Notebooks of the Young Wife

by Tara Black

  ‘Fine, sir, I’ll pencil in a young woman, as yet unspecified. Though there is one more thing. She plays, as it were, second fiddle, second to the head of the house. The original event, as I understand it, was intended to be a setting for the patriarchal seed to find a symbolic receptacle; to be transferred before the eyes of the whole company, to—’

  ‘I have read the material.’ He cut in as I was warming to my theme of the spouting semen as an object of veneration, justified I felt by the use of the word ‘sacrament’ in the text.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, I am merely trying to be clear about this. Am I right in assuming that you do intend to display the organ for all to see, and to, to...’ I faltered and let the sentence peter out. His gaze was fixed on the top of the desk and the well-worn features turned a curious shade of puce. There was a silence, then he downed the contents of his glass.

  ‘Dr Greene,’ he said heavily, ‘the apparatus will do what is required of it when the time comes. Now, if you would oblige me with another splash of your special whisky, I would like an opinion on a few more of these volumes.’ It was good of him not to remind me that I knew at first hand how the ‘apparatus’ functioned – not that it was something I could quickly forget. Perhaps he was averse to sexual talk as opposed to writing, or perhaps it was talking in those terms to me that was the problem. In any case, I was happy to pour out more drink and look at more dirty books of a certain age. The forthcoming wedding had been confirmed in all but name, and I could also look forward – if with impatience – to feasting my eyes on the monster of an erection that had violated my innards.

  In the meantime, though, there were other potential erections on my mind, and after a while I left the Master to the last dram, pleading the need to make a phone call. It was a mobile number the driver had given me, and he answered it almost at once. From the buzz in the background I deduced a pub and got straight to the point.

  ‘It’s Dr Greene here, at The End. Do you recall our conversation in the car earlier today?’

  ‘Um yes, I do.’ He sounded a little startled.

  ‘Well, how would you feel about coming over tomorrow afternoon? For a kind of screen test, shall we say? And any other keen young men would be welcome.’ I heard sounds of a hurried consultation, punctuated by some decidedly sceptical snorts.

  ‘Sure. It could be just me or it could be three of us. Depending on whether I can get these dickbrains to believe me.’ There was audience laughter at his remark, though it had a nervous edge to it. I thought it likely we should get our quota.

  ‘Well, you can tell them they’d better keep the dicks tucked away in the interim. We want specimens in prime condition. See you at half-past two, okay?’

  After lunch the following afternoon, a small reception committee gathered in the library. The young men Molly showed in to the panelled room looked somewhat abashed, I daresay with reason, for they faced us across a long table on which had been placed the instruments for the occasion. They consisted of only three items: Edith’s cane, my paddle and a strap that belonged to Cook, none of them formidable in itself. But to novices in their use it must have been a daunting array, and not made less so by the maid’s asking if they would each please remove their trousers. While that was done I explained that the show for which we were auditioning involved some preliminary corporal punishment followed by oodles of scrumptious sex. As a first step they were requested to stand where they were while the young ladies made an assessment of the relevant parts. I added that, of course, anyone who wanted out was free to go at any time.

  Mary Lou and Maybelle homed in on the lad in the middle in cheerleader mode, all cleavage and tiny pink hotpants. They fussed over him, making sure their charms were amply displayed to his popping eyes, then Lou tweaked down the boxer shorts enough for Bel to rub the arse-cheeks that emerged with the oiled leather of the strap. While they were thus occupied I became aware that the ringleader seemed more interested in the cane than what was happening beside him, so I took it for him to have a closer view.

  ‘Ever felt the benefit of one of these? Used on the place it was designed for, of course.’ I turned him a little and stared down at the behind neatly sheathed in black cotton briefs.

  ‘Er, no, but there was a teacher and she... she had one, in a glass case on the wall. And there were stories... boys said she threatened... but she never... though I know she saw me looking at it once... she never...’ It came out in blurted phrases and he licked his lips nervously. I saw that the whole shaft of his cock was outlined long and stout under the tight cotton, and my own genitals gave an answering pulse. It looked as though we’d found a natural.

  The daughters were busying themselves with the third boy, having left the second as stiff as mine had so quickly become. But they were making little headway with a penis that dangled limply in defiance of their best efforts, until the boy went round from behind the table and paddle in hand fondled the exposed bum. At once the organ gave a kick and the girls giggled. Another natural, maybe, with a preference for his own gender.

  ‘Did you know?’ I queried softly, and he shook his head, grinning at what we’d seen. ‘Let’s go next door, all right?’ I didn’t want to be sidetracked and nor, I guessed correctly, did he. Once the door to the den was shut behind us I stood in front of him holding the length of rattan in my two hands.

  ‘Well, Colin,’ I began, dredging up the name he’d offered when we first spoke, ‘it may be a pity the mistress didn’t take you in hand. But it’s far from too late to start now.’ I couldn’t resist drawing the tip of my cane along the hard bulge that ran from the groin along the crease of the thigh, filling the skimpy material between waist and leg band. He let out a semi-stifled moan of pure lust that hit me straight in the vitals. It was time to cut the cackle and act. He bent over the chair I offered and gripped the seat as instructed, presenting me with a delicious sight. The thin cotton garment would do very well at the outset, especially when the recipient-to-be was new to the game.

  ‘This instrument hurts a lot, properly applied, and that means, among other things, hard. But if you’re the young man I take you for, you’ll come through that. And then... well, you’ll find out. Three before the pants come down, agreed?’

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’ I was happy to let the designation stand: after all, my intention in making the lad suffer was not vindictive but therapeutic. It would thrill me of course, but I was going to give him a life-changing experience, and that’s what I call service.

  I made the first stroke a moderate one that Colin took in silence. It left a mark in the cloth across the dead centre of the buttocks, and I let rip with the next two a half-inch above and below the target line. Each time he sucked in air and jerked up, but each time he went back down into position.

  ‘Good lad,’ I said in a reassuring tone, taking hold of the black waistband, ‘but a proper caning is always on the bare bottom. Right?’

  ‘Right.’ It lacked the cheery ring of my question, having rather the quality of being issued through clenched teeth. Never mind, I had faith in my choice of subject and, as it turned out, one that was well placed. He endured three sizzlers with only the white knuckles clamped to the sides of the chair betraying the pain of them. I pressed a hand into the small of his back and ran consoling fingers along the tramlines flaming in earnest on the fair skin. Then I leaned forward and spoke quietly into his ear.

  ‘There is space for two more, in between the rest. It would make a neat finish to the job, if you agree.’

  He sighed, but I signalled an end and got the hoped-for consent in a resigned, ‘Okay.’

  At the last he made a choking noise and I held him tight round the waist until the thigh muscles stopped working. Then it all happened very quickly. Thumbing down my jeans with one hand I pulled him up so that his bum pressed into my groin. In front the cock was stiffening fast and in a trice it was standing proud, so I sat on the edge of the counter with legs s
pread and pulled him to me. In my hand the organ oozed a clear drop, then another and his face was a mask of slit-eyed lust.

  ‘Told you,’ I breathed, bringing the tip of the cock against my throbbing clit, and he gasped.

  ‘It’s coming... I can’t... stop... uh...’ I held him as the hot flow spurted over me, until milked of its yield the penis drooped. But when I gave the tender behind a loving squeeze it kicked, and in seconds the thing rose again to nose against my sperm-spattered belly. What followed was the messiest fuck I have the pleasure of recalling, before or since. Gloriously awash in his fluids and mine, my bum slithered and slipped on the wet wood as he pumped us both up to the grandmother of all shattering climaxes.

  With the resources of only a dishcloth and the cold tap in the adjoining pantry, mopping up took a while. In the end, though, our bodies were restored with relative ease, although after such a vigorous coupling I was a little worried at the noise we might have made, but on the other side of the door no one was paying any attention to our entrance.

  The closing stage of the afternoon’s trials was underway with Bel kneeling, camera to her eye, behind the third of the volunteers. The bum in the frame was ruby-red, with the kind of inner glow that betokens a determined application of leather. The cock looked firm enough as it was, but the boy put down the paddle and rubbed it into full glistening rampancy for the close-up shot. The young Texan pressed a button and studied the small display screen.

  ‘Awesome,’ she announced to her twin. ‘Daddy is so going to appreciate our hard work for his show.’ Lou, however, was shaking her head.

  ‘A dick in that condition is gonna make him think a dick poking where it shouldn’t. Daddy sees these and he’s like, “pants down and over my knee now, girl”.’ Bel pouted.

  ‘Ouchville. But it’s all in a good cause, sis.’ They succumbed to a small fit of the giggles, nursing imagined spanked bottoms. I guessed ‘Daddy’ would get shown the pics regardless and that the heavy hand would give way in the end to the patriarchal phallus. The centrepiece of the tableau would amply confirm Mrs Beaton’s original suspicions of a somewhat eccentric family set-up, but that was still a fortnight away.

  The photography complete, the lads were ushered out promising to return in a week for a run through of their parts in the event. For the present it was up to me, closeted with the uxorial original and a good dram, to sketch out a workable choreography.

  Bottoms Up!

  A week later, as we bowled along the country lanes on the last leg of the journey back to Ardingley End, I mooted the part I’d pencilled in for Tamsin in the tableau’s centrepiece.

  ‘Sure, I know the kind of thing. Set it up just so and the top of your head blows right off, yeah? But what’s the deal with these strap-ons?’

  ‘The deal is no cocks, at least not till he gets there. Unlike Joanna, aka uxor, this is a brand new wife. But she has to be plugged, or it won’t pass muster as a pukka rerun.’

  ‘Gotcha.’ There was a silence while the PA squeezed us past a tractor with a wave at the vest-clad driver showing off his pecs. ‘Though I expect I can guess which of the openings I get.’

  ‘Well, speaking as the one pinned down underneath it doesn’t look too bad. You get the room to wiggle about and hit the spot. Plus it will be a bottom that’s been, shall we say, well prepared.’

  ‘Okay, okay, back door is no problem. So everyone’s gonna be, er, prepared, right? And how exactly will I, if you’ve got that far with the plans, boss?’ I let the sarcasm pass from one less than enamoured of corporal punishment.

  ‘I thought maybe Mrs Beaton’s strap. If you agree, of course.’

  ‘Been there, done that, and it bloody stings.’ She gave a sour little laugh.

  ‘I could offer the cane, or there’s always that fine hardwood paddle—’

  ‘God, no way.’ She sighed and squared her shoulders at the wheel. ‘You win, guv. For the greater good, I suppose, or some such tosh.’

  ‘If it helps, it is everyone we’re talking about, saving his Mastership. So Cook will be joining Edith Faversham over the trunk, with of course, your pal Mathilda Jencks. Though afterwards I thought they could be excused the gymnastic fuckfest and left to their own devices with a jar of unguent.’

  ‘No skin off my nose. I’m actually rather looking forward to my piece of tasty black arse. But if you haven’t already picked a weapon for the matronly cheeks, can I suggest the board from hell? I wouldn’t like to see it idle.’

  ‘Wicked girl. Though how appropriate: it will be, as they say, a learning experience. And I hear the Master has been joined by a muscular secretary-cum-minder who’ll be looking to help out and is bound to be a dab hand with the instrument.’

  After lunch I met up with the Master. He was happy enough to endorse the disciplinary schedule I’d drawn up, which ended with its author, flanked by the daughters of the house, at the mercy of the patriarchal cane. Once more down with the breeches, though I wasn’t planning to invoke England or St George. Next the new Mistress was to take centre stage, but on the subject of her treatment he was keeping mum. I gathered, too, that Lou and Bel were to play a critical part in the culmination, but given his reluctance to call a spade a spade in sexual matters I didn’t even get to outline my scheme for deploying the organs at my disposal. I would just have to hope that faithfulness to the original would see us through.

  Coming across Molly and Laura in the kitchen, I imparted the news that maids had been allocated to the order of the birch. With only a week to go, rods had better be set pickling, and sooner rather than later. However, I was able to sweeten the pill with an undertaking that the Housekeeper’s hindquarters would, in their turn, be bared and expertly tanned with the slab of polished wood. The idea went down so well that the girls were still chuckling between themselves when they headed off armed with cutters.

  At the garage buildings I spotted a pair of boiler-suited legs protruding from beneath the canary-yellow Bugatti, and decided to own up.

  ‘Hi, Ama. Confession time. I’m afraid I was snooping on you and the big man. I was trying to creep out from the kitchen when I heard the answer. Sorry and all that.’

  ‘Jane. So you know. I’ve been and gone and done it, haven’t I? Good and proper.’ The mechanic swung herself out from under the car and looked up at me from the low trolley. ‘Tell me what a fool I am.’ I shook my head. A part of me, admittedly small and kept well in check, craved the moment of utter submission, and was undeniably jealous.

  ‘Each to her own,’ I muttered. It wasn’t the place to elaborate on my feelings.

  ‘Let me show you something.’ She scrambled to her feet and led the way inside. At the end of a long workbench stood an upright object, and coming in out of the bright afternoon my eyes took a few moments to adjust. There was a broad base on which was planted a trunk as tall as Ama herself, and on that was fixed a crosspiece hung with straps. Then the details coalesced into a perception that made me shiver. The thing was a whipping post and was being finished by the woman who was going to be fastened to it. She drew me in close through the shavings that littered the floor; in the enclosed space the air was heavy with resin and the sickly reek of new leather. I felt suddenly unsteady and clutched the wood for support.

  ‘It’s for the tableau; a departure from the bench but one we thought justified. He picked out the tree himself and had it cut to size, including a branch for the T-section. The platform came from a lectern out of the disused chapel.’ The deadpan snippets of information added a weird chill to an already bizarre situation. ‘Jane, you don’t look well. Are you all right?’

  ‘It’s very close in here.’ It was no more than a touch of dizziness, but I wanted away from the gruesome apparatus. I am not usually squeamish about severe treatments; indeed I’d given Ama a pretty good going-over myself a few weeks before. However I had set limits, but who could say what the man she proposed to consign hers
elf to would consider enough? Then, of course, that was exactly the point. It was why she was doing it. Had to do it. But I spared the lady a repetition of what she knew well herself and went with her up the stairs. In the flat she handed me a bottle of oil.

  ‘Do you feel up to giving me a rub? It makes the skin supple and resilient, more able to withstand, well, you know...’ Again I cringed inwardly in contemplation of what might be in store for that beautiful body. Her fingers began to unbutton in order to strip when a voice called out from the door and Ama responded with a loud, ‘Hi Jill!’ The little kitchen maid came in, but when she saw me she coloured and took a step back.

  ‘Sorry, I’ll come another time.’

  ‘No,’ put in Ama, then explained to me that Jill had been ‘doing’ her all week. It gave me the chance I needed to escape from an uncomfortable situation.

  ‘Don’t go, please. I was just on a flying visit.’ I moved myself nearer the exit as Ama emerged statuesque from her boiler suit in front of the pale girl with her elfin features. She was looking up in wide-eyed awe as if before a manifestation of the goddess. I thrust the bottle in her hand and made myself scarce.

  By the end of the following Saturday all participants had been fully briefed and were content, if not always enthusiastic, to accept the impending discipline. Early Sunday was spent finalising the running order and checking and double-checking the times it would take to inflict the fourteen doses of, variously, strap, birch, paddle and cane. After all that I felt like a latter-day de Sade in the throes of composing The 120 Days of Sodom, and took myself off up to the wood in the clear morning air.

  On the way back I found Jill sitting on the steps to the garage flat. With the Mistress-to-be away formalising the union she looked thoroughly out of sorts, and I thought I could see the traces of tears. It was too late for pussyfooting, so I plonked myself down beside her.