by Victor Bruno
Cheeks colouring I entered the office, very conscious of my breasts bouncing as I made my way to Mr Mason’s desk. I saw his eyes fixed greedily on me. I sat down and, with lowered eyes, studied my shorthand notebook. Would I ever get used to displaying myself to him in this indecent manner? I doubted it.
“Take a letter Joan,” he said calmly, “to Brimble & Brimble ...”
Half an hour later I was back in the outer office putting my blouse and brassiere back on. I was getting on with my typing when he came out of his office.
“I’m going home early Joan,” he said, “but you will stay and finish those letters.” Quite the little dictator!
He walked past my desk and reached down, squeezing my left breast in his palm. “Goodnight Joan.”
I felt sick with hate and fury. Yes, I would have to run away.
That night, as I lay in my bed, I started to make plans. Where should I go? Brighton seemed like as good a place as any. It wasn’t too far away and it was summertime. I could get a cheap room or even sleep on the beach if things got desperate. The very thought of being away from the office ... away from the house ... was exhilarating. Despite the risks I felt that, with my qualifications, I would very soon get a job. The main problem was the lack of money until had actually started work and settled down. It frightened me but I knew I would have to steal.
The last time I had been accused of stealing when I was innocent.
This time I would steal without the risk of accusation because I would be gone. Mr Mason would be the provider. No-one deserved it more than he.
There was usually about thirty pounds in the petty cash tin. It would suffice, but I would have to be careful. When should I go? Weekend would be best ... even if it did mean enduring another three days of my employer. I would steal the money last thing Friday afternoon, then, with a small bag ready, I would slip out of the house early Saturday morning, make my way to the station and catch an early train.
There didn’t seem to be any snags and I began to get excited at the adventure ahead. If only I didn’t have to steal the money because that was something very wicked. It couldn’t be helped. June 28th.
Another disastrous day ... and it isn’t over yet. Dad will soon be coming up the stairs with his cane.
It all began when Mr Mason called me into his office about mid-morning. Complying with his instructions I went to take off my blouse and brassiere only to realise that I was wearing a dress. Surely he didn’t expect me take that off? So in I went, fully clothed.
“What’s this?” he snapped. “Why haven’t you carried out my orders?” “I ... I’m wearing a dress Mr Mason. There’s no top to take off,” I said.
He looked angry. “Then go out and take the whole damn’ thing off, bra as well.” “Oh Mr Mason ... Please ... No ... Please ...”
“Just do as I say! Immediately!” I turned and stumbled out.
I stood in the outer office, shaking all over. How could I make myself do it? Then I remembered, I would be far away from this horror by next week. One last effort was all that was required. However hard it was I must do it!
I unbuttoned the dress and pulled it over my head. It was a flowery patterned pink and matched my brassiere and knickers although they were considerably thinner cotton. In addition I wore a suspender belt, tan coloured stockings and white, high heeled shoes. I removed my brassiere and suddenly realised that I was almost totally naked. It took the most tremendous effort to walk into his office.
Bounce ... Bounce ... Bounce ... went my breasts. The beast was looking at me lustfully. Hate was coiled like a steel spring within me. If thoughts of revenge could kill, he would have dropped dead. He pointed at the chair.
“Just sit down Joan,” he said, watching me closely as I did so. Instinctively I crossed my legs and he gave the faintest of grins as I did so. “Now Joan, I have to tell you that I am extremely dissatisfied with the work you did late yesterday afternoon. Extremely dissatisfied. I gave you six letters to type and you have managed to make two or three errors in each one. That is simply not good enough.” I could feel my nerves beginning to jangle. My skin began to prickle and my scalp felt first hot and then cold. “It leaves me no option,” he concluded in high and mighty fashion. “You will have to be punished Joan. A good spanking should wake your ideas up.”
“Nooooo ...” I cried out in horror.
“And I don’t want any nonsense, any resistance will only make things worse for you. Remember I shall be reporting to your father, if there is any trouble the report will get worse.” “Pleeeeeasse ... PLLLEEEEAASSEE!” I wailed despairingly.
As he had done on that first awful occasion, he swung his chair around and patted his lap. “Over here Joan,” he said, “and be quick about it!”
One last effort I told myself. Remember that you won’t be here next week. But for that knowledge, I don’t think I could have made myself stand up and move towards him. He grabbed me as I came close and pulled me down over his lap. Instantly I felt that hard bone in his trousers. The filthy swine ...swine ... swine! His left arm went around me tight but, whereas on the last occasion he had clamped me around the waist, he now clasped my left breast. I struggled wildly, even though I sensed that it was giving him added pleasure.
“Sttttooooop it ... sttoooop ittt ... you fillllthy devillll!” I screamed. All he did was tug my flimsy knickers down, leaving me totally naked apart from suspender belt, stockings and shoes. It was unbelievable that such a thing could be happening. Unbelievable! Once again my knickers ripped as my legs and thighs kicked and splayed.
His hand began to run caressingly over my naked bottom. “You have a very nice bottom Joan,” he said creakily, “Such a pity it has to be treated in this fashion. But it has to be I’m afraid. It just has to be.”
And, so saying he began to smack each buttock in turn. Spppllllaattttt! Sppplllaaaatttttt! Sssssssssssppppplllllaaaattttt!
One across the middle.
The pattern was repeated. I could hear him breathing fast already. It was hurting, but not all that much. The strap was much worse. As before, the pain came from the humiliating shame he was putting me through.
I was lying naked over the lap of a middle-aged man and he was smacking my bottom! Oh the indignity!
Oh the degradation!
Sssppllattt! Ssppllattttt! Ssplllattt! Sssssppppllllaaaattttt!
The pattern of stinging slaps continued. It was beginning to hurt but I was determined not to make a sound. Why give him the satisfaction?
“Careless ...Careless ... Careless ...!” he panted, accompanying each word with a slap. “I won’t have it ... I won’t ... I won’t!”
It was beginning to burn. My eyes were watering, though I was not actually crying. Rage and hatred seemed to give me strength. Perhaps, I thought with a sudden surge of ecstasy, he’d have a heart attack!
No such luck!
He went on smacking my hot, burning bottom for some time before slumping back in his chair, breath rasping against his throat.
“You deserved that Joan,” he said when he had regained his breath. “And you’ll get the same again next time!”
I said nothing.
Little did he know, the lecherous pig, that I would not be there, allowing him to take my knickers down in future.
At last he released me. He was still clasping my left breast as I rolled off and covered myself as best I could with my hands.
I saw that he had gone to a small cabinet and removed a bottle and glasses. “Drink?” he enquired. “I don’t drink,” I replied with deliberate sulleness. He poured himself a large measure of what looked like Scotch and tossed it down his throat. Then he returned to his chair with a refill. “May I put my dress back on?” I asked.
“You may,” he said condescendingly.
I got up and walked to the door, very conscious of t
he way his eyes clung to my naked body, and, in particular, my reddened bottom.
I was young, healthy, straightforward and never would I have believed that I could hate a man so much.
In the outer office I put on my clothes, no knickers, of course. I had just finished when he came out. He handed me some pink strips of cotton.
“I think I’ll have to buy you some underwear for Christmas,” he leered. Then, with a little more menace in his tone, he said, “This envelope is for your father.”
I took it, feeling sick at heart, knowing the consequences. Later, when I got home, I handed it to Dad. “From Mr Mason,” I said and he took it from me. He didn’t open it immediately as he was deeply absorbed in the evening paper. I went off to cook his supper - which was one of my daily duties. Elsie was busy with her homework, sitting uncomfortably on a wooden chair. I knew she would be very tender after the double caning of the day before. First from Miss Elliot then from Dad. All because she had lost her temper.
At eight o’clock we both said good night and went up to bed.
“I’ll see you later Joan,” Dad said heavily, sucking on his pipe. There was nothing I could say. I went miserably up the stairs to wait.
I’m still waiting, quivering in dread at hearing the footsteps mounting the stairs.
I won’t be able to write any more tonight. Soon I shall turn off the torch and stop writing. I write, you understand, under my sheets and blankets, using a torch. Then I hide my diary under the mattress. If Dad knew I were writing it I think he would kill me. But when I leave on the week-end, I’ll take my diary with me. So he’ll never know.
I’m waiting ... Still waiting.
Must stop now and will write more tomorrow. June 29th.
Last night it was as bad as ever.
Dad kept me waiting a full two hours before he came up. Then he started to lecture me. About young people being sloppy and slack. He smelled strongly of Brown Ale. His daughters were not going to grow up like that he said. They were going to be respectable, behave properly and work hard. Mr Mason had done right to spank me for my slackness. A business man was right to expect a competent secretary. A diligent, faithful worker.
It was just then I began to realize how much I was disliking my father. He wasn’t my real Dad, of course. I never remembered him. He died when I was very young. Dad was my step-father. No blood relation. He was in charge of two young girls; responsible for their upbringing. But he must have been a hypocrite. How could he, with a clear conscience, put a young woman under the authority of a creature such as Mr Mason?
I felt sick at heart. Quite despairing. My only hope the uncertain future I was planning for myself in Brighton.
“Believe me Joan,” he said. “I cannot tell you how much it grieves me to have to punish you so often. But then, the remedy lies within itself. Behave. Conform. Work hard and there would be no need for punishment.”
Oh yes indeed ... He was a hypocrite!
Whereas, when I was younger, I had accepted the fact that, when I was naughty, he had the right and duty to punish me, now I sensed that he actually enjoyed doing so! Why else would he have put me into the hands of Mr Mason? Why else did he punish me for the very slightest reason?
If he had been my real father I am sure it would have been quite different. Did he, indeed, lust after me in the same way as Mr Mason did?
There was really no reason why not. It was quite a sickening thought! And what about Elsie? Did he feel the same about her?
“Joan,” he said at last, his voice thick. “As Mr Mason has already given you a good spanking... and rightly so ... I shall be lenient with you. Just six. But good and hard
“Y…_Yess Dad,” I whimpered., But at least I was grateful that it was only six. Only!
Oh God! Do you know what one single stroke from a whiplashing cane feels like.
I got out of bed, climbed on top of it and knelt facing the head. He lifted up my nightie, as always, baring my hindquarters. That was not necessary of course, as I had come to realise. The cane would have hurt just as much when laid over a thin cotton nightie. But no, he always insisted that it was laid on the bare flesh.
I felt my nates clench involuntarily. Naturally they were still glowing from my recent spanking. My wrists were corded and the scarf tied over my mouth.
A long pause.
Oh God. Do get on with it! He did! Sssssssssswwwwweeeeppppptttttt!
Agony ... Pure agony ...It seemed definitely harder than usual. I was squirming frenziedly and kicking wildly. Ohhhh God I didn’t deserve such pain ... not just for being a bit sloppy in the office!
The world was so unfair.
Everything was so unfair!
So that’s why I was going to leave this particular world. Soon ... ohh so soon! SSSSssswwwwwwwwwweeeeeeeeeept!
Agony once more. Breathtaking. Mind robbing. I howled dementedly into the scarf gag about my mouth.
Still four to come. Oh God ... how was I going to endure them? But I knew I had no choice ...!
July 1st
I have done it! I have run away from home. As I said I would, I have brought my Diary with me so I shall be able to keep a record of events as they unfold.
Last thing on Friday night, after Mr. Mason had left the office, I raided the Petty Cash Box. It was frightening to do and made me feel sick. I was really burning by boats. On the other hand I had to have money to get started in my new life ... and this Seemed to be the only way I could get some. I stole the total sum of œ32. 3s. 9d. In a way, it served Mr. Mason right after the horrible and indecent way he had treated me. He was the deciding factor in my running away.
I decided not to tell my sister Elsie what I was going to do. She might get into a panic at the idea of being left at home on her own. She would want to know where I was going and I certainly couldn’t tell her that. Dad was, I am sure, quite capable of thrashing the information out of her.
As a matter of fact, Elsie was punished for the second time that week on the Friday night. On Monday she’d had a nasty caning - twelve strokes - for fighting at School. On the Friday she got the strap. Just six strokes. I don’t know what she’d done but it couldn’t have been all that serious. As I lay on my bed listening to the leather falling on to her bare flesh, I told myself, with a kind of wonderment, that this would be the last time I would have to listen to such sounds. The thwack of the leather; Elsie’s gasps of pain. The knowledge came as blessed relief, driving out the realisation that I was now a common criminal.
A thief who could be sent to prison. But, I reasoned, the risk of being caught was small. I could dye my hair and wear glasses in case they sent out a description of me. That too was unlikely for my crime was relatively small.
I listened to Elsie sobbing herself to sleep and then, later on, heard Dad come up to bed. Then, as quietly as I could, I got up and packed a small case, taking only essentials ... toiletries, changes of underwear and things like that. Having fixed in my mind that I must get up as soon as dawn broke, I dropped off to sleep. In fact, I woke several times before dawn came. I suppose I was over-excited.
At last I got up and, taking my case, crept down the stairs. I used the back door, which opened and shut quietly, and tip-toed down the front garden and out into the road. Then I headed for the station.
I caught the first train going to Brighton. It left at 5.30 a.m. Only the third time I’d been on a train. The other times were when Dad had taken Elsie and I on one-day holidays. The train was very empty; just one or two families who looked as if they were going on holiday. Also some workmen, one of whom kept staring at me. I kept myself very much to myself, pretending to be asleep. I arrived in Brighton in under an hour and walked to the sea-front, feeling very hungry. Found a shop where I could get a cup of tea and some buns. After that I felt better. Sat on the pebbly beach for a while. My bottom was still very sore
from the spanking Mr. Mason had given me last Thursday, followed by Dad’s caning.
No more of that, thank goodness!
Planned to look for a small room later on. Then, after that, see if I can find a job. July 2nd.
Am writing this the next day, as it is the first chance I’ve had.
It was a tiring and unsuccessful day. As it is holiday time, all the rooming houses seem full up. Couldn’t find anywhere and began to feel worried and lonely. No time to look for a job on that first day. Decided, as it was a warm summer’s evening, to sleep on the beach.
That was a mistake. There were quite a few people on the beach by midnight, some couples, some on their own. Many of the couples were doing things which I didn’t want to look at. It was horrid. There were soon animal-like gasps and groans all around me. I felt afraid and even, on occasions, wished I was back home again. Then I thought of Dad’s cane and Mr. Mason’s disgusting behaviour and gained new resolve.
I was dozing uncomfortably on the hard pebbles, just after midnight, and it was getting colder. Then I heard the crunching of feet nearby and next, to my horror, a man slumped down alongside me. “Hullo, dearie,’ he said, “like to give me a nice time?”
I froze inside. I was being propositioned! “N-No ... ooooh ... no ...” I gasped out in a strangled voice.
“No?” he sounded a little puzzled. “Aren’t you on the game then?” “G-Game?” I queried, genuinely puzzled.
“You’re saying not a tart, girl?”
“No ... of course not ...” I was breathless with indignation, still freezing with horror inside. What had I let myself in for by coming to this beach?
“There’s no ‘of course’ about it,” said the man. He sounded quite young, though it was difficult to see in the dark. “Most of the girls who sleep on this beach are tarts,” he added.
I felt sick at the knowledge that I was amongst such company. “I’m not ... oh no ... not ...” I said. “Please leave me alone.”