap marks left by my Dad the previous evening, but he made no comment on them. Perhaps he had expected to see such marks.
Briefly I had felt half-paralysed, but now I was galvanised into life again. I fought madly to break free ... kicking, twisting, bottom bouncing wildly with my efforts. Desperation lent me strength, but still I could not break free. I was yelling - with fury as much as anything - but still the rain of stinging slaps descended. What a spectacle I was making of myself, but I didn’t care about that any more. I just wanted to break free. But I couldn’t ... I COULDN’T! It hurt ... yes, naturally it did. But it hurt nothing like the strap or the cane. What hurt most of all was the shaming indignity of it. Me ... at 18 ... being spanked on my bare bottom by a man! Even while it was happening, I couldn’t quite believe it.
At long last the slaps began to falter. Perhaps his palm was getting too hot and sore. Finally he stopped. I heard him breathing fast, almost panting. Pressing into my belly was something that felt like a hard bone.
I had roused the foul beast. I knew what happened to men sometimes. I felt physically sick.
He clung on to me for quite a while, no doubt gazing down on his handiwork. Oh how I hated him! The trouble was, I could tell no one what had just happened. He would never be held accountable. No doubt he had worked all this out beforehand. His breathing gradually got calmer but the hard bone remained. Then, when he released me, I rolled down on the floor, quickly yanking down my skirt.
“If you wish,” I heard him saying from above, “you may go into the washroom and use a cold flannel on your behind before you go home.”
Then I heard him leave the office, closing the door quietly behind him. He had gone. I was alone.
For a long time I lay there, weeping bitterly. My bottom was burning hot but, somehow, that didn’t matter. I felt soiled. Dirty.
Before I set out for home (without any knickers on) I applied the flannel liberally to my face and the cheeks of my bottom.
June 20th (three days later)
I got home somehow after that smacking from Mr. Mason and when Dad came in I cooked his supper. I was in such a state I didn’t quite know what I was doing. Dad asked me if I had been crying and I told him that I’d had a nasty headache.
It was after supper that disaster struck.
Carrying Dad’s plate out to the kitchen, I dropped it on the stone floor. It smashed into many pieces and I almost fainted with horror.
“I’ll deal with that little matter later,” said Dad heavily. And, at that moment, I wished the floor would open up and swallow me. What on earth was I going to tell him when he came up to my bedroom later?
It could only be the truth.
I lay in bed, trembling incessantly, while I waited for him to come up. At last I heard the creak of the stairs. I began to cry softly. Why was life so unfair? Then he came in. He had the strap in his hand. It was usually used for breakages. Just half a dozen or so,
But, on this occasion, that wasn’t the point.
In my nightie, I knelt on top of the bed, as I must. Then gripped the rail, at the top. As usual, he lifted the nightie. Then there was a long silence and I could hear him breathing deeply.
“What’s all this then?” he asked at last.
He sat on the edge of the bed while I told him everything. There was nothing else I could do. He knew Mr. Mason and had got me my job.
“Well, well,” he said when I had finished, “who would have believed it? Mason, eh?” He seemed vaguely disturbed but not particularly shocked or surprised. “I think I’d better have a word with
him.”
Then he stood up and left the room. When he had gone downstairs I realised he had forgotten to strap me. Only slowly did I fall asleep. What, I wondered, was going to happen now? Perhaps Dad would insist I left Mr. Mason’s office. I could ask for nothing better.
Dad came into my room again. A glance at the alarm clock told me it was past midnight. To my horror, I saw he had a cane in his hand. “So ... my girl’s a thief, is she?” he said.
“No, no ... it’s not true!” I cried. “He made it all up!”
“I know Mr. Mason,” said Dad. “He wouldn’t do such a thing. I’m taking his word against yours.”
“No, no, you mustn’t!” I cried out again. “I’m telling the truth, truly I am!”
Dad ignored my pleas. “And what is more,” he went on, undisturbed, “I am now going to give you the biggest hiding of your life, young lady! I’ll not have thieves in my family!” “Dad ... Dad ... you don’t understand ...”
“Get out of bed!”
Shaking like a leaf, I got out of it and, by force of habit, I suppose, I knelt on it and gripped the head-rail. Whilst I sobbed and pleaded, still protesting my innocence, he tied my wrists to the head-rail with a cord. Then the customary scarf went about my mouth tightly, to silence me as best it could.
Oh God ... oh God ... how many was he going to give me? The agonising injustice of it all burnt like a brand within me. My bottom was already sore and tender from the previous evening’s strapping and what Mr. Mason had done to me that afternoon. Dad was obviously not going to take things like that into account. Up came my nightie and I felt the cool air on my burning bottom.
Momentarily.
“You wicked little bitch,” he almost growled, “you’ve let me down!” I’d never heard him quite like this before. He is normally calm, methodical and unhurried when he punishes.
“Let me down!” he repeated as the first stroke bit excruciatingly.
Then he kept repeating it as stroke followed stroke. “Let me down ... let me down ... let me down ...wicked little bitch ... wicked little bitch ... thief ...thief ... thief ... thief!” A stroke accompanied every phrase ... every word ... and those strokes rained down far faster than usual.
Like someone demented I kicked and threshed on the bed, shrieking into my gag in torment. The pain was unbelievable as stroke followed stroke in quick succession. In his fury, Dad seemed to be caning wildly; a lot of strokes fell on my thighs. I lost count of the number. I had no idea how many I was going to get. Nothing had been said. It was open-ended.
Every moment I thought I could not possibly bear another single stroke. Then, the next moment, I got one.
My brain as well as my bottom seemed to be on fire. I thought it must burst. I was howling into the gag, choking and retching.
I will go mad, I thought, in a final frenzy of agony.
Then I must have fainted. The extremities of pain had been reached.
I awoke in the early hours of dawn. No longer secured, no longer gagged, still on top of the bed. I was shivering with cold but the burning-throbbing of the innumerable weals over my poor bottom was atrocious. Like a wounded animal creeping into its lair, I slid painfully under the covers - lying face down!
Some hours later I heard a key turning in the lock. It thought it was Dad but it was my sister
Elsie. That was most unusual.
“Dad says you are to stay in bed today,” she whispered. “Oh Joan ... whatever did he do to you?”
My voice choked; I couldn’t answer.
“Here ... put some of this on,” she said, thrusting a tin of Germoline into my hand. Both of us had used it, secretly, before. It helped ease the pain of weals and welts and encouraged healing. I thanked her and she left. I heard the key in the lock turn. Obviously Dad’s orders. I remained lying passively, all day long, nursing my wounds.
It was almost unbelievable that I had been so unjustly treated. All on Mr. Mason’s say-so. I felt anger and bitterness. Always I accepted punishment for mistakes and misdeeds. That was the way of the world. But what had just happened to me was something else. It made me resolve to run away from home.
But I must bide my time and plan very carefully.
In the evening, Elsie brought me soup and toast and a glass of water. I consumed it all. My tenderised bottom was thickly coated in Germoline. That certainly did seem to ease the pain. That night I slept better than I had expected to.
June 21st
Mid-summer’s day. Supposed to be a happy day. Fairy Queens and all that. Dad came into my bedroom quite early in the morning. “Let’s have a look at your backside, girl;,” he said in a matter of fact tone. I pushed down the sheets and lifted my nightie. “Hhhhmmmmfff ...” he said. I could well imagine my bottom looked in a most sorry state. “I think you’d better have another day in bed. Then you can go back to Mr. Mason.”
I was horrified at the idea, after what had happened. “Dad - surely you don’t mean that?”
“Of course I do,” he answered gruffly. “I’ve had another chat with Mr. Mason ... and we see eye to eye. Same as I do, he believes in discipline.”
“Dad ... I can’t go back there, not now!”
“You’re going back,” he said firmly. Already I knew I had lost. “There’s another thing,” he went on. “I’ve told him he can smack your bottom again, if need be. Nothing more, mind you. Just a good smacking if you get out of line. But I’ll want to know all about it every time it happens. What you did wrong ... how many smacks he gave you ... and so on. Understood, Joan?”
I was even more horrified. How could I endure such an existence? It confirmed my resolve about running away. Ultimately.
June 22nd
Today I have been back to Mr. Mason’s office. It was quite horrible. When I arrived, he looked at me lustfully. Kind of possessively. My cheeks coloured furiously.
“Good morning, Joan,” he said blandly. “You will have heard I have received the co-operation of your father?” I said nothing. “Yes?” he pressed.
“Yes, Mr. Mason,” I managed to say meekly.
“So I hope you will behave yourself in future. Otherwise, I’m afraid it’s over my lap and a good smack-bottom!” I coloured even more deeply. How hideous the whole thing was! “Is that quite clear?”
“Yes. Mr. Mason,” I replied.
“By the way,” he said, “I was informed that your Dad gave you a very good caning. Is that so?” “Y-yes, Mr. Mason,” I answered.
“I thought you seemed to be sitting a little uncomfortably. I’d better have a look at that. To see if you are fit for work.” I could scarcely believe my ears. Did he really mean it? “Just stand up, lift your skirt and take down your knickers, please Joan.”
He DID mean it!
“M-Mr. ... M-Mason ... please ...” I began.
“Joan,” he broke in, “your Dad has given me full authority to spank you again, if I think fit. You will do as I say, or I will exercise my rights. And I will send a report of events to your Dad.”
I was in a cleft stick. If I didn’t do as he wanted, he would spank me and I would be reported to Dad, who would punish me yet again. It was hopeless. I was lost. “Mr. M-Mason ...” I stammered, “don’t y-you ... understand ... what this means t-to a young w-woman?”
He smiled complacently. “Just do as I say, Joan,” he said. “That’s all.” The beast. Oh the beast!
Sobbing, I stood up, lifted my skirt and pushed down my knickers. They were another pair of white cotton. I heard him make a whistling sound. “My, my ... he certainly gave it to you, didn’t he?” There was quite a long pause. “But I think you’re fit for work all the same. You can pull your knickers up now.” Oh the humiliation of that condescending piece of permission! I almost turned to run and claw at his puffy red face. But where would that have got me? Only into deeper trouble
.
“Dictation,” said Mr. Mason. I took out my shorthand notebook ... and resigned myself.
I was glad when, later in the morning, he went out to see a client. The humiliation of what he had made me do was still hot upon me. He came back just before lunchtime while I was typing in the outer office. I expected him to go into his inner office but suddenly realised he was standing behind me. Then, to my shock and dismay, I felt his arms go round me ... and then he was clasping my breasts, joggling them up and down.
“These feel nice, Joan,” he said.
I cried out in wild protest, leaping up and striving to escape him. “STOP, STOP, YOU MUSTN’T!”
I saw him grinning at me.
“Silly girl,” he said. “Most youngsters of your age like having their tits felt. I expect you will soon.”
I covered my face with my hands and burst into tears. Then I heard him go into the office and close the door.
That evening I pondered whether I should tell Dad. Finally decided against it. He would probably say I was making it up and take Mr. Mason’s side, believing I was simply trying to stir up trouble.
June 23rd
It is Friday evening and, as usual, Sergeant George Faraday of the local Police came to see Dad in the evening. I took them in the Brown Ale and left as quickly as I could. It was very embarrassing to be in front of the Sergeant ever since that day he had caned me in that very room. Also, I didn’t like the way he looked at me. I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that all men are lecherous beasts.
Just as I was about to go to my bedroom at eight o’clock, Dad called for me to come in. I did so, nervously. Dad was looking sombre but the Sergeant seemed quite jovial.
“Your Dad told me what happened at the office this week,” he said. I flushed. “Serious matter that - thieving. You understand that, girl?”
“Yes, S-Sergeant,” I said meekly.
