The Complete Diaries of a Young Lady

by Victor Bruno

  “Here she is,” said Sergeant Faraday rather unnecessarily. Dad nodded his head for me to enter.

  Sergeant Faraday followed. We trooped into the front room. The rough-backed armchair still stood in its place, evoking memories. Dad cleared his throat and gave me a hard look.

  “At the Sergeant’s suggestion,” he said, “I have agreed to give you a proper welcome home. It will impress on you that things in this household have not changed at all. Joan, go and fetch the cane. It’s still in the same place.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. After all I had gone through! “Oh God ... why ... why ... I’ve done nothing ... nothing wrong!” I cried. They both guffawed disdainfully at that.

  “Then what did you serve a year inside for?” enquired Sergeant Faraday. “I ... I mean ... just now ... I’ve done nothing wrong ...”

  “You’re not defying me, are you Joan?” asked Dad menacingly. “I mean, we don’t want to start off on the wrong foot, do we?”

  Despair filled me. I was back in my hideous domestic prison. I had only exchanged one house of pain for another. “Run along, girl, if you know what’s good for you,” said Sergeant Faraday.

  Tears coursed down my cheeks as I went to fetch the cane.

  Back I came, still weeping, the cane swinging flexibly in my hand. The Sergeant held the cords, Dad patted the back of the chair. “Eighteen, Joan,” he said, “a suitable welcome, I think.”

  “Oh God ... noooooo ... pleeeeeeeease!” I stretched out imploring hands. But what was the use? They had decided to thrash me and they would do so. Dad caught me by my hair and forced me over the back of the chair. I struggled, but only weakly. The Sergeant quickly tied my wrists to the front castors; the scarf was tied tightly over my mouth. Up went my skirt.

  “Take this young tart’s knickers down, Sergeant, if you please,” said Dad, his voice thick. It occurred to me he had been waiting for this moment for a long time. Hands pulled at the elastic of my knickers, the odious Sergeant’s hands. The knickers fell about my ankles and I stepped from them so as not to rip them as I kicked and squirmed.

  “Mmm ... that looks in good nick,” said Sergeant Faraday. “When were you last caned, girl?” “O-O-Over a w-week a-ago ...” I answered.

  “That accounts for it then ...”

  Tap ... tap ... went the cane on my flinching bottom. I clenched my teeth, tensed, waiting for the pain. The cane stopped tapping.

  Ssswwweee ... eeepppttt!

  I felt the so-familiar searing agony which made my bottom squirm uncontrollably. A high-pitched whinny jetted from between my clenched teeth. Seventeen more like that to come! And all for nothing! No wonder tears cascaded from beneath my closed eyelids.

  Ssswwweee ... eeepppttt!

  Fractionally lower down my buttock cheek, about half an inch from the first stripe. Dad had lost none of his accuracy. He would, doubtless, have been keeping his hand in on Elsie. Again I squirmed uncontrollably; again I whined. Oh God, why had I been put on this earth? All I endured was pain ... pain ... and more pain!

  Remorselessly the weals marched down my bottom, evenly spaced, each one a hot electric wire of torment. By the time the sixth had arrived, I was not just whinnying. I was howling into my scarf gag.

  “Like to give her six, George?” I heard Dad ask. “Then I can finish off.”

  “As you wish, Frank.” His voice had the same kind of thick, gloating sound as Dad’s. Tap ... tap. Hate burnt in me like a brand. Somehow it was much worse to be caned by the Sergeant than by Dad.

  Ssswwweee ... eeeppptttt!

  Number seven! As agonising as all those which had preceded it. Dad had covered the top half of my bottom with throbbing weals, reaching just about to the centre, now the Sergeant striped the lower half, right down to the crease where my buttocks join my thigh tops.

  Incessantly, I continued to howl, to kick and twist in torment. Used as I was to pain, that never seemed to make it any easier to endure.

  Ssswwweee ... eeepppttttt!

  Number twelve ... and right into the crease. The cruellest cut of all! And there were still six more to come.

  Now Dad took over again. And instead of laying the stripes on horizontally, he placed them diagonally. Three whiplashing cuts across each buttock cheek. At the points where one weal crossed over another the pain was truly Excruciating.

  I continued to howl and writhe without a moment’s pause.

  Then at last it was over and I lay there sobbing and sobbing, the whole of my bottom seemingly covered in a crisscrossing mesh of hot electric wires. Stabbing ... stinging ... throbbing ... throbbing ... and throbbing.

  “Thanks for your help, George.”

  “That’s all right, Frank. Always happy to oblige.” The horrible pig uncorded my wrists. When free, I twisted to the floor, clasping my hand urgently to my weal-striped buttocks. It was instinctive but it did little to stem the burning pain. I moaned and sobbed, my tears and saliva wetting the dusty carpet.

  “Get up, Joan, and make yourself respectable,” said Dad.

  I managed to get up on wobbly limbs and pull on my knickers. The way Dad spoke you would have thought it was I who was responsible for having my knickers off! I stood there forlornly, breasts heaving with my continuous sobs. They were looking at me without compassion. Almost rapaciously, it seemed.

  “You won’t forget, will you, Frank, that Joan is to report at the Station once a fortnight. It’s the procedure when prostitutes are released after their first offence.” I felt myself going scarlet. The pig ... the pig ... I was not really a proper prostitute and he knew it!

  “I won’t forget, George,” said Dad. “Joan, you will now go up to your room and stay there.”

  I went stiffly and wincing up the stairs, hands pressed to my tormented bottom. Them I stumbled into the room which I had not seen for over a year and fell down on my bed. My torrent of tears continued.

  I was home again.

  In the late afternoon, Elsie came to my room. “Dad wants to speak to you,” she said. “Is that all you can say?” I asked. She looked embarrassed.

  “I ... I hope it wasn’t too bad ...” “It was quite awful, Elsie.”

  “But then, Joan, what you did was ... was unforgivable.”

  “I was driven to it,” I said curtly. “I don’t want criticism from you. Things seem to be just the same here.”

  “They’re worse,” said Elsie. “He thrashes me more often than he used to.” I went across and kissed her and she kissed me back. Both of us were sobbing. After a while we went downstairs.

  “I suppose you still remember how to cook a meal Joan?” said Dad. “Yes ... I suppose so ...”

  “Get on with it then. I’ll have sausages, eggs and chips.” “Yes, Dad ...”

  He sat in the kitchen while I prepared this rather simple meal, in his braces, with collar off. A great hatred for him began to rise within me. He was not my real father but just my legal guardian. He was, I was beginning to understand, just as much a sadistic sexual beast as was Sergeant Faraday. The thing was, what could I do about it? I sensed with shuddering inner terror, that if I rebelled, or even if I did not fall in with their plans, they would find some way of sending me back to Staverton. Even the thought of that was enough to make me feel faint.

  I served the meal and Dad did not even thank me, but just got stuck into it in his usual piggish fashion. It made me feel sick to look at him. “Get me a brown ale, girl,” he grunted. I fetched a bottle from the front room. He poured and drank. “I hope you realise, Joan, how fortunate you are,” he said. “Not many fathers ... or stepfathers ... would have taken a known prostitute back under their roof.” I felt myself flushing. “Don’t forget I shall be keeping a very strict watch on your behaviour in the future.”

  “Yes, Dad ...”

  He drank some mo
re beer. “Oh, by the way, Mr. Mason has said, most generously, he is prepared to take you back.” I staggered as if I had been struck.

  “Oh Dad ... no ... please ... noooo ... I don’t want to go back there!”

  He looked at me with surprise. “Don’t want to go back! You should think yourself damn lucky, girl. With your record not many people would give you a job. You’ll be starting at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. And don’t forget to thank Mr. Mason most politely for his consideration.”

  I was so mortified ... so choked ... I could make no answer. Turning away, I staggered up to my bedroom, streaming with tears.

  It was a long while before sleep came. The thought of having to contend with the marauding attentions of Mr. Mason was quite sickening!

  October 30th

  Having given an account of my awful experiences in Staverton, I now have decided to resume my

  Diary

  It had been a terrible day. The day I went back to Mr. Mason’s office. This morning I begged and pleaded with Dad to let me try to find another job. But he was adamant. “With your record, you won’t get one,” he said. “Unless you want to go back on the streets. And you know where that will end you up.”

  I left the house in tears ... and arrived in a state of acute nervous tension at Mr. Mason’s office. It was all so familiar; horribly familiar. It was he who let me in, smiling in an oily fashion. “Welcome back, Joan,” he said. “I may say I sacked a quite efficient secretary last week in order to re- accommodate you. I hope you will be suitably grateful. Not many employers would take on someone with your record.” Hate burned within me; I flushed with rage. I would have loved to have been able to claw his smug face to ribbons. “You’ll find everything as it was, Joan, before your little peccadillo. Get on with the filing. I’ll call in when I want you.”

  I sat at my old desk, filled with the keenest trepidation. Was it going to start all over again? The indecent exposure, the maulings? I could scarcely believe it. After all, that was why I had stolen the Petty Cash in the first place and run away.

  About a half an hour later he rang for me. Taking my shorthand notebook and pencil, I went into his inner office. Mr. Mason regarded me coldly. “Joan ... I think you have forgotten something,” he said. “My rules when you come into my office to take a letter. No blouse, no brassiere. That Rule hasn’t altered.”

  “Oh God!” I cried out, covering my face with my hands. “Is there no end to it?”

  “Your Dad and I have spoken together,” he said. “He wants me to report any cheek, any indiscipline, any slack work, any disobedience. He says he will deal with it. Also, that I am at liberty to spank you whenever I feel it necessary. I hope that is quite clear, Joan, and that I won’t have any nonsense from you. You are an ex-con and now very much have to watch your P.’s and Q.’s. Get that blouse off!”

  What could I do? I was trapped in a web made by the Law and my Dad. Naturally, I was totally in terror of being sent back to Staverton - which I sensed might be organised, if necessary. So, what option had I?

  Nothing but submission.

  Nothing but submission to the vile men who had taken control of my life.

  Head down, flushing, I unbuttoned my blouse and removed it. Then I unfastened my brassiere. I was naked from the waist up. There was a heavy-breathing silence. “Mmmmm .....” said Mr mason at last, “I believe they’ve got even bigger since I last saw them. Just as firm-looking too!” I sat down on my chair facing him ... hating, hating, hating. “Take a letter, Joan, to Smith and Warden.” I could feel his eyes boring into my nakedness, yet there was nothing I could do but take the letter.

  Mr. Mason dictated two more letters then rose from behind his desk. Casually he came to my chair and, equally casually, he mauled my bare breasts. I shuddered in horror, leaping up.

  “DON’T ... DON’T!” I cried pleadingly.

  “Sit down, Joan,” he said thickly. “I don’t want to have to send a bad report to your Dad on your first day back here.”

  I sat down, sobbing and trembling. No one knew better than I what a bad report from Mr. Mason would entail back at home. Breathing even more heavily, Mr. Mason groped, squeezed and mauled as he wished.

  ***

  Worse was to come.

  I was not called in again that morning and Mr. mason took an early lunch break. On the other hand, he took a very long one. He was flushed and, I suspected, a little the worse for drink when he returned. He went into his office without saying a word. Then, ten minutes or so later, he rang for me. Quickly I took off my blouse and brassiere and went in, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach. He had a glass in his hand. “Like a drink, Joan?” he asked. “I believe tarts like a tipple or two ...”

  “No ... thank you ...! I said.

  “Oh ... come on, Joan ... don’t be so prim and proper. It doesn’t suit you.” He poured whisky into a glass and brought it to me. Why not, I thought? Anything to numb this horror. I gulped the drink down in one, gasping and spluttering, not being used to it. But it glowed within me, giving me seeming strength. He poured me another and I drank it more slowly.

  Then I watched, disbelievingly, as Mr. Mason took out his wallet and placed œ2 on his desk. “Since you are a known prostitute, Joan,” he said, rather slurred, “there is no need to beat about the bush. There is your fee.”

  I was flabbergasted. “NNNoooooooooo ... I don’t want it!” I cried.

  “Not very professional,” he said, eyes glowing hotly. Then he came to me and gripped me by my hair, forcing back my head. “Now, listen my girl, you’ve got to be practical about this. You’ve sold your body before so there’s no reason why you should not sell it again. I’ll say nothing; there’ll be no trouble. Just between you and me, eh? You can earn yourself quite a few extra quid a week.”

  I was stunned. Quaking. Being bought by this beast of a man! Yet, I suddenly understood, he was in a way right. What difference did it make any more? Having sold yourself there was no reason why you should not go on doing so. And was Mr. Mason any worse or better than some of those brutes on Brighton beach? He was simply a lusting male. Perhaps the drink was influencing me. In any event I handed him my glass which he at once re-filled. I drank again, looking at the œ2 on the desk. More than my week’s wages. And more to come, it seemed. The whisky warmed me, stifling my conscience, breaking down my principles.

  “Very well, Mr. Mason,” I said, now almost as slurred as he, “where do you want me?”

  “Over my desk,” he said, “and completely naked.” His cheeks were a red-puce colour, his eyes were bulging.

  I removed my skirt, then my knickers and bent over the front of the desk. “My God,” he said, “you’ve had a damn good hiding! A welcome home from Dad, eh!”

  “Yes ... mmmfff .... yes ...” I sobbed. I winced and whimpered as he ran his fingers over the tender weals.

  “Well, we don’t want to give him an excuse for doing this sort of thing too often, do we?” The treat in his words was obvious. I was in this beast’s power.

  Then his hands gripped my flanks and I felt his hard bone of male cleft pressing into the cleft of my buttocks. I felt sick. “P-Please ... no ... ooo ...” I whined.

  “Open your legs, young lady,” he said.

  I had to do it. The knob of the bone entered me. Then the whole bone slid in. He grunted with pleasure. For a few moments he remained within me, then he began to trust energetically to and fro. I just lay there, hating it, taking it. He kept on gasping and grunting his mounting lust. “Move your arse, girl,” he said suddenly, his voice high-pitched. I had to do it; I had to do whatever he wanted. I began to trust myself back and forth in counter-r action with him. “That ... that’s better ... much better ...” he panted.

  Soon he began to pound into me fast and furiously. I was glad, for I knew it would soon be over. In all, he enjoyed me fo
r about two minutes. Then he lay upon me, breathing heavily, his wet mouth slobbering on my neck. It was quite disgusting.

  At long last, he got out of me and I was allowed to put on my knickers and skirt again.

  “Very nice,” he leered as I left his office, “But I’m sure you’ll get much better as time goes by.” November 6th Mr. Mason fucked me again today. In the same position, over his desk, but this time he took longer over it. I tried to co-operate as best I could but don’t know whether I was very successful. Anyway he seemed satisfied.

  Afterwards he patted my unmarked bottom. “I see Dad’s not been using his cane,” he said. “Best to keep it that way, Joan.”

  This evening, Elsie got a strapping. Twelve strokes. She’s working in a chemist’s shop now; it’s owned by a friend of Dad’s. According to a note she came home with, it seemed her boss accused her of spending too much time daydreaming instead of concentrating on her work. Hence the strapping.

  I listened to the sound of leather cracking on to bare flesh without a great deal of sympathy for Joan. Since she turned eighteen, she seems to have been putting on airs and I know she has not forgiven me for running away and doing what I did.

  Tthhhwwaaacccckkkkk!

  “Ooooowwww ... oh p-please D-Dad ...” Tthhwwwaaaccckkkkkk!

  “Aaaagghhhh ... owwwww!”

  Yes, I thought, Elsie will certainly be paying closer attention to her work tomorrow!

  Tonight Dad told me I would have to report to Sergeant Faraday at midday next Friday. He has already arranged with Mr. Mason to give me the time off.

  November 10th

  Today another black chapter in my life began.

  I reported to Sergeant Faraday at midday, ebbing escorted to his office by a constable. The first thing I saw when I went in was a wooden stool before his desk on which lay two hook-handled school canes. I was totally shocked.