by B.Y. Parsons
"Owww!" mewed Elizabeth Winslow Jones, ruefully rubbing her aristocratic bottom as she climbed the spiral staircase of the great house. "From now on, I'd better mind my tongue when speaking with strangers!" The blond beauty made her way along the upper hallway to her bedroom, closing the door softly behind her, taking care not to slam it lest she be called back for an encore by her parents who were visiting with the new neighbours in the drawing room directly beneath her.
Approaching the dressing table, she turned her back to the huge vanity mirror and carefully eased her cream coloured jodhpurs and matching bikini knickers down over her voluptuous hips. Out popped as scarlet a pair of seat cheeks as ever you've seen! With pants around her thighs, she waddled over to the closet, rummaged around in the mess on the back shelf, and came up with a small electric fan. Setting it down on the chair before the vanity, she turned it on and stuck her glowing posterior a few inches away from the grille. "Aaaaahhhh, that's better!" she sighed, as the wind swirled over hill and dale.
Peering over her shoulder in the mirror, fascinated by the inflamed flesh, she skimmed her finger tips back and forth over the seething mounds. Mother's right hand had painted the entire surface a sunset pink, and father's strap had stained the twin summits a darker shade of crimson. "Golly! What a sight for sore eyes," she muttered. "Daddy really laid it on!" After a session with the Rear Admiral - as the tawse was called in the Winslow household - Elizabeth's bottom needed more relief than the fan could offer, so she reached for her second aid, a jar of Estée Lauder's finest moisturizing cream. The lotion was called a face cream; given the price, it was evidently meant to be used sparingly on a woman's smaller pair of cheeks. Defying convention, Elizabeth daubed great gobs of the stuff all over her big cheeks, gently rubbing it into the scalded flesh. Then she thrust them back before the fan. "Ooooohhh, what a relief!" she shivered, as goosebumps arose on the glistening flesh.
They say time is the healer of life's hurts, and that was certainly the case with Elizabeth's bottom. In half an hour, the searing sting had subsided to a faint, itchy throb. But instead of putting the ordeal out of mind, Elizabeth's impulse was to write it all down. So she slipped her diary from its hiding place beneath the mattress. The little red book with her name embossed in fancy gold script on the cover already contained two vivid accounts of spankings she had received in the past year, one from her mother and the other from the headmistress of her finishing school.
The real reason she dwelt on these expiation rituals lay well beyond the twenty-year-old's consciousness, but the way she explained it to herself appealed to a theatrical sense of her own self-importance. Assured of being rich, Elizabeth was determined to be famous. She figured that the best way to launch her career as a debutante celebrity was to publish her memoirs. She knew a friend of a friend - a young lady of her class and breeding - who had done just that. Her tattletale autobiography, chock-full of titillating tidbits, had sold surprisingly well, though it had not exactly garnered critical acclaim. Elizabeth astutely surmised that the editors of the tabloid press would drool over a blow by blow account of today's disciplinary drama and fall all over one another bidding for exclusive rights to her story. The winner would publish juicy extracts, together with a full-page photo spread of her cavorting around the estate. She'd be wearing skin-tight jodhpurs and a crisp white blouse, a riding crop tucked jauntily under her arm. Her back would be to the camera, and she'd be glancing over her shoulder with a sly grin on her lips. The caption would read: 'Lizzie's tail of woe'. All over Britain, working stiffs would find themselves getting just that, before rushing off to buy her book. "Dirty old men," she giggled, bathing her burning buttocks in cold cream as she replayed scenes from the spanking over and over again in her mind.
It never occurred to the self-absorbed ingénue that she might be dabbling in the same erotic undercurrents as her prospective readers. Her ignorance should not surprise us. The exhibitionist and the voyeur fulfil one another's desires while thinking only of themselves. But we can do better than that, dear reader, as we peer over our narrator's shoulder, and observe her placing a pillow on the chair by the dressing table and sitting down gingerly to write. It's true, alas, that our heroine is an obnoxious snob. While this is a reflection of her aristocratic heritage, we ought not to hold it against her. No-one chooses the social class into which they are born, nor the national culture of their upbringing. As for her temperament, Lizzie is an irrepressible brat. I must confess that I've fallen madly in love with the minx! Admittedly, her snooty condescension towards us lowly commoners is irritating, but there's hope for her yet. All this spanking is bringing her down a peg, making her seem almost humble at times! But don't take my word for it. Read her diary entry and judge for yourself.
Saturday, May 10th, 1981.
The day dawned bright and sunny. I had promised Daddy I would clean out the stables, but I wasn't in the mood. When Mummy mentioned at breakfast that she would be away at the village fair till mid afternoon, I hatched a plan. There would be plenty of time to muck out the silly old stables later! As soon as she left, I saddled up my trusty steed, Jimson, and went to call on my dear friend, Deborah Piggot Robinson. I persuaded her to take a break from studying for her French exam and come on a ride with me.
Deb and I were having a splendid time riding through the glen and across the creek to Briars field when we happened upon a family of common folk walking along the path. They were on a hike, I suppose, carrying a picnic lunch. I informed them in no uncertain terms that they were trespassing on private land. Straight away, they took offence, insisting there was a right of way across the field. Have you ever heard of such a daft notion - a right of way across private property? Had Cromwell and his rapacious mob demanded as much? Apparently so, because Mother subsequently informed me that they were legally permitted to walk there. Something about Rambler's Rights! No wonder Merrie England went into decline! In any case, I had no inkling of such an asinine rule this morning, and, when they got uppity, naturally I became annoyed. I told them not to be so cheeky, that my family had been landowners in the area since time out of mind. When they said that did not entitle me to bar them from this trail, I retorted that they were fortunate that Deborah and I had not brought our hunting dogs along with us. Then they'd learn who could venture on our land! Alright, so that last remark was rather intemperate, but before I could tone it down, Deborah chimed in with a hearty "Here! Here!" and gave them one of her jolly intense looks. I welcomed her support at the time, but in view of what has since transpired I'm inclined to think she was goading me on. Not deliberately, mind you, but if misery loves company, then folly does too, I reckon.
After I'd finished my bracing little lecture, the four intruders looked aghast. Glaring up at me, the man declared himself "shocked and appalled" that an obviously well educated girl with "so many advantages in life" could be such "an ignorant, spoiled brat"! The gall of the fellow! He droned on (and on) about how I had a lot to learn about manners - "obviously, that aspect of your education has been sadly neglected." If he were my father, "I'd peel down those riding pants and spank your bottom so hard you wouldn't sit down for a week!" What an uncouth man! He actually said that! Can you believe it?
To make matters worse, his wife agreed with his indecent suggestion! She said her daughters had been raised to be respectful of their elders and "you two could take a lesson from them." Well, I mean, one only had to look at the two chubby waifs to see that they obviously hadn't been to a proper school. Their clothes must have come from Marks & Spencer and - good grief - just look at their hair! Rather imprudently, I made some comment to that effect.
"Why you little snob," the mother snarled, advancing toward me, her eyes aflame. "It's high time you learned some manners. I've a good mind to haul you down from that horse, turn you over my knee and thrash that pampered bottom of yours!" At that point, Deborah and I decided that our arguments were falling on deaf ears, so we withdrew from the discussion. Riding away post-haste, we tried to ignore the dire threats being hurled at our backs.
"Common folk - very common," I sniffed when we were well away from them.
"Riff raff," Deborah huffed, turning up her nose in disdain.
Besides, it wasn't true what they said about my pampered bottom. I'm no stranger to corporal punishment. My parents both believe in the salutary effects of bare bottomed spankings, even for a young lady who will soon be a debutante. If I had a pound for every smack Mummy has given me over the years, I'd have purchased my own estate by now instead waiting to inherit one! But I suppose, in a way, my bottom is pampered, because the thought of lower class commoners laying a hand on it is enough to make my blue blood boil!
By the time I arrived back home, my tummy was in turmoil and I felt dizzy and faint. I was so upset, I left the saddle on Jimson, tethered him to the fence outside the paddock, and headed straight to bed to recover from the indignity of being treated in such an outrageous manner. As I hurried along the upper hall toward my bedroom, I came across our housekeeper, Ruth, dusting Daddy's trophy case. When I told her I didn't want to be disturbed, she warned me, "Don't forget about cleaning out the stables, Miss Elizabeth." That seems like good advice, in retrospect, but at the time, I felt she was meddling.
"Oh hang the silly old stables," I huffed. "I'll do them later, before Mummy gets home." Off I went to rest and restore my spirits.
You might have thought that Ruth would have had the good sense to wake me before Mother returned, but no. I only realized she was home when there was a loud knock on my bedroom door.
"Elizabeth!" Mother called out. "Are you ill, child?"
I had to think fast. "Yes Mummy, I must be coming down with something. I've got a scratchy throat and I think I have a temperature." She came in and sat next to me on the bed, cupping her hand on my forehead.
"Hmm, you do seem a little warm," she fussed.
I made a great show of rising from a deep swoon, and groaned, "I must get up now to clean the stables."
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