A Victorian Spanking Adventure Read online

  But can it be done? I have already heard Mother talk of writing to Mr Kendrick demanding special treatment for Cecil - at which Father, of course, scoffs. But her insistence on protection for Cecil's weak chest did suggest to me the idea that I could wear a band that would conceal what little bosom I do boast. However - and please forgive my forwardness, cousin - it is with the lower quarters that I am most concerned: if you boys are commonly seen unclothed, down there, in each other's company (or whilst being punished?) then I fear my scheme would prove impossible. I dare say there are other dangers I cannot know about, but I beg you not to dismiss my proposal too readily. Please ponder it. If you think it at all feasible, please let me know what would be the principal risks of discovery in such a course, so that I may consider ways of minimising them.

  I await your reply eagerly. Be careful with this letter lest it be inadvertently read by another. In tremulous anticipation I remain...

  Your loving cousin,

  Lydia.

  ---oOo---

  Greystones

  March 10th 1868

  Dear Cousin,

  At first, I did scoff at your 'scheme'. And then I thought how brave you are even to consider it. Eventually I did begin to ponder it seriously, as you requested, and I came to a surprising conclusion.

  You probably could keep your secret, for some time at least. We do not undress in front of each other - in fact, the very opposite: there's a strict, though unwritten, code of decorum forbidding any display. Everyone is very prudish, except for (or perhaps because of!) one occasion at the start of each term where new boys get 'debagged', but there is an alternative by which you could avoid that. Nor are we beaten on the bare skin - it is always either over our trousers or our nightshirts that we are punished. We bathe in the river in our underclothes which we then remove beneath concealing towels in cubicles nearby.

  I do believe it could be done! And it would be such a good wheeze!

  But for how long you could keep it up, I do not know. Cecil is fourteen and would be here for four years. I cannot see how you would remain undiscovered that long. Your voice will not break! Your skin will remain soft and smooth! And, forgive me, but you probably will not grow any taller! How would you explain these things? And where on earth will Cecil be concealed all this time? He would have to be extremely well-informed about school life to be convincing to Uncle Lionel during holidays.

  My main objection, however, concerns the matter of punishments. I think you do not quite understand the ferocity with which these grown men deliver beatings. You are a girl! Neither Miss Jameson's ferule nor the taps I gave you with my riding whip could prepare you in any way for what you would certainly experience here at Greystones. Let me describe to you my most recent caning so you may be in no doubt about what is involved.

  I was 'handed up' to the Housemaster - Mr Kendrick - for what the Dux Domus said was my 'rebellious spirit' which roastings had failed to quell. At evening prayers Kendrick had brought his cane, which he only does when there is to be a semi-public swishing like this - heard but not seen. He called me out and made me stand before him while he lectured me on my wrong-doings.

  He then took me into a small room next to the 'Locschol' ('locus scholarum', the 'school room' where we all have our desks) leaving the door open so that the rest of the house would hear the proceedings. In this side-room which we call 'Locflag' (locus flagellato) is a sort of trestle with a leather top. Over this I had to bend with my feet positioned against the insides of the trestle's feet so that my legs were spread fully apart. My hands meanwhile gripped the forward legs (for dear life!) as far down as they could reach.

  Imagine how completely this position stretches the material over one's backside, cousin, and also how very helpless and frightening it is - it was terrifying the first time, but I assure you it is even worse to have to return!

  He gave the cane a few swishes through the air, as he always does. I could see his legs from my inverted position and so I could tell when he was getting into his stance, several feet back and to my left. Then I felt the cane against my trousers, resting there a moment, before I saw his legs turn as he twisted his body. I shut my eyes at that point, screwing my face tightly.

  Some say the first stroke is the worst. I have often thought that it is like an electrical storm in reverse: first you get the thunder as the stick jolts you with its loud crack and then, oh then you get the lightning! It takes a moment before you feel that fiery sting, but when you do it is like a hot poker burning a line across your bottom. I have heard boys screech at the first impact and then, seconds later, start to yell and cry as they feel that lightning spread.

  This time was no easier than the last, or indeed than any of my previous canings. I suppose you do get used to it, but it never hurts any less. I got six strokes, and by the fourth I was yelling - we all try not to of course, but most of us cannot help it.

  It was so painful, cousin, I can hardly describe it and it made me cry. I hate crying; I tried so hard not to. Luckily, Kendrick gives you a minute or so to wipe your eyes and recover some dignity before facing the house.

  My face was streaming with tears as, very slowly, I pushed myself up, the slightest movement provoking more agony. My backside felt as if it had been shredded - it throbbed and stung in a storm of pain. I turned to shake his hand and thank him (for this is what one must do). He nodded and then I made my way very stiffly back into Locschol and to my desk, trying my best to walk normally and not show the agony I was feeling.

  For the next hour or so it was hard to think about anything except the pain, and for many hours after that the slightest touch renewed the anger of the stripes. Three days later, it is still sore.

  This was no exaggeration, cousin. I give you, if anything, a more modest account than some boys would give (and you should hear the language they use!). So I beg you to think very carefully before proceeding any further with your scheme, though I do think it a wonderfully brave idea. In admiration, dear Lydia, I remain...

  Your cousin,

  Jasper.

  3. Preparations

  23 Bedford Square

  Bloomsbury

  London

  April 12th 1868

  Dear Cousin Jasper,

  As you can see, I write to you from Aunt Julia's house in London. My only excuse for being such a dilatory correspondent is that so much has happened since last I wrote.

  If you could see me, cousin, as I sit here (somewhat uncomfortably on a soft cushion, I might add, but more of that anon) you would scarcely recognise me, I think, or believe the transformation! My hair is now cut short - much like Cecil's with a parting on the right side - and I spend my days attired in the trousers, shirt, short jacket and black shoes of a Greystones boy. Aunt Julia has insisted upon it as proper preparation. For yes, cousin, our scheme is being realised! The plot is afoot!

  But I am rushing ahead of myself. Let me go back four weeks.

  With Cecil's acquiescence, Father wrote to Greystones to enrol him for the Summer Term. Cecil - that is I, though none but Cecil and Aunt Julia know it - have been assigned to Hazlitt's, Father's and Uncle Richard's old House, with you of course. Father is depending on you to help 'Cecil' through the worst of it in the beginning. Has he written? He said he would.

  Some days later, a telegram arrived confirming his place. When Father showed it to us at breakfast, Cecil turned very pale and promptly vomited. You may imagine how Mother fussed, and the hostility of the glare with which she fixed Father.

  After that Cecil was very quiet for many days and when he did speak it was with such a sighing, falling tone that I truly believed he thought he was going to his death. My heart was bursting with pity. No boy should have to contemplate such a fate. Eventually, I could bear it no longer and I decided to put my idea to him.

  Oh Jasper! You should have seen the relief that flooded his being! He tried at first to refuse, tried to pretend he wasn't the happiest boy in Christendom to hear my suggestion, but when I laid be
fore him the feasibility of the plan he surrendered quickly. He embraced me and thereafter joined in helping me plot the success of our daring deception.

  Having been in recent correspondence with Aunt Julia, I suspected she might be sympathetic to our cause and so I wrote to her immediately outlining the whole scheme and placing myself at her mercy. She is such a good sport, cousin. She could so easily have informed Mother and Father immediately and put me in disgrace, or at the very least forbidden such a hare-brained course of action. But no! She wrote by return of post to congratulate me on my bravery and 'sacrifice', as she called it, and to offer her full support. I burnt her letter lest by chance it be seen by anyone here.

  She also wrote immediately to Mother, requesting that I be allowed to come to London for an extended visit. She claimed to have been plagued with an unshakable rheum all winter and thus urgently in need of a companion (her health, in fact, is excellent). She also intimated to Mother that she would be in a position to introduce me into some of the more refined circles of London Society, thus allaying at a stroke one of Mother's fears for me, namely that my tomboyishness makes me an unlikely object of any gentleman's desire, and how am I ever to find a husband?

  I knew that the success of our venture depended on Aunt Julia's willingness to give Cecil sanctuary - as you so pertinently asked: where is Cecil to be hidden whilst Father and Mother believe him at Greystones? Aunt Julia confesses to being somewhat lonely at home since Uncle Henry passed on and assures me she will enjoy having Cecil with her. Furthermore, she lives within five minutes' walk of the British Museum, where Cecil may enrich his already impressive store of knowledge for months on end without tiring.

  Mother was quite indifferent to my leaving, being so preoccupied and grief-stricken about Cecil's own impending departure to what she swears will be his doom. Miss Jameson was, I could tell, suspicious of Cecil's and my changed mood, but I could not risk confiding in her, and Cecil is committed to the same course.

  I arrived here in London three weeks ago and Aunt wasted no time in effecting my transformation. She acquired the band for my bosom that I spoke of before and some boys' clothing as a temporary outfit; she hired a local woman to fashion my new haircut and on my second day in the metropolis marched me off to Hawkes of Saville Row to have me fitted with the garb of a Greystones boy. By the time we had walked home again, my feet were already blistered with the strangeness of these shoes you have to wear!

  If I thought, however, that this was to be the extent of the physical pain Aunt was to subject me to, then such a notion was premature in the extreme. Having obliged me to walk no less than two miles on each of the next several days in order that I wear in my new pairs of shoes and practise and perfect the gait of a boy, she then announced that I would, upon the completion of a fortnight of my stay, be subjected to a rigorous interrogation by a gentleman of her acquaintance during which he would examine me for any hint of my true gender.

  "And if, Cecil," she exclaimed (she has called me either Cecil or Hartwell since the day of my arrival), "Mr Lazenby can detect that you are not the perfect part of a boy, in every facet of your behaviour and interests, then he is instructed to beat you as an errant boy at Greystones would be beaten. This too, my dear, is a necessary element of your preparation."

  I know this seems harsh, cousin, and of course I am nervous at the prospect, but I think you will agree that it is only prudent.

  To allow me every opportunity to learn boyish manners, Aunt Julia introduced me to the son of an old friend of hers, Lady Chatsworth. Charles is a boy of fourteen, an awful snob and a bully too (as I think she well knew). Neither party was apprised of the truth of my identity and I had to concentrate to my fullest to carry it off as Cecil, which I did so effectively that within two days I had reduced the bully to tears and sent him bawling back to his mother - he had tried to lord it over me once too often and I gave him quite a slap! This caused some embarrassment for Aunt Julia in her relations with her Ladyship who arrived upon our doorstep the next day insisting I be given 'a sound whipping'. Aunt Julia apologised profusely on my behalf and assured her that I would be dealt with in just such a manner. To me, however, she offered only congratulations on the realism of my performance, leading me to believe that I was set fair to pass Mr Lazenby's tests with flying colours.

  So, having immersed myself in boyish ways as I have described, and having moreover engaged in many hours' reading of the kind of literature most pleasing to a boy of our class, it was with confidence of success that I met Mr William Lazenby in Aunt Julia's study two days ago.

  He arrived after breakfast whilst I was upstairs. Aunt called me down and told me to knock on the door of the study. I confess, cousin, my heart was pounding and my mouth dry as I heard his curt "Enter". Aunt followed me into the room and stood watch throughout what followed.

  He is a tall man and was younger than I expected, perhaps in his late twenties. His stern demeanour and gruff manner, however, seemed exactly those of a strict schoolmaster and I felt immediately that he was inclined to find fault with me. This of course set me further on edge, as did my noticing immediately the presence on Aunt's desk of a large strap.

  He proceeded to circle me, inspecting every inch of my figure and clothing; he examined my face and hair in great detail and probed behind my ears; then he obliged me to walk around the room for several minutes, glaring at me throughout with a look of disgust. I was instructed to jump and wave my arms, to punch him in the stomach, to kneel, scratch myself in various places, cough and blow my nose. I executed all of these actions in the most boyish manner I could muster, but the intensity and coldness of his gaze unnerved me and I knew my performance was in many respects unconvincing, despite all my efforts at practice.

  Eventually, without any explanation, he commanded me to kneel, bend forward and place my elbows on the carpet. He took up the strap from where it lay and came to stand behind me. He pushed my shoulders down further and parted my legs.

  "Your performance, Hartwell," he boomed, "would not convince a duckling!" He paused before demanding, "What would it not convince?"

  Despite my trepidation, cousin, and the vulnerable position in which I found myself, with my posterior uppermost and presented as the inevitable target for the fearsome strap that dangled from his big hands; despite all this, I could not suppress a giggle at being made to utter the words, "A duckling, sir."

  In an instant my giggle became a screech as the strap fell across my rear with a loud report. This was followed by a blazing sting worse than any I had experienced before. Furthermore, I toppled forward at the force of the blow.

  "Get back in position, boy, this instant!" he bellowed. I hurried to do so and another mighty blow jerked me forwards. It brought tears to my eyes and I couldn't help but wriggle. The moment I had stilled he gave me another, and then another and another. In the end it was eight, mighty thwaps.

  Oh Jasper! Miss Jameson's ferule was as nothing compared to Mr Lazenby's strap. I yelped and cried out at every stroke, a terrible burning growing ever stronger in my behind.

  Eventually I felt a hand lifting me up and Aunt was beside me. She comforted me as I stood sobbing. After some time, I noticed Mr Lazenby holding out his hand and looking at me quizzically. I shook it, but he held on, still gazing at me with raised eyebrows, expecting something.

  At length he asked, "What do you say?"

  I was baffled. I looked to Aunt Julia who returned me a similarly expectant expression, indicating that I address Mr Lazenby. Finally, I understood.

  "Thank you? ... Thank you, sir," I said. He nodded. And then I remembered - it was just as your description of the ritual with Mr Kendrick after your recent caning.

  Mr Lazenby, it turns out, is a meticulous student of the customs of any number of the public schools, Greystones among them. He informed me that I had just undergone a 'roasting' in the finest tradition of Hazlitt's. Not a 'toasting', he said, but a 'roasting'. You didn't tell me about the difference! Up to six with the Hou
se strap is, he said, a 'toasting', more than six a 'roasting'. I remarked that it was preferable then to be bread rather than beef! He did not respond.

  I was throbbing so uncomfortably that I could not keep still and Mr Lazenby announced that I was not ready to face the next interview I was to have. He suggested to Aunt that he return that afternoon, a course that was agreed upon, much to my relief.

  Aunt Julia took me upstairs and told me to remove my trousers and lie face down on my bed, whereupon she applied a wonderfully soothing, cool balm to my nether cheeks. She reminded me, however, that I would not be receiving any such loving attention at Greystones, indeed far from it, as I dare say you will confirm.

  As a treat, Aunt took me to Simpson's for a slap-up luncheon, all the while correcting me in my gestures, my language, my very thoughts it seemed, constantly seeking to train me. She warned me too that I could expect the closest verbal inspection that afternoon when Mr Lazenby returned. When she intimated that this time he would be bringing a cane, I regretted having tucked in so heartily (though she'd applauded the boyishness of my appetite) for the fear that gripped my insides thereafter caused me a most uncomfortable indigestion.

  In the afternoon, after Aunt's thoughtful provision of mint tea, I tried to rest in my room, browsing again through some of the fictions I had been familiarising myself with, but the gnawing dread produced intermittent bouts of sweating and several times I had to get up and pace the room, taking deep breaths to try to calm myself. As you may imagine, the prospect of Mr Lazenby's stick striking me afresh on my already bruised rear occupied my every thought, try as I might to drive the image away.