Notebooks of the Young Wife

by Tara Black

  ‘Hey, girl, I heard you’re going to be the personal maid. Is that right?’ She nodded glumly so I pressed on. ‘Cheer up then, that’s good news, isn’t it?’ There was no reply and the eyes welled up. I put my arms round her shoulders and held her while the sobs came and eventually subsided.

  ‘Sorry,’ she snuffled, pulling a wet face away from my jacket. ‘I’m being silly.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ I said sternly. ‘But there is one thing you must realise. Ama’s got to do what she’s got to do. You can’t change that. I know it’s hard to accept but you can’t protect her. What you can do, though, is look after her. Right?’ Before she could disagree I got up and held out my hand. ‘Come on. Instead of moping about you can give me a hand in the Hall. And then, there’s something we really need to do before you come back here to meet the new Lady of the Manor. Something that’s been unaccountably left out of my schedule...’

  The birching block and the trunk with added rail from the study had been left ready in the passage. So we carried them in between us and moved the benches from the long dining table to provide seating for the small audience, each of whom would in turn participate. And that included the one temporarily forgotten. After making some small adjustments to the block I turned to Jill.

  ‘Well now, sweetie, have you worked out what it was that slipped my mind? Until just now, that is.’ The expression of wide-eyed innocence with which she shook her head was too much, and I burst out laughing as she gave me a cheeky grin as if to say it was worth a try. ‘So let’s get down to business. I take it that you didn’t get a Welcome.’

  ‘No. I was very young when I started doing bits of work here, and they sort of forgot after.’

  ‘Okay. I think we can leave the twigs out of it for the present, so how about an old-fashioned over-the-knee spanking; nothing too alarming about that, hm?’

  ‘Um...’ She looked around at the double doors standing open and I guessed the problem, so once I had her in the small room beside the fireplace I turned the key in the lock and sat down on an upright chair, patting my lap.

  ‘Over you come. No one’s going to disturb us here.’ When I lifted the dress the chubby little buttocks were quite knickerless, and I’m afraid to report that I chuckled rather lewdly. She turned to me, scarlet with embarrassment.

  ‘I usually leave them off when I’m going to... to...’

  ‘Of course you do, dear. And you couldn’t have chosen better today. For this pretty bottom is soon going to be in need of all the cooling air it can get.’

  Before I’d done there were tears again, but I judged them to be of the healthy kind that stem from a fiercely smarting rump. They were soon dried and then I pinned up her clothing at the back so that the results of my efforts were clearly visible. As Jill left she passed another figure coming in. The woman stopped and her head swivelled to watch the red arse jiggle out of the room. She put down her case of equipment by the benches and mouthed a whistle.

  ‘You must be happy in your work, Dr G.’

  ‘It has its rewards, Mo, I have to admit.’ It had been Tamsin’s idea to make a record of such a once-in-a-lifetime event, a brainwave I thought, although the trick would be to avoid the disruption of a film crew bent on documenting every detail. So I sought advice from Judith at the Archive, who said she knew exactly the person for the job. There was a camerawoman who would capture the whole thing from the broad sweep of the action to the most in-your-face close-up, and she had the latest digital stuff. Most importantly of all, we would hardly know she was there. Patriarchal approval was granted at once and that was that: Mo was booked.

  The Sunday before she had installed a few supplementary lights amongst the chandeliers and was, it transpired, having last minute doubts about their adequacy. I was offering to fetch the tall stepladder used the last time when a voice chipped in.

  ‘I’ll go. It’s in the store at the back of the kitchen, right?’ It was Tamsin, and Mo turned to flash her a big smile.

  ‘Hi there, T. How ya doing? No, don’t go just yet, not before I check the meter again.’ She took out a gizmo with a lens and a small screen from her pocket and looked over at the disciplinary apparatuses. ‘It’s a thing about skin, yeah? You gotta get the level on the nose or you’re fucked.’

  ‘Okay. Will I model for you, Mo? Like I was going to get whacked. Correction: like I am going to get whacked.’ A tug on its zip turned the microskirt into a strip of cloth that she laid over the trunk before dropping down beside it. The bum-cheeks stuck out, split by a tiny thong, and the camerawoman began to swoop around them with ecstatic noises, zooming in and pulling back. The speed with which our PA got herself on the case suggested that more than technical assistance was on offer. It felt rather as if I were watching a new courtship ritual of young females, and my presence was at the very least surplus to requirements. So when Tamsin told Mo to feel free to raise a bit of colour if that would help, I quietly left them to it.

  Three hours later I was able to kick off the proceedings in style. It wasn’t something I’d given much thought to, let alone dreamed of doing, but when I saw the dark gleam of the bronze plate as wide as the span of my arms I was captured. It had lain neglected in an outhouse until seized upon by the new attendant and restored to prime position at the foot of the main staircase. He was a man of even fewer words than his Master, but I had up my sleeve the inducement of applying the ‘Board of Education’, for which he was indeed an enthusiast, to three very well fleshed behinds. In return he demonstrated to me the technique by which a first, barely audible tap with the soft mallet, primes the gong for a second strike to launch a mighty crescendo.

  Thus prepared I delivered the hammer-blow that sent a wave of sound booming and crashing into the tunnels of space ahead and above. When the echoes died away a single file of figures came into view, descending the broad stairs in slow procession. Each was dressed in a plain, calf-length shift of unbleached linen, chosen with an intentional nod to the times of the young wife whose writings had formed the basis of our performance. As an undergarment it carried an aura of the bedroom, though with a distinct penitential tinge: stripped of all else the wearer was available, at the raising of a hem, for chastisement as much as for sex.

  The players had been arranged in the order of their appointments with a disciplinary instrument, so Tamsin headed the line of ten bodies. She had a face that attracted attention however the rest of her was clothed, but its individual quality was on that occasion muted. Instead she was suffused, as were those that came after, with the kind of gravity bestowed by absorption into the larger whole. One by one the company passed into the hall and took their seats on the oak benches. When all were settled, I threw a switch on the panel by the fireplace and bathed the trunk in a warm glow of light. A clap of the hands and we were underway. The PA and the boy came forward, lifted their gowns waist-high and lay forward together over the rounded top.

  Mrs Beaton was to do the honours with a replay of the strapping at which the lad first grabbed my attention. This time, however, his cock was tucked out of view in the interest of making available a second target alongside the original. They made a fine pair, his wickedly spankable bottom jutting quite as provocatively as Tamsin’s lusher curves as the flat piece of leather thwacked repeatedly into reddening flesh. No one was counting strokes: the plan for the early stages was to continue until the recipients were judged to have undergone a suitably testing experience. As it was, Cook’s brow was wreathed in perspiration before the muscular arm discarded the instrument with a sigh, and we watched the writhing victims nurse scarlet cheeks before resuming with some circumspection their places on the hard wood bench. Mrs Beaton and I grinned at each other: with the first two behinds so well roasted, the evening had really begun.

  Consummatum Est

  Next on the programme was a birching in the manner that had become traditional to the house. Maids Laura and Molly dragged the heavy block
into position and put down next to it the tub of brine and vinegar complete with its steeping contents. Then they hoisted their shifts and knelt side by side on the padded wooden step while the Housekeeper secured the leg straps.

  ‘Over,’ she commanded, and the girls went forward and stretched out their arms. My local lads had jumped at the chance to take part, and Colin took hold of Laura’s wrists while his straight mate gripped Molly’s. They may not have been in the best place to view the effects of the whipping, but they would feel the reaction to every cut of the pickled bundles. Already both boys were visibly erect under the linen as they leaned back to take the strain.

  Soon the small audience was being treated to a fine spectacle. Mrs Jencks worked with an energy that belied her years, and the air was filled with the swish and snap of wet saplings on naked skin. Given their time at Ardingley End, the maids should have been well used to such treatment, but there was nothing about their responses to suggest the experience was stale. In fact, if the squealing and writhing and the clenching and unclenching of buttocks had become part of the show, their prior exercise had served to render them only more convincing as expressions of pain.

  When two rods had been reduced to tatters the Housekeeper paused, allowing us to savour the sight of hindquarters scored with a tracery of angry lines amid welling spots of red. Then she took a new instrument dripping from the barrel, and brought it down in brisk alternation on the pairs of cheeks: back and fore, back and fore, back and fore. Behind her camera Mo had been as unobtrusive as promised, yet I became aware, even above the anguished shrieking, of the excited hiss of her breath as she homed in for the kill.

  I’d allowed for a brief bathing of inflamed parts in situ, estimating that the girls would not want to miss the turn of the lads who’d been so keen to hold them down. So Tamsin set to work with a cloth and a bowl of cold water while the next victims were given the job of sweeping up. Then, the trunk restored to centre stage, it was three male bottoms that were presented for the company’s delectation. Edith and I selected a fine springy implement each from the collection she’d brought with her, having agreed that while the outer two should receive a stiff six apiece, our budding submissive in the centre could be taken to the full dozen.

  And so he was, with twelve swingeing beauties that had the flesh of the arse-cheeks all aquiver. At the finish a riot of weals was emblazoned thick on the flanks, Edith’s to the right and my backhanders to the left. The lads were let up and given a minute for the fits of squirming and clutching to pass. I noticed my partner say a few words into Colin’s ear, at which the pale face lit up and the head nodded keenly. A future date had been set at the country cottage, I guessed, for remedial work on the bruising and, given my boy’s experience, what would surely follow.

  The entry of the Master’s man, tanned and fit in singlet and shorts, caused a distinct stir. He had with him a range of instruments to cater for targets of differing size and resilience, and decreed that he would take ‘the older ladies’ one by one. Each was to lift her own garment and bend over, placing the flat of the hands on the top of the trunk. Legs together and a straight back would ensure, he promised, that no untoward display was afforded to the watching juniors. Oldest first, we’d already decided, so Mathilde Jencks stepped out and with a visible effort at appearing composed, bared and bent as ordered. It was scarcely a lip-smacking sight, I have to report, and even the enthusiast for the board seemed a little taken aback by the scrawniness of the rear on offer. But he found a whitewood paddle drilled with holes and his duty was soon done.

  Edith Faversham was a different proposition, presenting two hams that broadened steadily and seamlessly from knee to base of spine. Again our man did not appear best pleased by what he saw, but settled for the application of a medium weight board until the upper region of the display had turned a pretty salmon-pink.

  Then came the unexpected treat of the evening. On a scale of age Mrs Beaton was the youngest by some degrees, but the contrast was absolute. When she took up the prescribed position there came into view two luscious hemispheres, white and silky. Large, certainly, but perfectly formed with a dark enticing smudge between the undercurves, they begged to be treated in exemplary fashion. The attendant reached for the heaviest slab of polished wood, then checked himself.

  ‘Madam, if I may feel... that is, to be quite sure...’ Cook made no reply except to push the buttocks out into even more prominence. The man’s hands patted and prodded, lifted and palpated and an expression of wonder crept over his face. Then he took up the instrument and with a, ‘Brace yourself, ma’am,’ set about the appointed task.

  With a smack that echoed round the room, the first swat lifted the body up onto its toes. The flesh bounced and rippled in aftershock around a band of colour that sprung up instantly.

  ‘My, oh my,’ breathed Mrs Beaton, sounding oddly more surprised than shocked, then settled her heavy form firmly back on its feet. Five more strokes were accepted in silence, after which the man adjusted his aim to land six across a line a few inches higher. Another half dozen to the ample undercurves were taken in like manner, with only a small rocking movement to absorb the impact.

  ‘I don’t mean to speak out of turn, sir, but had you in mind finishing off soon?’ The tone was almost conservational, with only the slightest quiver in the voice to show that the worthy lady was feeling somewhat, shall we say, stretched. Once more the hands assessed the globes, whose milky complexion was transformed into a rich ruby.

  ‘Six full-centre, with your permission, ma’am.’ Cook bowed her head and took them without a word. Afterwards she stood flushed, kneading the beaten cheeks under her shift. The attendant collected up his paddles and offered her an arm.

  ‘You were magnificent, if I may say so, ma’am. Now will you accept some cooling lotion?’ An almost coquettish smile crossed her face as she murmured a thank you then made her exit, albeit a touch stiffly, at his side. I caught a glimpse of his shorts filled out at the crotch and suspected there would be little standing on ceremony in the anteroom. Indeed, no one who’d witnessed the encounter was surprised when the announcement came a week later of a second wedding.

  There was one more disciplinary exhibition scheduled before the bride of that morning was due to appear before us. I was to take my place with the daughters for the Master’s cane. In the scheme I’d drawn up, it was down as a reprise of the earlier caning to the detail that the central figure – me, of course – would endure a double dose. However, there was one critical difference: the instrument was of the synthetic variety already burned into my memory in Brittany. But while inclined to rue the insouciance with which I’d consigned myself to it, I had no real complaint. It was only right and proper that one so fond of chastising buttocks should now and then expose her own to a degree of severity.

  Holding the thought close, I assumed my position and managed a wink and squeeze of the hand to Bel and Lou, who were looking no more eager than I. Then the Master was beside us silently, shrouded in a grey monk’s cloak. The feel of the cold black rod against my naked flesh made my stomach tighten, then came the two words, ‘I begin.’ He might have wanted to minimise the impression his own figure made on the watchers until later, but there was nothing perfunctory about his performance. I will not dwell on those dreadful, measured strokes that wrenched cries from deep in all of us before he was done. Suffice to say I was glad of a short respite before having that part of my body pressed into any surface, however yielding, by the weight of Ama’s on top.

  And then, in short order, the beautiful lady herself was present and there was the final scene setting to distract me from the throbbing of my ill-used buttocks.

  The new Mistress waited quietly at the periphery while we shunted the rough wooden post into prime position across from the trunk, which had been transformed by a flat cushioned top. Tamsin and I belted on our phallic appendages, as did Molly, who was to use Laura as the boy was to use the third la
d in the culminating orgy. Thus equipped we joined the rest in a row, and watched while the now blindfolded Ama was led by her naked maid to stand before her designated place of pain.

  The long gown parted to allow first one arm then the other to be cuffed to the crossbar. A tug at the neck cord released the garment to fall in two halves around her feet. Next the waist was cinched tight to the wood and I saw there had been an addition to the device. A padded wedge fixed in a groove was slid up to the level of the crotch, after which the knees were secured to the squared sides of the post. The effect was to thrust the arse-cheeks up and out, in a posture that seemed indecently to invite their impending violation. To complete the preparations, Jill took a pessary between finger and thumb and pressed it into the puckered hole that winked between the globes.

  There was a sudden hush, a collective catching of breath, and the Texan strode down the line, looming over us in heeled boots. The whole outfit was of hide, from the black leather chaps with a bulging pouch between the legs to the sleeveless vest, and the reek of it was heavy in the air. We stood stiff, straight, as much by instinct as from rehearsal, and no one moved when he passed behind us raising hems to inspect the marks of corporal punishment that each bore. One by one the line of ten was approved, until he reached the boy at the end. Whereas the PA’s fair skin had held a good colour, her partner under Cook’s strap was not so lucky. Sent to fetch a school cane he was summarily bent and subjected to a juicy six that had him hopping.

  It was a pleasing diversion, but I don’t believe that any present had forgotten what was about to come. Indeed, once he returned to his place the room grew very still and I was aware of my own dry mouth and quickening pulse. In the silence the Master took up a stance to the side of the bound body and signalled the maid to attach the ball-gag to the victim’s head. The job done, she was waved away so I pulled her in beside me and held her firmly by the arm. There was no announcement, just a rapid movement of the arm, a whooshing noise and a crack loud enough to make me start. For a frozen instant the breadth of the dark-skinned torso was encompassed by a darker line that curled up over the right shoulder. The head snapped back and the fists clenched as the whip sprang away, only to land again with that gut-wrenching sound. Again. And again. And again and again. The air was a dizzying blur of snaking thongs and the figure jerked in its bonds like some marionette come to brief demented life.