by Robert Price
"Look what you've done, you little bitch," my wife was screaming at the young maid as I entered the room. "Look what she did," she said, turning to me, holding out her damaged hand for me to inspect.
I could not immediately detect any damage, even wearing the new-fangled eye-glasses which I had recently had imported from Italy. But, when I moved her closer to the window where the light was better, I could see that she had a small split in one of her nails.
"Does it hurt, my dearest?" I said, doing my best to sound concerned.
"Not too much," she conceded. "But now I will have to ask Martha to trim it to avoid it splitting further. And then she will have to trim all the others to match."
With the crops about to fail and reports of a new outbreak of plague in the town, my wife's nails did not figure too high in the grand scheme of things; but for her, living in her own little cocooned world, it took on the dimensions of a Greek tragedy. I did what I could to lend support, assuring her that her nails would soon be restored to their former glory.
The maid, clearly cowed by the events exploding around her, eventually found the courage to speak. "It was an accident, sir," she said timidly. "I did not intend to cause any harm."
I knew this to be true. I had not seen the entire incident, but I saw enough to know that my wife broke her nail when the maid had instinctively raised her hand to protect herself as my wife had attempted to box her ears, although I did not see what the maid had done to prompt the attack. Okay, I know the maid should never have raised her hand to her mistress, even in self-defence, but she was new. She probably knew the rules, but it took time to train your reflexes to passively accept whatever blow your mistress cared to inflict.
"Nonsense. It was no accident," my wife insisted. "It was spiteful and deliberate. This young hussy is nothing but trouble. I want you to soundly thrash her to within an inch of her life tonight after dinner. I will order Jarvis to prepare some nice fresh birch rods." And with that she stormed out of the room before I had any chance to speak up in the girl's defence.
However, even had she lingered, I doubt I would not have spoken up for the young woman. We both knew, even if the girl didn't, that this was not about my wife's broken finger nail. It was because I had been unable to take my eyes off the girl ever since she had joined us two weeks previously. I was not motivated by feelings of lust, I would hasten to add. I was simply captivated by her raw beauty, her erect posture, her innocence, her cheerful disposition, her docile nature, her desire to please. Despite her humble background, at the age of eighteen years, she moved with the natural grace of a lady. She lit up the room: a little ray of sunshine in my otherwise bleak world. She was the daughter I never had.
My interest in her was purely platonic, but my wife suspected otherwise and was unable to curb her jealousy. So, she was setting a test: would I thrash the girl, as she demanded; or would I take the girl's part? I knew that if I stood up for the girl, my wife would simply find some excuse over the next week or so to dismiss her. Without a reference from my wife, her future would be bleak. She would have to marry some rich old farmer, who would probably thrash her on a regular basis much worse than even my wife intended; or, even worse, she would have to move to the city and sell her body to any man with a spare penny or two. Although it was unjust, I would actually be doing her a favour if I thrashed her at my wife's behest and let her remain in our service.
Besides, my wife always enjoyed watching a good thrashing, whether it was one of the male servants or one of the maids. It always put her in the mood. I knew from past experience she would be insatiable. So, I had a choice between a garden of carnal delights, probably lasting the entire night; or else weeks, or possibly even months, of marital disharmony. I resented not being able to take the morally correct course, but unfortunately it was one of those situations where it would be better for everyone for me to do the wrong thing.
"Please sir, it really was an accident," the girl pleaded, interrupting my thoughts and breaking the silence that had followed the slamming noise of the door as my wife had exited.
"I have no reason to disbelieve you, my dear," I replied. "But I did not see the incident myself, so I have no reason to disbelieve my wife either. Given that she is a lady, I have no option but to take the word of your mistress."
"What will happen to me?" the maid asked, tears beginning to pool in her eyes. I felt sorry for her and the injustice being inflicted upon her. I felt an urge to give her a big hug and tell her everything would be okay. But, of course, it would not be okay. And, if my wife returned and caught us in an embrace, then it would just make matters worse. I felt it best just to tell her the truth.
"After dinner tonight, you will report to our chamber wearing only your nightdress. You will be asked to place yourself over a large wooden chest we use for flogging, where you will be strapped down. Your nightdress will then be lifted, and I will lay the birch across your bottom until my wife decides that you have been punished to her satisfaction. I am afraid that I will required to strike you very hard. Should I fail to do so, she will simply insist on the stroke being repeated, but much harder. She is not easily fooled, so any attempt by me to ease your suffering would simply cause my wife to prolong it."
Her eyes widened noticeably at the mention of her nightdress being raised. Servant girls never wore anything other than a plain nightdress to bed, so it was obvious that she would have her bottom bared. For a village girl of that age, to be seen undressed by someone other than her mother or father was the greatest indignity imaginable. In fact, some men in the village claimed they had never even seen their own wife's naked bottom, although others boasted that they regularly bared their wife's bottoms for a good flogging when it became necessary to show them who was in charge. However, given that it seemed to do little to still their wives' nagging tongues, I would be sceptical about the veracity of most of these boasts.
"How many strokes will you give me?" the girl asked, clearly concerned but now apparently resigned to her fate. It would not be the first time she had experienced the birch. Most village girls were thrashed by their father as soon as they showed any interest in a young man. Experience had proven that a sound thrashing was an effective method for tempering a young girl's ardour, and therefore provided an effective means of contraception. Times were tough and no-one could afford having an extra unwanted bastard mouth to feed. A sound birching at the first sign of interest in one of the village boys was the time-honoured way of ensuring a girl remained pure until she was married. Having reached the age of eighteen, a pretty girl like her would probably have had more than her fair share of suitors, and therefore more experience of the birch than most.
"The number of strokes will be determined by my wife," I replied. "All I can suggest is you bear the strokes as stoically as you can for as long as possible - she dislikes girls who make too much fuss, and therefore tends to make sure they have something to really scream about. When you can bear it no longer, scream as loud as possible. If you have been brave until then, she is more likely to believe your resistance has been broken."
This would normally have been helpful advice, but on this occasion I suspected my wife would show no mercy at all as it was I who was to be tested, not the girl.
I had no appetite for my dinner that night. "Lord of the Manor, my arse," I bitterly thought as I picked at my meal without eating. "I'm just another hen-pecked husband."
I resented the way in which my wife had manipulated me into thrashing that poor innocent child, for no other reason than to salve her jealousy and slake her lust for cruelty.
There would of course be some compensations. I would get to feast my eyes on the girl's naked charms, which if they were anything like the rest of her would truly be a sight to behold. Also, although I recoiled at the thought of hurting her, especially given how frightened she appeared when I had explained her fate, I have to confess that I find few sights more arousing than a girl wriggling and squirming as the rod kisses her bottom. Much though it grieved me to cause the poor girl pain, I had no doubt I would be every bit as aroused by her contortions and pleas for mercy as my cruel wife.
And then, after the girl had been dismissed, I could look forward to a night of lustful passion with my wife. She would be game for anything. Who knows, when the juices were flowing, she might even submit to a cut or two from the birch herself. She had never done so in the past, much to my disappointment, but who can tell what might happen in the heat of the moment. I began to fantasise about whipping the birch across her full womanly buttocks. That was one wicked ass I would not need any persuasion to strike harder. If ever a woman was in need of a good thrashing, it was her.
It was at that moment the idea popped into my head.
"Damn it all," I said to myself. "I am the Lord of the Manor. It is time to grow some balls."
My plan began to take form. I would thrash the girl as my wife demanded, partly to prove to her my fidelity, but also to save the girl from the clutches of some randy old farmer or the riff-raff that frequented the brothels in the city. Then, once the girl had been excused, I would tell my wife that I saw how she had engineered the poor girl's punishment and insist that she should submit to exactly the same number of strokes that she had me inflict on the girl. The crueller she was to the girl, the more her own ass would suffer. If she refused to submit, then I would call in a couple of servants to help me bare her and then restrain her for the punishment she so richly deserved. I suspected there would be no shortage of volunteers willing to assist me. And then, afterwards, I would take her as often as I wished, whether she was still in the mood or not. I suspected my own lust might take some quenching.
As I looked at my wife tucking into a hearty meal at the far end of the table, totally oblivious to the fate that awaited her, my appetite suddenly began to return.
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