by DJ Black
If it had been a fairytale, it would have begun... Once upon a time at the dawn of the 20th century there were three sisters, Galen reflected. Only this was not a fairytale, far from it. He had three daughters and each had been sent to try his patience. Today it was his youngest, who through daydreaming had got lost while on a simple errand. The errand in question was delivering a letter of authorisation to Galen's banker for payment of the estate workers' salaries.
Clara is such a handful, Galen thought. At 18 you would think that she would stop behaving like a child. Oh she was biddable enough, but she was so hapless.
Galen had thought about leaving her punishment to the governess, Miss Grant, but her idea of a punishment was a few minutes application with a slipper across a hastily bared bottom and half an hour in the corner. What Clara needed was a much firmer hand.
Even now his daughter was waiting in the corner of the old schoolroom stripped to her shift. Galen believed that an hour to meditate before a dose of the stick was a much more salutatory way of addressing Clara's shortcomings.
However, today of all days, Clara had chosen to require disciplining on a day that they had an important visitor.
Sir Roger Reynolds was seeking Emily, his middle daughter's hand in marriage. Galen was determined that nothing should go wrong. Once before he had been too indulgent and cavalier with a daughter's marriage arrangements and it had been a disaster.
His eldest daughter Penelope had returned home at just 24 after leaving her husband. Given the scandal he was quite sure that the wilful girl would be on his hands for some time to come.
Still, Galen thought, there was time to deal with Clara before Sir Roger arrived. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his tie and started up the ornate staircase.
As ordered, Clara was standing in the corner with her hands on her head. The raising of her arms had had the affect of raising the hem of her short shift, revealing her small pert bottom to the room. She shuddered and issued a heavy sigh as he entered.
Miss Grant looked up from her book and stood respectfully as he entered.
"Has she been any trouble Miss Grant?"
"No sir, she has apologised nicely and took her place in the corner without a fuss."
Galen nodded at this and started to unbutton his jacket.
"Will you be requiring me further sir?" Miss Grant licked her dry lips and eyed the door hopefully as she spoke.
"Yes Miss Grant, stand witness if you will."
The 25-year-old governess worked her jaw as if struggling to reply and then with one last look of regret to the door she said, "Of course sir."
"The medium rattan if you please Miss Grant." Galen tossed his jacket over the back of a chair and began to roll up his sleeves.
Miss Grant walked reluctantly to the desk and picked up the cane as if it were a snake. It was far too much like the instrument of correction from her own girlhood, an unpleasant, but not so distant memory.
Galen took the dark black-brown stick from the governess with a curt nod then turned to address his daughter.
"Now then young lady, what have you to say for yourself?"
Clara stuttered something into the corner.
"Turn around and face me when you are talking to me."
Clara jumped and turned at once, her hands falling to tug the shift down at the front.
"Well?" Galen barked.
"Sorry sir. No excuse." Clara's big brown eyes were a picture of sadness as she cast them down.
"Then there is no reason why you should not be severely punished?"
"No sir. I deserve it I suppose."
"Take your place."
Clara's eyes flicked to the desk table and she baulked. It was a long walk across the room to the hateful piece of furniture. Taking pigeon steps, she crossed the room with her chin on her chest and then paused.
"Don't dawdle, girl."
Clara bent over and stretched herself across the flat top. Taking a firm grip on the far edge she shuffled her legs together and pushed her bottom up and back as she had been taught.
Miss Grant's heart leapt as it always did at this point. The all too familiar posture was one of her mother's favourites. If only she could leave. She no longer trusted her own feelings.
Galen walked up behind his daughter and sized up the white billiard ball bottom as he might as he lined up for a double-cannon. His youngest girl had yet to fill out as her late mother and Emily had.
"How many was it last time?"
"Eighteen sir. One for each... eh... year," she said, trembling with a mixture of hope and fear.
Fear because she could not expect one stroke less. Hope because she believed the age and stroke count was a disciplinary formula and she would get no more.
"You're a strong girl, lets take this to 24 and then see where we are."
"Oh gosh." Miss Grant hugged herself.
"Papa, please," Clara wailed.
"Hush, you know you deserve it," Galen soothed.
"Yes sir," Clara whispered as a dry sob escaped her throat.
The cane was pressed to her bare bottom and Galen tapped her nates three or four times to elicit a little gasp from his daughter. Then stepping back, with a sweep of his arm he laid on the first stroke.
Miss Grant jumped and issued a little squeak, which she stifled with her hand.
Clara let out a long slow hiss as she buckled a little at the knees.
Galen waited as the plum coloured line emerged across the centre of both her stark white buttocks. Then without warning, he struck again below the first.
Clara suppressed a long hum and gripped the desk's edge all the harder turning her knuckles white.
Again Galen waited until the dark line had fully developed before lashing another stroke still lower.
Clara groaned and began to splutter sobs. The next stroke took her bottom low, lifting her onto her toes. She let out a short angry shout. Galen followed up with three more in almost the same place, the last touching the fold of her bottom and thighs. Clara broke into great heaving hoarse sobs that could be heard beyond the room.
Outside, Penelope was passing the door on her way to one of her secret rendezvous with her elegant cavalry officer. It was risky but she couldn't resist. With a cat-got-the-cream smile, she opened the schoolroom door and put her head around to take in the scene.
Clara was sobbing hard over the desk with her pert little bottom pointing up in the family-proscribed manner. She knew it well. By now there were at least a dozen burgundy ridges running from the crowns of Clara's bottom to her thigh tops.
"Whatever has poor little Clara done now?" Penelope offered the perfect crocodile pout.
"Nothing we can't address, is it Clara?" Galen said with irritation.
"No sir."
With regret Penelope ducked out before her father asked her where she was going. With her tight-waisted jacket and hobble skirt, she was quite sure Galen would not approve.
She hadn't taken three steps before the next stroke struck home accompanied by a hearty yell. That's my girl, Penelope thought with a smirk. She walked slowly, running a casual finger down the banister as she descended the stairs. Before she got out of earshot, she enjoyed four more strokes to her pretty little sister's bottom. Her smugness was tempered only by a reminiscent tingle in her own heroic hindquarters. But those days were before her marriage.
Upstairs, Clara was in bits, but Galen couldn't help but be proud of his daughter. She hadn't jumped up once and her legs for the most part had remained straight and her bottom elevated. Even as the caning came to a close her back was arched down and her bottom up as she had been taught. As result, the six extras he had considered would be dispensed with. As he added the last biting cuts, he glanced at Miss Grant. She was no longer white and drawn, but flushed and fidgety. Sometimes women were a mystery to him. Both Clara and Penelope would walk a thousand miles to escape even a spanking. And yet in the past he had caned both Penelope and her then governess for abusing themselves in two separate incidents connected to chastisement. The governess at least had been mortified and had begged to be permitted to resign. He had taken a much firmer line with Penelope after that. He couldn't help but wonder what camp Miss Grant was in.
"Miss Grant, Clara is to have another hour in the corner after she has pulled herself together and then she is to be sent to bed with no supper."
Miss Grant seemed dazed.
"Miss Grant?"
"Oh... oh yes sir. Corner time, no supper."
Galen handed her the cane and taking his jacket left the room. Miss Grant helped the sobbing girl up and led her to the corner.
"Oh Miss Grant, I am so sorry. I shan't sit for a month."
"Oh don't be silly. I am sure you will mange to ease yourself onto a cushion before the week is out."
Clara burst into a fresh flood of tears at this news.
Meanwhile Sir Roger had arrived to discuss his betrothal to Emily.
"Galen isn't she perfect?"
"Hardly that Roger, no I couldn't say so, could I Emily?"
"No Papa." Emily was being as demure as possible.
"In fact that brings us to an old family tradition."
"Oh yes?" Sir Roger said pleasantly.
Even Emily perked up at this, curious to what her father meant.
"Yes. You see I have to be sure that you are acquainted with an adequate method of keeping my daughter in line. I really don't want a repeat of the problems we had with Penelope."
Emily gaped at this humiliating suggestion.
"Papa!"
"I wish to see you give my girl here a sound spanking."
"That's not a family tradition." Emily was mortified and could not have gone redder in the face.
"Well it is now."
"I see." Sir Roger sucked back an amused smirk and put down his glass. After all, a few swats to her rear would do no harm.
"I won't stand for it," Emily snapped, stamping her foot.
"You will do as you are told. Now tuck up your skirts and let us have those drawers down."
"Papa, no!"
"Papa yes, or I will send for Mrs Bainbridge to pin up your skirts."
"This is impossible," Emily said throwing up her arms and making for the door.
Galen pulled the bell-rope and then moved to block her way.
"Please Papa, no." Tears sprang to Emily's eyes.
"It's for your own good," Galen said gently with a firm paternal smile. "I don't want you ruining your reputation as Penelope did.
The housekeeper entered proceeded by a glower, it was obvious that she had been well briefed before hand.
"Now Mrs Bainbridge you really can't let him."
Mrs Bainbridge had been more of a mother to Emily since she had been 12 and was apt to accept no nonsense. Sitting on the chaise-long she pulled the struggling Emily across her lap. There was a brief tussle as Mrs Bainbridge took a packet of pins from her pinafore and placed them in her mouth. Then intent on the task in hand she began turning up Emily's skirts.
"I say," Sir Roger baulked. "Are you sure about this?"
He watched awe-struck as one by one Emily's skirts, petticoats and slips were tucked up with pins to the back of her bodice. Then once the paper-thin and drum-tight pantaloons were on show, Mrs Bainbridge undid the drawstrings at the sides and slipped them down and off.
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