THE NEW GOVERNESS
The doorbell rang and Eve Gorthon opened the front door. A woman in her twenties stood there, briefcase in hand.
"Yes?"
"I came about the advertisement, ma'am," the woman said. "My name is Maureen Walker."
"Oh, yes," Eve Gorthon said, opening the door wider. "Please come in."
Maureen Walker was a tall, thin woman, with brown hair and rimless glasses. She looked slightly nervous and gripped her briefcase tightly as she stepped into the sitting room with her host.
"Please sit," Eve Gorthon said, motioning to one of the arm chairs by the tall windows. "I'll just ring Mary to bring some tea. Have you had breakfast?"
"Yes, ma'am, thank you. But tea would be nice."
Eve Gorthon rang a bell on the table and after a few minutes the maid appeared. She took the order for tea and disappeared again.
"Well, Maureen, you seem to be quite young for an experienced governess. Just what was that experience?"
"I spent two or three years each with two families. I have their letters of recommendation with me."
"Good," Eve said, "I'll read them and make inquiries later. But for now, just tell me about those two positions."
"Well, ma'am, each consisted of the parents and three children. The first family had a boy and two girls aged ten to 16 and the second had two boys and a girl aged nine to 17."
"Here, you would be dealing with an eleven-year-old boy. I also have a daughter of 14, but she will not be your charge. As I mentioned in my advertisement, I am particularly interested in how you would handle the discipline of a boy this age."
"Yes, ma'am. I understand you approve of corporal punishment."
"I not only approve of it, I insist upon it. How have you dealt with your nine- and ten-year-olds?"
"With the parents' approval, there were several ways to punish them: sending them to their rooms, forbidding television for a period of time, or no playtime. For more serious offences I would give them a good spanking."
"What was the normal procedure for such spankings?"
"Bare bottom and over the knee," Maureen said with a little smile. She seemed amused, less nervous.
"And that is all?"
"Just about. They were all good children."
"I'm sure. But young Basil is anything but a good boy. He will need more than just little spankings over the knee. Would you be willing to administer more severe punishments with the Scots tawse, the school cane and possibly the birch rod?"
"Yes, ma'am, if that is required. I am a pretty good tennis player with strong arms and I'm sure I can handle an eleven-year-old boy quite easily."
"But you have never before used such implements, have you?"
"No, ma'am." Maureen's nervousness returned. She obviously needed a job quite urgently.
"Before I call Basil to meet you, I want to mention that he disobeyed orders last night by not returning from a visit with his friends by the required time. Disobedience in this house is not tolerated and is punished severely. When you meet Basil, I want you to lecture him on his sins, tell him he is to be punished, give the sentence - or not, your choice - and then administer the punishment."
"Er - y-yes, ma'am," Maureen said, trying to sound more sure of herself than she felt.
When the maid returned with the tea, Eve Gorthon asked her to send Basil in.
"I indicated the salary which, since you are, I assume is acceptable," Eve Gorthon asked the young woman.
"Yes, ma'am." Maureen tried not to look too anxious.
There was a knock on the door and the maid ushered a small, slender boy into the room.
"Ah, Maureen, this is Basil. Basil, shake hands with Ms. Maureen Walker." The boy stepped forward, slowly and hesitantly, not looking at the tall woman who now stood, hand extended.
"How do you do?" Basil muttered.
Maureen gripped the boy's hand firmly and held it. It felt like a nervous little bird inside her strong fingers.
"I hear you have been a disobedient little boy," Maureen said, looking into the boy's blue eyes. It was really a quite handsome boy with dark hair, a high forehead, small nose and large mouth. But the set of his jaw and mouth denoted a difficult, rebellious child.
"I - er - y-yes, Miss," the boy faltered. He was dressed simply in short-sleeved shirt, brief, close-fitting shorts, ankle socks and black plimsolls. His bare limbs were healthily tanned.
"Your mother tells me you need to be punished severely. Disobedience is one of the worst offences a boy can commit, don't you agree, Basil?"
"Y-yes, Miss," the boy admitted reluctantly after a long pause.
"Yes, Basil," his mother added, "and Ms. Walker is going to be the one to punish you. She is applying for the job of governess. As you know, your father and I will be going on extensive trips to the Continent and will have no time to supervise naughty little boys. And Ms. Walker tells me she is experienced at doing just that. We will see. Tell her whether you prefer the tawse or the cane."
Young Basil looked from one woman to the other, biting his lower lip and twisting the hem of his right shorts leg. He stood for a moment, his face slowly turning red at the prospect of being whipped by this stranger.
"Oh, Mum, please - " he started, but was interrupted abruptly by his mother.
"Don't argue, Basil, or it will just be worse for you. I'm warning you. You will do as I say or Miss Walker will double whatever punishment she has planned for you."
With a last desperate look at his mother, the boy finally whispered, " The tawse, please." His face turned a shade darker. "Very well, then," Maureen Walker made her voice as stern as possible, probably more to impress her future - she hoped - employer than what she felt about this boy with such an angelic little face, "take off your shorts and underpants and go and fetch the tawse. Where is it kept?"
Silence.
"Answer Ms. Walker, Basil, this instant," his mother ordered impatiently.
"In my room," the boy muttered, looking at the carpet.
"And why is it in you room, Basil?" his mother asked. "To remind me that it can be used any time I don't behave," the boy said. He was squirming by now.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" Maureen asked briskly. "Off with those shorts and pants."
As the boy slowly obeyed, both women watched as he undid the waistband and unbuttoned his flys, then pushed shorts and pants down together. He stepped out of the plimsolls, removed the garments around his ankles, and replaced the shoes.
"Put your clothes on the table by the window," Maureen said sharply, "and fold them neatly."
The boy, whose shirt did not cover him below the hips, bent to picked up his clothes, presenting the women with a small, chubby, bare little bottom. Then he walked over to the window, folded the shorts and pants and placed them carefully on the indicated table.
"Now go to your room and fetch the tawse," Maureen ordered and watched again as the half-naked youngster quickly walked out of the room.
"How many are you planning on giving him?" Eve Gorthon said when the boy had left.
"I noticed his bottom still had very clear stripes from a previous caning," Maureen said with a little smile. "I think a dozen should do it."
Eve Gorthon frowned. "Now, Maureen, you've done so well up to now, let's not spoil it. A dozen for disobedience is quite inadequate. Let's just go ahead with the whipping. After I have observed your forehand and backhand I will tell you when to stop. I hope you are a strong tennis player," she added.
Basil returned, strap in hand. He held it gingerly and with obvious distaste, walked up to Maureen and held it out to her. It was an interesting tableau. The small eleven-year-old holding up a thick leather strap to the tall woman, his bare bottom seemingly trying to hide from its painful fate.
Maureen let him wait for a moment before taking the heavy tawse. She felt it between her fingers. It had two hefty tails, pungent with an odor of well-oiled leather. She fingered the tails slowly, then slapping them lightly against her palm. It was a very effective instrument, she decided. The little slap left her palm tingling.
"I think we will start with three on each hand," Maureen said coldly. "Hold out your right hand, Basil."
The boy's eyes swivelled towards his mother and quickly obeyed. He held the hand correctly, palm upwards, well extended, at shoulder height. He had obviously had this treatment before.
Again she let him wait, extending the boy's anxiety. Then she raised the tawse and quickly, with a snap of her wrist, brought it down across the boy's palm and fingers.
There was a sharp intake of breath but the boy didn't flinch. He kept his hand steady.
"Left hand," Maureen said and the procedure was repeated. Again Basil took it stoically.
"Right hand," Maureen said and the second stroke snapped down across a palm already turning a deep red. This time the boy flinched and bit his lip.
"Left hand." Another little jerk of the small, inflamed hand.
"Right hand," Maureen said.
This time, as the thick leather snapped against the sore palm, the boy gasped with pain and gasped again when the stroke was repeated on his left hand. Maureen lowered the tawse and looked at the boy. Tears were brimming in his eyes and he tried to control them. He had both hands clamped under his opposite arm pits, trying to soothe the fiery burn.
"Those strokes weren't particularly hard, Maureen," Eve Gorthon said. "Give him three more on each hand with a little more enthusiasm so he can feel them."
"Oh, please, Mum, I'm already - "
"Be quiet, Basil, or I'll ask Ms. Walker to give you six more."
Maureen raised the tawse once more. "Right hand, Basil," she said calmly and the boy hesitantly obeyed.
During the application of this second dose, Basil's tears began to flow. His hand trembled as he forced himself to extend it properly and not to withdraw it as all his instinct wanted him to do. When it was finally done, the eleven-year-old stood, whimpering and shaking, hugging his swollen palms. The two women watched in silence for several minutes. Then -
"Now bring the chair," Eve Gorthon ordered the weeping boy, "and place it in the usual place."
The boy approached a heavy chair on the far side of the room and dragged it towards the middle, near the window.
"Now get into position," his mother continued.
Maureen watched as the child silently obeyed. He bent far over the back of the chair until he was just balanced on the tips of his toes, and grasped the edge of the front legs with his hot, tingling hands.
"Feet apart," his mother instructed and the boy did.
Maureen grasped the tawse firmly and surveyed the wealed little buttocks now tightly stretched and fully presented to her for punishment.
"Now, Maureen, show me what you can do and I will see if you are suitable for this position. If you do well, you will have a comfortable, well-paid job for an extended period of time, since we plan to be travelling throughout the year for the next few years, coming back only for a short time to see the children and make sure all is in order. You will always have our address if you need us and we can return at a moment's notice. Now do your duty."
Stepping up to the bending boy, Maureen raised the tawse and imagined it to be a tennis racquet. Then she brought it down forcefully across the boy's lower buttocks. The ends of the tails bit into the lower right buttock. A few seconds later a dark red weal made its appearance turning purple where the tips had landed. The boy groaned as the pain sank in.
Once more the tawse was raised high and brought down with a full swing, arm extended, wrist firm. It landed on exactly the same spot and Basil's bottom twitched.
"Try and get the tail ends to land also on the left buttock," Eve Gorthon instructed. "And try to wield that strap with a bit more gusto. You seem reluctant to hurt the boy."
"Yes, ma'am," Maureen said and whipped the tawse forcefully across the lower left buttock. The tips curled around the cheek and snapped into the cleft. The boy's body jumped and he let out a small yelp.
"That's better, but give it a little more swing, what you might call 'follow-through' in tennis. That has a better effect."
Maureen complied as best she could and was rewarded with a screech of pain from the culprit. She repeated this several times until the boy started sobbing loudly.
"Very good, Maureen. Now work yourself slowly up the buttocks until the very top. You can make the strokes more effective if you stand a little more to the left and turn your shoulders back more. Use your shoulders to increase the swing."
The suggested technique produced loud screams and his mother seemed satisfied. She took a sip of tea as she watched Maureen perform.
Stroke followed slowly and methodically stroke as the boy's bare buttocks turned a dark, inflamed red all over with dark bruises on the lower portions.
"Perhaps you should now change strategy," Eve Gorthon said. "Stand by the boy's head and bring the tawse down vertically between the buttocks. That area has hardly been touched. Snap the strap down sharply so the tips curl in between his legs as well. Very effective."
Maureen stepped around the boy who lay there, sweating and trembling, blubbering like a six-year-old.
She stepped to the suggested place and looked down on the boy's hanging head. The dark hair was glistening with perspiration and the face, now lifted piteously towards her, was wet with tears, the eyes red with swollen lids.
"Please, no more," he gasped. "I'm so sore!"
Maureen looked at Eve Gorthon but received no response. She raise the tawse and brought it down right into the cleft between the gaping, burning little buttocks. It cracked down and the boy jumped, almost losing his grip on the chair legs. He held on with such frantic effort that Maureen suspected even further punishment was threatened in the event he let go.
This was repeated over several minutes, stroke, pause, stroke, pause, each cut accompanied by the boy's roar of agony.
"Let's give the boy a rest," his mother suggested. "We don't want his backside to get numb, or all this would be a wasted effort. Tell him to go and stand in the corner."
Maureen complied and the boy slowly rose from the chair and shuffled painfully to a far corner. He pressed his nose firmly against the wall and placed his hands on his head. He displayed a spectacularly beet-red backside.
"It's a good start, Maureen," Eve Gorthon said when they had settled themselves around a coffee table to drink their tea (a "tea table"?). "You have a good eye, from playing tennis, I suppose, and certainly a good potential as a disciplinarian. You just have to remember that punishment must hurt, otherwise it's useless, and if you start to feel pity or commiserate with the offender, your role is a sham. So stay removed from the effect your punishment has on the culprit and view him, not as a boy, but simply as a pair of buttocks in need of a good lesson."
Maureen nodded. This sounded encouraging. The interview had not been terminated and Mrs. Gorthon was giving her useful suggestions she could use once her engagement was confirmed.
"I understand," she said. "I will follow your instructions closely. As I get to know the boy, I will gauge how much punishment is required to make him listen and obey. After a while, I can tell when a boy's tears are truly repentant or simply an expression of self-pity."
"That's a very good way of looking at it, Maureen. Obviously boys will always cry when they backsides are raw and tender, but that should never be a signal to stop. It should simply be encouragement to proceed as the punishment is having the desired effect. If, after you have put an end to a whipping, you see that the boy is not truly and deeply sorry and contrite about his crime, then you will just have to start from the beginning again. It would be a grave mistake to let him off unless he convinces you of his true desire to behave better in the future. Experience will teach you."
They sipped their tea, occasionally glancing at the boy in the corner who had recovered some of his control and had stopped sobbing. "I think we have now allowed sufficient time for his behind to recover. Let's continue. Basil, come here."