The Complete Diaries of a Young Lady

by Victor Bruno

  He gave a little chuckle. “Sure you wouldn’t like to earn yourself a couple of quid?” he said. A couple of quid! It was more than I earned in a whole week at Mr. Mason’s.

  To my horror, I suddenly realised I was being tempted by the offer! “Nooo ...” I gasped out again. “I’m not that kind of girl ...”

  “How about a quid for a feel then?” he suggested. “You look as if you’ve got a good pair of tits.” “Nooooo ....”

  But then I felt a note being pushed into my hand. The next moment my blouse was being ripped off and so was my brassiere. A hand clamped over my mouth stifled my cries and, with the other hand he mauled my breasts. “Mmmm ... yes ... very nice,” he panted lecherously. It was worse than being in Mr. Mason’s office. “A couple of real beauties ... you should put them to work, girl ...” He went on mauling and squeezing and, though I fought with all my might, I could not get him off me.

  His hand left me and then, to my even greater horror, it went up my skirt. He fondled me indecently. Oh God, was he going to rape me? I fought with ever greater desperation. “Quite the little tigress, aren’t we?” he said lecherously. It was horrible ... horrible!

  Then I must have fainted.

  When I came round some time later, I realised I had indeed been raped. I was literally sick. He, whoever he was, had, of course, gone. What could I do? For sure, I couldn’t go to the police.

  I was a ruined woman, I said to myself. What a start to my new life!

  When it got light, I staggered off the beach. Luckily I had a raincoat with me to hide my dishevelled clothing. By midday, when I was in a state of exhaustion, I found a small room in a dirty looking back street. Twenty five shillings a week. It would have to do.

  July 4th

  Still no job. I am trying not to panic as my small funds slip away each day. All the holiday jobs seem to have been taken by students who arrived earlier in the summer.

  Am going to buy a local paper and look for a secretarial job. July 11th.

  After a week I have had no luck in any direction. Today one of the men who interviewed me in a sleazy back office said I could earn a couple of quid by letting him fuck me. He used those very words. I rushed out of the place in a state of shock.

  July 14th

  Nothing ... still nothing. What am I going to do? I’m too frightened to go home. Something must turn up soon. I have already spent half the money I stole.

  July 21st

  Today I came to a terrible decision. What real harm is there, I reasoned ... since I have lost my virginity ... in earning money with my body? There seems no other way.

  July 22nd

  Last night I earned œ4. I was so nervous I trembled incessantly. The first man was quite young and not rough at all. It wasn’t as bad as I had expected. All the same I was racked with guilt and remorse.

  The second man was middle-aged and fat. Horrible ... oh horrible! He was brutish, grunting like a pig as he possessed me. It was so beastly I almost fainted. If they were all like him I’d give up.

  July 27th

  I earn money every night now. £2 .... £4 ... £6. Am getting gradually used to the beastliness of it. How I loathe men! One wanted me to suck his ‘thing’, but I wouldn’t do it. What a disgusting idea!

  The only compensation is I am building up a nice little store of money.

  IT IS AT THIS POINT THAT JOAN REEVE’S DIARY CEASES AND IT IS NOT RESUMED FOR SOME FIFTEEN MONTHS.

  IN VIEW OF WHAT HAPPENED TO HER, IT WAS OBVIOUSLY NOT POSSIBLE FOR HER TO CONTINUE WRITING. SHE NOW RELATES EVENTS IN A NARRATIVE FORM.

  October 18th

  I have decided to resume my secret Diary but must first give an account of what had happened to me over the last fifteen months. It is a tale of unremitting horror and torment and I sometimes wonder how I have been able to survive it.

  My age is now nineteen and I shall be twenty next month. Thus I shall be legally in my step-father’s charge for just over another year. It is a hideous prospect but, having made one attempt to escape which ended in disaster, I shall not repeat that stupidity.

  I was, of course, not aware of it at the time but it turned out that the police kept a regular watch on the beach at Brighton. Then, every two or three weeks, they would make a swoop and take in all the girls who were selling themselves there.

  I was actually arrested while a man was making use of me. Up to that point, it was the most shaming experience I had ever had. And the most terrifying. The man admitted he had paid me and was allowed to go. I, along with half a dozen or so other girls, was taken to the local police station. There I was locked in a small cell on my own.

  Naturally I was in a state of complete panic. Apart from being charged for soliciting, if I gave my real name and address my robbery at Mr. Mason’s would all come out. I decided I must bluff it out and say I was an orphan from somewhere up North. Leeds or Manchester. Perhaps I would get away with it.

  After a sleepless night, I was taken into a bleak room. There was only a desk in it and behind it sat a surly looking Sergeant and, beside him, stood a constable.

  “Name?” asked the Sergeant.

  “Joan,” I answered weakly. “Joan Wood ...” “Address?”

  “10 Marsham Street, Selly Oak,” I said. I’d had time to prepare my answer. “Age?”

  “Eighteen,” I replied.

  The Sergeant put down his pencil and stared at me. “I hope you realise, girl,” he said sternly, “that perjury is a crime. You are already going to be charged with soliciting. Do you want to make matters worse for yourself?”

  I found myself flushing; my heart began to pound. Dare I go on telling lies? Yet I could not do anything else. “No ... Sir,” I managed to answer.

  The Sergeant nodded at the constable who left the room. I stood there, quivering through and through. There was a deathly silence. The Sergeant regarded me stonily. Then the door opened and there was the sound of footsteps. The constable had another policeman with him.

  A policeman with a big brown moustache.

  It was Sergeant Faraday.

  The room seemed to start to spin slowly. “Is this the girl?” asked the Sergeant behind the desk. “Yes, that’s Joan Reeve,” said Sergeant Faraday. “Resident at Cawley. Wanted for robbery.”

  I fainted.

  ***

  Later that day I was charged with robbery, soliciting for purposes of prostitution and giving false information to the police. Afterwards, handcuffed to Sergeant Faraday, I was taken to a police car. We sat on the back seat and a constable was at the wheel.

  “Wh-Where are we g-going?” I asked in a whisper.

  “To Cawley, of course,” said Sergeant Faraday. “Scene of your first crime.”

  “O-Ohhh ... n-nooo ...” I whimpered. Everyone I knew would know what I had done! Worst of all, Dad and Elsie!

  “What else did you expect?” asked Sergeant Faraday. “You’re really in for it now, aren’t you Joan?” “Does ... does Dad have to know?”

  “Of course; he’s your legal guardian.”

  Utter despair filled me. My life was in ruins. An unimaginably frightful future lay ahead of me. Tears flooded down my cheeks. Sergeant Faraday seemed quite unmoved by my distress.

  “It’ll be Reform School for you, my girl,” he said. “A year, at least, I reckon.” He sat silent for a while and I went on weeping, then he resumed. “I think I’ll see if I can arrange to have you sent to Staverton,” he said. “They say that’s one of the toughest Schools. Especially for prostitutes.”

  I shuddered uncontrollably. It was terrible to be called a prostitute, even though I realised I was one. But I still didn’t feel like one. Reform School! I’d heard terrible stories about them. Could they be true?

  It didn’t take long to get to Cawley. Then, once inside the Police Station I was locked in a
solitary cell. Alone with my thoughts. I remembered the first time I had come to that Station ... to accuse Dad of assault. I’d had to show Sergeant Faraday my bare bottom to prove my case. But no charge was made and I was simply taken home where I got a terrible thrashing.

  What was going to happen next?

  I hoped I was going to be kept alone in a cell until my case came up. That way I wouldn’t have to face anybody. But it was not to be. In the afternoon Sergeant Faraday came and said I had been granted bail. I was to be taken home.

  Indescribable terror filled me. I begged, I pleaded. “I want to stay here!” I shrieked.

  Sergeant Faraday actually smiled. “I dare say you do,” he said. “Your Dad’s not going to be exactly pleased!”

  All my pleas were futile. Handcuffed again, I was taken back to a police car and driven home.

  ***

  “I’ve brought your girl home,” said Sergeant Faraday. Dad was standing there, flushed with fury, yet somehow looking smugly satisfied.

  “I disown her,” said Dad. “She’s a thief and a tart.” “You’re still her legal guardian,” said Sergeant Faraday.

  “She’s a disgrace to the family,” said Dad. “An utter disgrace.” In the background I could see Elsie hovering nervously. What did she think of me?

  “She’ll pay for it,” said the Sergeant.

  “Too right, she will,” said Dad, “and she’s going to start paying this very evening.” My heart seemed to shrivel. After so few weeks of freedom, I was back in Hell! “Go up to your room and wait there, you filthy little harlot,” said Dad.

  Weak-kneed, I made for the stairs, passing Elsie on the way. “Oh how could you?” I hear her say. Even she was disowning me!

  I hear Dad and the Sergeant going into the front room. Doubtless to discuss my case and what was to be done with me.

  About an hour later Elsie knocked on my door and told me that I was to go down to the front room. I felt quite sick with terror but knew I must obey. My knees were so wobbly that I almost fell down the stairs.

  The room was filled with pipe smoke and they were drinking brown ale. It was just like one of their regular Friday evenings. The first thing I saw, lying on the table was not just the cane but the strap as well. I closed the door and stood there, twitching. They both looked at me sombrely, yet somehow rapaciously. Sergeant Faraday spoke first. He addressed me kind of formally.

  “Joan Reeve,” he said, “as you know I am an Officer of the Law. As such, I have to inform you that you are shortly to be - tried - and, I am sure, convicted - for the various crimes you have committed. You will be punished, and punished severely, which is only right, for theft and prostitution are most serious offences.” I began to sob. The horrific vision of my future was well-nigh unbearable. “I thrust you will return home,” continued Sergeant Faraday, “a totally reformed girl. Meanwhile, I have advised your legal guardian it is also his duty to punish you for your crimes. His duty ... for your crimes reflect upon his guardianship.” He looked at Dad. “I feel very sorry for you, Frank,” he said. “I would not like to have a daughter like this.”

  Dad shook his head sorrowfully. “It is a cross one has to bear, I suppose,” he responded. His eyes were hard upon me, angry yet strangely excited. “I am now going to give you the hiding of your life, Joan,” he said, “and you cannot deny you do not thoroughly deserve it!”

  After what I had done, I could not deny that I did not deserve to be punished. I just stood there, trembling and trembling. Knowing, once again, I was going to be punished in front of the Sergeant made it all the worse. I sensed that he actually enjoyed watching me suffer just as I had gradually grown to realise that Dad got pleasure out of punishing me. It was something quite horrible to know. Dad knocked out his pipe and stood up. “Dad ...” I cried, raising imploring hands, “I’m going to ... to prison .. isn’t that enough?”

  “No,” he answered, “not as far as I am concerned. You heard the Sergeant. I have my duties.” I buried my face in my hands and wept bitterly. I had already known so much pain in my life ... yet now there was to be more and more! “Take your knickers off, Joan,” he said in a thick, harsh voice, “and bend over the back of this chair.” He indicated the chair in which he had been sitting; the same one over which I had been thrashed for accusing him of assault.

  I wished I could have died in that moment. The two reddened male faces glowered at me. Now, after my experiences with them since I had last been in that room, I knew what men were really like. Lustful beasts, disgusting pigs. Were Dad and the Sergeant any different?

  Sobbing, I put my hands up under my skirt and pulled down my knickers.

  “Over you go, Joan,” said Dad, tapping the back of the chair. I staggered to it, terror shafting through me. Oh God, it was terrible to be so helpless ... so totally at their mercy!

  I felt the coarse fibre of the chair against my belly as I bent. “Perhaps you’d lend a hand, George,” said Dad.

  “Yes, why not?” The Sergeant got up and helped Dad cord my ankles and wrists to the four castors of the armchair. I sobbed even more loudly but made no attempt to resist my securement. What would have been the point? I lay helpless over that chair, knowing I would have to endure my fate. Whatever Dad had decided. Then he lifted up my skirt and tucked the hem into the neck of my blouse. I was naked from the waist down and was very aware of the two pairs of male eyes which were upon me.

  “Joan,” said Dad gruffly, “I am now going to make you wish you had never been born. Your disgusting behaviour warrants it ...”

  “I agree,” chimed in George Faraday. His voice came from behind me. He had obviously moved so that he could gaze on my naked behind.

  “... first,” continued Dad, “I’m going to give your bottom a really good leathering. Really good!” He paused. “And after that I’m going to give you such a caning you won’t be able to tell the difference between Christmas and Easter!”

  I heard myself moaning; I was shivering with dread. My buttocks kept clenching and twitching in dread apprehension of what was soon to be done to them. “Oh Dad ... Dad ...” I groaned despairingly. I knew it was no good pleading; it would make not the slightest difference. I heard Dad move and he must have picked up the strap. Tensing, contracting my buttocks, I groaned again.

  “You are a harlot!” came Dad’s voice. TTHHWWAACCKK! The leather blazed across my right buttock cheek. Burning deep. Oh such a familiar pain!

  “A whore ...” TTHHWWAACCKK! Across my left buttock cheek.

  “A filthy whore ...” TTHHWWWAACCKKK! Across both cheeks. I was gasping breathlessly at each blazing stroke. Soon, I knew, I would be yelling.

  “You are disgusting ...” TTHHWWAACCKK! “Filthy ...” TTHHWWAACCKK!

  “Vile ...” TTHHWWAACKKK!

  “You deserve ...” TTHHWWAACCKK! “Everything ...” TTHHWWAACCKK! “That’s coming ...” TTHHWWAACCKK! “To you ...” TTHHWWAACCKK!

  The pain was becoming atrocious. He was beginning to lay over where he had laid before. My bottom was squirming over the back of the chair. With every stroke, it burnt more intensely.

  TTHHWWAACCKK! TTHHWWAACCKK! TTHHWWAACCKK! TTHHWWAACCKKK! Four murderous strokes in quick succession. I began to yelp with pain.

  “Yyaaggh ... ooww ... oww ... aaagghh ... ooowww ... yyaaggh ... Ohh ... stooppp ... stooopp ... SSTTTOPPPP!”

  “Stop?” growled Dad, “I’ve only just started on you my girl.” Already my poor bottom felt as if it were literally on fire.

  “NOOOO .... STOOPPPP .... MERCEE ... MERCEEE ...” I begged whilst knowing the complete futility of it.

  “George,” said Dad, “be so good as to stuff Joan’s knickers into her mouth.” Then he added his usual phrase. “We don’t want to disturb the neighbours.”

  “Rightie-ho,” said Sergeant. Then I felt my nose pinched tight which meant I had to
open my mouth to breath. In went the cotton briefs and I was choked into semi-silence.

  The strapping continued remorselessly. Left cheek, right cheek, across the middle. TTHHWWAACCKK! THWWAACCKK! TTHHWWAACCKK!

  Now previous overlays were themselves being overlaid. The burning pain was unbelievable. Excruciating. Whimpering snorts were jetting down my nostrils. My eyes became blind with tears.

  Still it went on ...

  And on and on and on and on ...

  TTHHWWAACCKK! TTHHWWAACCKK! TTHHWWAACCKKK! TTHHWWAACCKK!

  I have no idea how many strokes Dad gave me. Thirty? Forty? Fifty? I think I was half fainting towards the end ... but I do remember the Sergeant saying: “Better give it a rest, Frank, you’re turning a nasty colour ...”

  The strap ceased to fall but the agony continued. Burning ... throbbing ... burning throbbing. Agony ... agony ... agony ... agony.

  I heard Dad panting as he slumped into an armchair. “May be I am, George,” he said, “but not such a nasty colour as our Joan’s bottom!”

  “She’s really going to feel it when she gets a cane across that,” said George Faraday.

  The cane! Oh my God, in my torment I had forgotten I was still to get the cane! Oh no ... NOOO ... NNNOOOOOOOO! Surely Dad couldn’t be so cruel! Then I recalled what he had said at the outset.

  ‘I am now going to make you wish you had never been born!’ He was right. Already I wished it. I felt a hand placed on my bottom. “My word, she is hot,” came George Faraday’s voice.

  “So the little harlot should be,” said Dad callously. “Pour me a beer, George, that’s given me quite a thirst.”