INTRODUCTION
What follows is not in the spirit of the mainstream of material in the Archive but it is on-topic when taken as a whole. Most of MMSA Stories archived material, much of which is very well written, takes itself seriously. Some writers, notably Pettigrew, introduce occasional humour and approach the topic with a light touch. Here the viewpoint is entirely humorous, interspersed with satire and generally taking the piss out of the self-proclaimed good and great. It is English ribald humour about British circumstances. Below I shall explain the context for the sake of non-Brits.
The ensuing prose was first published on an alternative to the internet known as Freenet. This uses standard internet connections but sites, akin to those you are familiar with, are propagated in encrypted form between nodes and are accessible only if you are using Freenet technology (which is open source and readily downloaded from Sourceforge). Anyway the point is that one such site (a "Freesite") is called "Pussy Galore". It is not what it seems. It is dedicated to the ramblings of and incisive social and political comment of His Grace Duke Morbid; also pictures of cats (the feline variety) crop up frequently. One part of this Freesite publishes correspondence from people in the public eye. These include Prince Charles (Charlie Windsor), his mistress Camilla Parker-Bowles (a dedicated S&M fan), their sons William and Harry, and the elder sons of Prime Minister Blair: Euan and Nicky.
His Grace lives on a dilapidated estate infested by divers diseases not normally endemic to the UK. He treats his peasants as medieval serfs (there is no minimum wage, indeed no wage). He is the pariah of the aristocracy but cannot be ignored as he has the dirt on most of his aristocratic colleagues, particularly the Royal Family. His remarks on the correspondence are in square brackets and signed Ed. – for Editor of Pussy Galore. One further point, the deputy editor is a randy Tomcat that can't spell but that doesn't figure in these extracts. The political context, social context and characteristics of the people in these writings are as follows.
Charlie Windsor is a buffoon who has courted public scandal for many years. The mother of his sons is Dead Diana (she with the shifty eyes) who shagged an Arab (and others). There is serious doubt whether Harry is his father's son, the putative father is one Mr Hewitt (see British press reports). Harry is extremely thick and his elder brother little better. The final correspondence concerns Harry's most recent escapade, cheating his art exam whilst at Eton College. Naturally he suffers severe punishment for bringing further scandal upon his father and the Royal Family; he is now twenty years of age. Earlier episodes refer to when he was about sixteen seventeen and still at Eton.
The Blair brats were about eighteen (Euan) and sixteen (Nicky) when their visits to the stables at Highgrove (Charlie's estate) for chastisement took place. The reason for their punishment is that they overheard their father conspiring to lie about the Iraq war, misunderstood what he was on about and inadvertently blurted it in public. Incidentally, Camilla Parker-Bowles has a little dungeon at Highgrove and you shall have an opportunity to admire its decor.
Finally a warning and partial apology. The later section contains derogatory references to an individual from an ethnic minority. These are not the author's views or words. Rather I have put words into the mouth of Phil the Greek (the husband of Elizabeth Regina) who is Harry's step-Grandfather. These words are an accurate expression of the views he holds and of the utterances he expresses in private. Unfortunately, he has a habit of expressing these sentiments in public too which is why, in his approaching senility, he is kept away from public speaking engagements. I rather like the incorrigible old blighter, he is the only one who adds colour to the Royal Family.
Duke Morbid, under any aliases he chooses, retains all copyright on this material.
NOW READ ON
Dear Duke Morbid,
I am not a "goody goody" as my half-brother states. Unlike him I have the intelligence to foresee the consequences of my actions and to avoid those when there is a high chance of being caught or when possible retribution will bring misery that far outweighs the pleasure of the act. Also, Harry never learns from his mistakes. I am certain that one way or another he will be back in the stables in a couple of weeks. I wish I had seen the show, Harry has been getting up my nose recently. Perhaps, I will ask Aunty Camilla the name of the newsgroup where she is posting her video.
The stables as a place of chastisement has a long history in our family going well back before Victoria. Of course we can afford stables rather than a woodshed. Stables tend not to be centrally heated so, as I well recall, a visit in deep winter can be very unpleasant. The mildly anaesthetic effect of extreme cold is more than offset by the fear of frostbite in dependant parts. The only person who gets warm is the head stable hand.
Harry's propensity for streaking is well known among the boys at Eton. He is an exhibitionist and knows no shame. There's quite a collection of photos at Eton of Harry streaking and, indeed, posing nude. Perhaps some kind soul will send you copies so that Pussy Galore can have a world exclusive gallery; I know that some Etonians tune into Pussy Galore regularly. After all you won't be able to make any money out of them and the legitimate press wouldn't dare publish them for copyright reasons.
Incidentally, I am having a nice time at St Andrew's. You have commented that I don't mix much with fellow students. There is a reason. Most of the females, especially the American ones, have an eye to the main chance - they want marriage. Most of the males want to ingratiate themselves ready for future patronage, social climbing, etc. When you are rich and famous you are better off making friends among your own kind. At least there is a chance that some will like you for yourself rather than for what you can do for them.
Must go, regards, William (Name and address supplied) [Seems a nice lad. Pity his relatives are so vile. Ed.]
Dear Duke,
My howls were heard by the men tending the organic parsnips a mile away. But first things first: after breakfast I was summoned to Step Father's study for "a discussion". His discussions are invariably monologues, invariably boring, and almost invariably about the multitudinous finer points of organic farming. On this occasion he chose to "discuss" my future. Going to university is out of the question. Apparently I am too thick to get into the worst Mickey Mouse university, i. e. the University of Luton, and Cambridge no longer accepts bribes. The military seems to be the only option. Step Father spoke approvingly of Major Ingram, the recently convicted fraudster. He said that apart from his dishonesty he is a wonderful example to me. He demonstrates that there is nobody too thick to join the officer cadre, indeed intellectual density is a positive advantage. I recalled accounts of Step Father's heroic naval career. The truth was though that when they entrusted him with his boat they placed an experienced, but junior, naval officer as second in command to ensure that the crew was safe and, more importantly, a valuable boat was not wrecked. I was beginning to resign myself to joining the army. At Eton I enjoy parading the cadets. I was about to make a quip but fortunately held my tongue. I was going to say that nobody recognises that I am an artistic and sensitive soul like my Uncle Edward and what I would most like to do in life is design dresses. Anyway, the "discussion" over I was ordered to go to the stable and await the execution party.
The stable was empty apart from some stable lads smirking and muttering ribald jokes about what was to happen to me; all the horses were in the paddock, presumably to protect them from a horrific scene. I was left waiting for almost half an hour. During that time my thoughts naturally dwelt upon what was to come and recollection of similar, rather frequent, events in the past. Step Father is not sadistic but he has great faith in corporal punishment and often says that the beatings he received at that hell hole of a school in Scotland his father sent him to did him no harm at all. In fact he was very sorry that Britain's daft government banned corporal punishment in all schools (but not at home) so that when I went to Eton I could not be properly disciplined. The cunning old bastard thought of a wheeze though. He arranged with the headmaster that if Willy or I deserved a thrashing we would be sent home for the weekend for a visit to the stables. This happened far more frequently to me than to goody goody Willy. Apparently, many other parents have made similar arrangements. We Etonians, though, are not against whippings but we would prefer to receive them in the collegiate atmosphere; looking down at a pile of horse manure whilst having ones arse tanned takes the edge off the occasion. The worst thrashing I had ever received, as it now turns out the second worst, was after that occasion when aged fifteen I streaked through my step father's assembled guests at a house party.
Eventually the merry throng arrived. In addition to Step Father, Camilla and the head stable hand there were two house guests and the landlord of the local hostelry. The house guests were Americans who had paid £50,000 each into the Prince's Trust for the privilege of dining on Step Father's disgusting organic food. The land lord had been invited presumably because I had done a bit of mischief in his bar a couple of weeks back.
Step Father got straight down to business. He ordered me to take off all my kit and the head stable hand to get the flogging stool in place. Oh yes, I was to bare it all, and, oh yes, the stool was a genuine antique from Rugby. As to the former I am used to the notion of being in the public eye but this is taking things a bit literally. Perhaps, I had shown a penchant for it by streaking. As for the rest I don't wish to recollect painful detail. Suffice it to say that I got into position and the show commenced.
Two details are of interest. Step Father told the head stable hand to give me six strokes of his vicious strap and then pause to see whether more were to be ordered. After the thrashes started, at the usual horribly slow pace of one per thirty seconds, Step Father engaged in a conversation with one of the stable boys about organically grown horse feed. That posed two problems. First Step Father is, I believe, no mighty intellect compared to me and at best can engage in one thread of thought at a time. Second, Step Father was talking, as usual, about one of his favourite topics and became thoroughly engrossed in it. How the hell he could manage to sustain his concentration on organic horse feed to a backdrop of episodic loud swishes, the sound of leather meeting meat hard and the consequent howls is a mystery. Nevertheless when the first six were completed, and I was hoping for release, the head stable hand looked in Step Father's direction for further orders. Step Father being thoroughly immersed in his conversation merely glanced over and muttered "very good, very good", nodded and resumed his conversation. The head stable hand took this to mean "continue". This happened five times by which I had received thirty six swishes. It would have gone on longer had not the head stable hand twigged that Step Father really wasn't engaged in the event and suggested it was time to stop.
The second detail is that while all this was going on the two Americans were taking snaps with their cameras. Worse still, Camilla was running her Sony digital camcorder the whole time. I have a nasty feeling that this episode is going to appear in 50Kb chunks of divx on one of those S&M UseNet groups that Camilla frequents. To add insult to injury one of the Americans quipped "You're lucky lad that you didn't receive your beating in a Texas high school, it would have been far worse and moreover Texan teens don't bawl out so".
This whole miserable adventure is a consequence of visiting Pussy Galore. But, I suspect it would have happened sooner or later regardless so I shall continue to visit your site.
[For God's sake don't try cooking any of our recipés lest Highgrove be burned down. Ed] Harry (Name and address not supplied)
Dear Duke, I don't understand the "proof of the pudding is in the eating". I'm not into risking my todger between people's teeth if that's what you mean. [The cat insisted I quote that aphorism. Ed.] I decided to check the length of my todger using the Dickometer on your 'Matters Phallic' site. It's quite a job lining one's todger up along the VDU screen. Unfortunately, I couldn't do this in the privacy of my bedroom as my step father won't let me keep a computer there. He is afraid I might be corrupted by pornography. I don't think he means 'tit and bum' as he is very much into that himself. I suspect he fears I might stumble into socialist web sites. Anyway, there I was kneeling on the desk in the sitting room, bare bum sticking up into the air, when in walked Step Father and the ghastly Camilla. She smirked but he threw a wobbly. After much going on about "stupid whelp", "intelligence of a carrot", "brains all down in your balls", "didn't you know you are supposed to print it out first?", "why bother anyway, we all know its tiny", "nobody is going to want to sit near that screen until it has been washed with disinfectant", "Christ, is that a short and curly I see on the keyboard!" and other confidence building comments in similar vein he announced that I was to report tomorrow to the stables to be thrashed by the head stable hand. Oh God, that brute of a man wields a vicious strap on the bare behind and what's more Step Father, Camilla and the other stable hands will all be looking on. Harry (Name and address not supplied) [We supply the tools but cannot be responsible for idiots misusing them. Ed.]
Dear Duke, Why do you keep publishing offensive material about my dear dead Ma? Please focus your attention on someone really bad like Mr Elton John or my Uncle Charles Spencer. Otherwise I like Pussy Galore a lot, especially the pictures and when you don't use long words. Best wishes Harry P. S. My todger's not as long as Leonardo's, should I be worried?
[The proof of the pudding is in the eating. Ed.] (Name and address not supplied)
Your Grace, I note that S. C.U. M. had the effrontery to deplore your recent splitting of Pussy Galore into two sites. Your Grace was merely following a trend to greater efficiency that began when Your Grace separated the art galleries (which I love visiting). The Pussy Galore experience is enhanced rather than diminished. Furthermore, the split will make it more easy for the developers to justify placing Pussy Galore on the Web Interface which is where it rightly ought to be given that Pussy Galore is the premier Freesite; the justification being that the first page eschews pictures that the feeble minded would find offensive and such people must deliberately click again after due warning. S. C.U. M. should learn humility: he is not in a position to criticise others when his own site so rarely shows up.
Your most humble and obedient servant,
Euan Blair
P. S. Please stop saying nasty things about my daddy. I know he appears to the world to be a preening prick but he is the only daddy I have got. By the way, I am having a wonderful time at Bristol University. I get drunk most nights and there is nobody to tell me off. I have a great advantage over Harry Windsor because Daddy hasn't got any stables though he does send a burly Special Branch officer to read me the riot act from time to time.
Your Grace, That Mr S. C.U. M. is really nasty. He called me a mongol which I think is some kind of mental retard like my Uncle Harold, Aunts Doris and Mabel, and cousins John, Howard, Frederick and James all of whom the family never talk about. I grew up thinking that all families have lots of members who are never mentioned but on talking to my new friends at Bristol I find that not to be so.
Daddy is awfully cross at present. I upset him the other day over something trivial and he threatened to ring Charles Windsor and have me sent to the stables at Highgrove. He keeps muttering on about "that bastard Kelly" and some "old fart" of a judge who won't do as he's told. Daddy, Mr Scarlett and Mr Campbell spent hours together whispering. I did overhear "Never mind the bloody truth you fool! Our stories must be consistent and we must not let on the Alistair and I made up that stuff about weapons of mass destruction being deployable within fifteen minutes." I haven't a clue what its about and am amusing myself during the rest of the hols by reading a Harry Potter novel. I must admit that I find reading rather hard but I am managing two pages a day which Mummy says is good.
I am not terribly good at writing either but a nice Mr Gates, when visiting Daddy once, gave me some software that lets me dictate into my computer. It even has a spelling and grammar checker. But, what's best in this software is a facility to model my writing style and vocabulary on that of one of the great authors. Well I thought "sod Dickens and Jane Austen, whoever they may be, I want to write like Duke Morbid". So I had my little brother feed the whole of Pussy Galore into my computer. I mentioned this to my friends at Bristol. They like many university students are dyslexic. Apparently dyslexia is a middle class term for "not very bright". Anyway lots of essays handed in at Bristol will be in the style of Duke Morbid. This may catch on and Mr Gates may make "Morbid" the default style for his software. Just think Your Grace how wonderful it will be when the whole world, including Africans with bones through their noses, write like you.
Your most humble and obedient servant,
Euan
Dear Morbid,
Your Pussy Galore is having a bad influence on Harry. The feckless youth has always been headstrong but since you published correspondence from him he has become unbearably _c_o_c_k_y. All I hear these days at the dinner table is "Duke Morbid says this" and "Duke Morbid says that". You are filling his head with dangerous ideas. In fact all ideas are dangerous for those in the monarchy business. Harry will now never be content with growing organic turnips. I think your magazine is corrupting the nation's youth and should be banned. The only views of yours I agree with are those about the pestilential gypsies.
I must sign off now as I am expecting a party of S&M tourists from the Associated Texan School Boards. They are deeply into the culture of the riding stables and other aristocratic English painful fetishes. Its a pity that I haven't got an excuse to send Harry to the stables at present as that would give the yanks plenty to write home about and drum up more trade. Perhaps I can enthuse them with the gentler art of tampon fetishing. They might also be interested in what one can do with organic carrots. As always Camilla is a real brick when it comes to organising these little fund raising parties.
Regards,
Windsor
P. S. May I come to one of your peasant culls please? Also, do you think Harry's enthusiasm for PG could be construed as sufficient reason to have him thrashed?
(1. Sure, and you will be the main attraction. 2. Certainly not, he has, if he were not under your malign influence, the makings (as evinced by his taste in literature) of a fine, yet still dim, youth. Ed.)
Your Grace,
The _s_h_i_t_ really has hit the fan at Number 10 and landed on me and my brother Nicky. Did I mention Nicky before? He's just over a year younger than I and he's really clever, he can read eight pages of Harry Potter in a morning. In fact him being so clever is the reason why he is in trouble too. Daddy knows I wouldn't have found Pussy Galore without Nicky's help.
Anyway, the first we knew of it was when we were summoned to attend on Daddy in the Cabinet Room. Usually, when he wants to talk to us we visit him in his cosy little study in the flat. When we arrived we found Mr Mandelson and that burly Special Branch officer who keeps an eye on me there too. Incidentally, I do hate the manner in which Uncle Peter eyes Nicky and me, he doesn't do that with our sister. Once he tried to... but that's another story.
Daddy was incandescent with anger. His eyes were lit up like in that Tory election poster which was banned. When finally he could bring himself to speak he announced that GCHQ had intercepted an edition of Pussy Galore containing a letter from me in which I revealed that Daddy had lied. I didn't understand what he meant. He read the letter and I realised it was the whispered conversation I had overheard. I truly didn't realise that Daddy had been telling porkies though. The upshot was that the Special Branch officer was told and hence this unhappy meeting.
Daddy gravely announced that this behaviour was well beyond any limits. Much much worse that lying drunk in a Soho gutter. He said that he had rung Charles Windsor and had arranged for Nicky and me to be dispatched in a couple of days time to the stables at Highgrove. We had heard of the stables before, indeed Harry has mentioned them in passing, but beyond knowing that going to the stables isn't nice we hadn't a clue what it signified. Daddy didn't look in a mood to be asked so we both meekly said "Yes, Daddy" and shuffled out.
We decided to phone Harry to find out what was in store for us. The conversation went as follows.
E: Daddy is very cross with us about something and has arranged for Nicky and me to be sent to the stables at Highrove. What's it like?
H: After the first eight it isn't so bad. At least at this time of year you won't be troubled by an icy wind blowing round your nether regions. I am glad its you two because I figured that Dad was angling for a pretext to send me to the stables. He has important visitors who like to see things like that.
E: Visitors?
H: A Texan S&M club.
E: Oh? Will we get anything to eat?
H: Yes but you won't feel like eating.
E: Shall you be there?
H: Yes, wouldn't miss it for the world. I'll see if Willy is free too. This sort of thing is always much more fun from the audience's point of view. Must go now. Pip pip.
So he had rung off before I could clarify some of his answers. Nicky and I concluded that they must be planning on locking us in a smelly stable for at least eight hours. At least it would be warm this time of year though. It doesn't seem too frightening unless we are locked completely in the dark. I couldn't understand why we wouldn't be hungry afterwards, perhaps its the effect of the smell of horse manure. Neither of us is sure what an S&M club is. I have heard it mentioned occasionally in Bristol. Usually, odd looking people sidling up to one and saying "Into a spot of S&M sonny?" The first time Nicky and I heard the word was when watching Channel 4. Mummy immediately switched the TV off.
After prolonged thought we came up with the explanation. S&M must stand for "Saddlery and Marksmanship". Clearly a hallowed country pursuit perhaps involving shooting pheasants from horseback. This of course explained why Mummy had so frantically switched off the TV. Daddy positively hates the countryside, country people, and country pursuits. Mummy would not want us to be corrupted by such things.
On balance Nicky and I think it might be quite fun going to Highrove. We have never been there before and few hours locked in a stable for the gratification of people who like country pursuits seems a small price to pay for a couple of days out. You're into country pursuits aren't you Your Grace? Why don't you come along? However, it does sound rather boring for you to be standing outside a stable for eight or more hours why we are locked inside. I don't see the fun in it myself.
Your most humble and obedient servant,
Euan
[Oh dear, oh dear. Euan and Nicky must lead sheltered lives if they have not heard of S&M. Everyone knows that it stands for Styling and Masonry a kind of DIY that aristocrats do to their parish churches. On the other hand, perhaps they will get to like it and invite Uncle Peter along next time. We don't think we will attend unless the Fuehrer decides to send his daughter along too. Ed.)
Your Grace,
I really must complain strongly about the way you have betrayed the aristocracy and landed gentry. You have revealed the practices that go on behind the closed gates of estates. These are things that only those brought up to country life can appreciate. The ignorant rabble would see them as unhealthy and deviant. The News of the World would campaign to have all the great estates closed down and given over to theme parks. Your betrayal has gone so far as to reveal the rôle of the Royals in leading our social scene of enjoyable depravity. Mentioning SCAM was unforgivable. Various notable figures have had to give thousands of pounds (in cash) to police benefit funds throughout the country in order to maintain the status quo.
You are also a disgrace in the way in which you manage your estate. It's not just the vermin that keep visitors away but also the complete lack of drains, the insolent peasants, your spotty son playing with himself in public, and that bloody Duchess. Eccentricity is one thing Your Grace, something well understood and cultivated by we gentry. You, however, reach depths of scurrility not even envisioned by the author of the Ten Commandments.
Good peasant cull this year, look forward to meeting you at the next.
Your humble servant,
(Sir) John Scarlett
Dear Duke Morbid,
I think you are the most disgusting person I have ever come across. You pretend to have a tasteful web page dedicated to pussy cats and incisive political and social comment. Yet I know you for the liar you are. I did a Google search on the phrase "pussy galore". Thousands of links came up and they point to the most depraved pornography and have nothing to do with matters feline. I am still working my way through them. What is more, many of those sites depict practices that shouldn't even be thought about let alone viewed. I am still trying to work out what some of them are. I now know that you are the arch villain at the centre of an international web of internet pornography. Also, the Marquis de Sade could have learnt a lot of new ideas from you. I am surprised the police haven't arrested you. There must be warrants out from every civilised country.
I hope you rot in hell. Incidentally, if you create any more sites offering Pussy Galore please tip me the wink.
Your disgustedly,
Basil Hopecroft O. B.E.
[If we really were the master criminal of pornography we wouldn't be troubled by the police because like all competent pornographers we would give the police a generous discount on our wares. Ed]
Hi Dukey,
I have been thinking about that software that the Blair brat mentioned. He and his thick chums don't seem to realise that writing needs content as well as style. One can't write an essay if one has nothing to write about, though it seems to me that you succeed in that rather well. I am exploring ways of linking my software into the Encyclopaedia Britannica. All the user has to do is specify a topic and style and let the program get on with it. Morbid style probably would be the best default because most of the encyclopaedia reads as if it was written by you, God its boring.
As you know I have pots of money and it keeps growing faster than I can give it away to charities. Thus, I have decided on a really expensive project. I will recreate in its entirety, down to the finest detail, an authentic aristocratic English estate. I would like to model it on yours. What do you think?
Have a nice day,
Bill
[A Duke Morbid theme park? Shall we get a percentage of the gate? We hope it won't be too authentic or the flow of punters will rapidly dry up. After all nobody likes being attacked by giant _c_o_c_k_roaches, gnawed by huge mice, bitten by rabid bats or going down with one of a host of gastrointestinal infections. We shall see. Ed.)
Dear Morbid,
Aren't you a malignant spider in the middle of a web? You seem to be able to manipulate the entire Establishment at your whim. Please teach me how. The worst of yours scams, and forgive the coming pun, was to tip off the police about SCAM in return for a share of the hush money they received from my family and many other notables. Knowing you it was unlikely to be less than 25%. Perhaps you can afford some drains now.
On to other things, you know that the Blair brats are visiting Highgrove. Because you are indirectly responsible I should thank you. They are coming at an opportune time and it spares poor Harry from an, as yet, undeserved visit to the stables. I loathe Blair with all my heart. I wish it was he being sent to Highgrove. I would love to have him chained up in the little torture dungeon Camilla had constructed in our cellars. I am not usually nasty but I can think of a few things Camilla might do to him; also that would take the heat off me by diverting her attentions elsewhere. You should hear my father fulminate about that odious semi-Scottish bastard. He uses language that would make a naval rating blush. My mother, because of her position, has to be more stoical. She merely says "Prime Ministers come and Prime Ministers go." The sooner he goes the sooner we can restore countryside pursuits. In the meantime, the Blair brats will be a useful proxy for their father and a nice diversion.
I won't be able to attend but Camilla will make sure there are plenty of pictures. Also, there will be a Channel 5 film crew doing a documentary on aristocratic ways. I have to go to Bradford, or is Bolton or Bury - all those ghastly northern towns seem alike to me - to lecture on the virtues of Victorian architecture. I expect there will be hardly a white face in the audience. That, incidentally, is why my father is not allowed to give speeches north of Watford: he would cause a race riot.
You are welcome to attend the Highgrove festivities but do keep well clear of Camilla - when she's in a frenzy she's a beast with the riding crop. Talking of which, why can't that Blair do his own disciplining rather than sending them to me? It's the usual socialist hypocrisy. He can't be seen to be supporting old fashioned values yet he passes the task on to someone else.
Regards,
Windsor
[Have you noticed how Charlie has affected the common touch? He uses "I" and "me". We have no intention of departing from tradition. Ed.]
Your Grace,
Mummy has told us that the burly Special Branch officer will be coming tomorrow to take us up to Highgrove. When we asked what we should wear she enigmatically muttered "the less you put on the less you will have to take off." Perhaps a heat wave has been forecast and the stables will be very hot. We haven't seen Daddy since that awful confrontation. Mummy has been very cold towards us. She keeps saying Nicky and I deserve all we are going to get and that she thinks that she and Daddy should have been much stricter with us long before. She also said that she is no longer convinced that socialist views on child rearing are correct and will have a word with Mr Blunkett about what he can do to curb errant youth. Its not clear to me why locking delinquent youth in stables for a few hours will be any more effective than being grounded or being made to do community service.
Anyway, Nicky and I are looking forward to the outing despite the fact that some of our time will be spent counting the hours in a stable. It will be fun to see Harry again and he's promised to show me the hole in the attic floor he uses to spy on the maids' bathroom; he's also made some videos. Nicky wants to be introduced to that girl in the village who likes rolling in hay. Wouldn't it be nice if they put her in the stables with us to help wile away the hours?
Your most humble and obedient servant,
Euan
[We'll say one thing for Euan. If he's learnt nothing else at least he knows how to address a Duke correctly. Other correspondents please take note. Ed.]
Dear Dooky Wooky,
I hope you don't mind me calling you by our special name. I will always be your Camy Babe even though our mutual lust is unrequited. I will never forget that evening in the Orange House on your estate. Despite the fact that all the plants were decayed, massive weird insects that looked disturbingly like _c_o_c_k_roaches were scurrying over my ankles, bats were zooming out of the air trying to get a bite out of my neck, and the expression of extreme distaste on your cat, it was an evening of romance. As our tongues intertwined we moved toward the ultimate embrace. Then the Duchess had one of her lucid moments and walked in on us. You quickly dealt with the situation by placing a bottle of Gordon's gin in her hands but the magic had passed and we did not resume our embrace. I often dream of what might have happened if I had become your mistress rather than Charles'. But on balance I think I am better off with Charles because he shares my taste in S&M; you always were so prudish. When I have Charles bound up in chains in my little dungeon I can let rip with my passion for flagellating. There is supposed to be a code word that Charles will utter when he wants me to stop. He screams it at the top of his voice time and again but when I am in the grip of my passion I have selective deafness. Charles got a taste for this sort of thing because they kept beating him at Gordonston. However, he's not at all keen on the lengths I go to. But, as I always say - what is the use of the 'S' in S&M if it is merely pretending?
Euan and Nicky will be arriving this afternoon and I shall do the honours with my nifty riding crop. I also have a mischievous maid lined up for a dose too. Charles usually likes thrashing the maids but he won't be here today. The girl, about Nicky's age, is the daughter of minor French nobility staying with us for work experience. I do so like young firm unscarred flesh. Charles' bum, and those of most of our retainers, is saggy and scarred. Anyway, everything is set up ready in the stables and our American visitors are getting excited. I have arranged for the Estate Manager to take them for a walk to take their minds off it. I don't want any heart attacks should they become over excited.
There is a film crew here from Channel 5. They are doing a piece on aristocratic country customs and Highgrove, being the apex of the country scene, is a must for them. When I explained what is to happen this afternoon they were delighted. Clearly the programme will have to be scheduled at a later hour than originally intended but they may make an edited version for prime time family viewing: you know the sort of thing, lots of views of fields of organic carrots. They have promised to omit the faces of the participants.
I can see a police van coming up the drive. Must be the Blair party. Must go now.
Love
Camilla
[She deludes herself. We never saw her as a potential mistress, only a casual lay. Now she is so old and raddled we wouldn't touch her even with the end of a riding crop. Ed.]
Your Grace,
I am composing this letter standing up. Yesterday did not go as expected. Why didn't you warn me what visiting the stables really entails or, perhaps, were you trying to spare Nicky and me several days of anticipatory anguish? The burly special branch officer arrived at 9.00 a. m. As we were preparing to leave Mummy remarked that we both looked unexpectedly cheerful. I replied that the visit to the stables won't be so bad so long as we are not in the dark. She looked puzzled at that. Mummy then said "When you reach Highgrove you will be put in the charge of Mrs Parker Bowles and you must obey her absolutely." As we passed through the Number 10 vestibule we saw Daddy whispering with Mr Scarlett. Daddy looked daggers at me and said "When you return home boy you will have suffered only 1% of the horror you have brought down on me."
The officer had brought a police dog van but no dog. Nicky and I were helped into the caged off bit at the back where the dogs are usually kept. Although it was cramped we thought that great fun.
Highgrove is an imposing sight as you approach down its lengthy driveway. The van went round to the back, stopped, and we were released from the dog cage. We were met by Mrs Parker Bowles. She was dressed in full riding kit, you know what I mean: hat, jodhpurs, etc. She carried a long springy riding crop. Her appearance was formidable and I didn't want to get on the wrong side of her. She sent the police officer through a door into the kitchens in search of refreshment. Then she took Nicky and me to another small door which led into a dingy vestibule which had three other doors leading deeper into the house. However, we didn't penetrate the house horizontally but rather we proceeded in line down a spiral stone staircase like you find in castles. At the bottom it was very dark and lit feebly by a couple of large candles in wall mounted brackets. Beneath the brackets was a solid looking studded door with an enormous old fashioned lock. Mrs PB extracted a big key from somewhere on her person, unlocked the door, thrust it open to the accompaniment of a loud creak and urged Nicky and me in by the point of her riding crop.
The room was lit by many candles but still gloomy. It was washed by menacing shifting shadows as a consequence of air swirls generated by the opening door. These shadows soon settled and our eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. It was the strangest, most frightening room I have ever seen. The walls, floor, door and ceiling seemed to be covered by plush shiny black leather with many evenly arranged brass studs keeping it in place. On the wall hung chains and manacles. Also, there was a large collection of whips and seeming torture instruments. In one corner was an iron framed double bed with manacle attachments at all four corners. Another corner housed an odd wooden contraption the purpose of which I did not discern but now would recognise immediately. All I could conclude about the room was that it was a pretends dungeon, like they have in Disney World, intended to impress tourists.
Mrs PB told us to stand by the wall to the right. When we had done so I became aware of sobbing coming from the corner opposite. In the gloom I saw a girl of about Nicky's or my age. She was very pretty but what was riveting my attention was that she was wearing only a skimpy black bra and panties. I had never seen a girl so undressed before, in the flesh so to speak. Occasionally I have seen such on TV before Mummy switched it off. But, Your Grace, to see the real thing! She had such firm little breasts and you could see the nipples through the flimsy bra. I noticed that Nicky was agog too. Mummy doesn't approve of us seeing this sort of thing because she wants us to keep ourselves pure before marriage. The problem is that marriage may be a long way off for me as I am not allowed to meet girls other than in groups of people in public places. The burly Special Branch officer or one of his colleagues always intervene before I get the chance to invite a girl to my flat. Well it isn't really my flat at all, it is Daddy's. Its some sort of investment scam but Daddy got conned by a friend of Mummy's.
It immediately crossed my mind that Harry had arranged for the girl who likes rolling in the hay to join us in the stables. Mrs PB then addressed the girl and said "We will sort you out first you wicked maid. Take off your underwear and follow me." At first I didn't think I had heard right but the girl gave another sob and divested herself of the garments. THAT I have never seen before. Such lovely breasts and, as she turned towards the door, such a touchable behind. Nicky and I blushed deeply. Mummy has always said that people should be modest. I thought how nice to see but then thought that's not fair because I wouldn't like to be naked in front of other people so why should she?
Mrs PB ushered the girl out and turned to us saying "I'll be back for you two later, stay by the wall and don't touch anything." Nicky and I relaxed and started chatting. Excitedly Nicky said "Mrs PB must be taking the girl to the stable to find a nice spot for us." I agreed and said "Odd about her clothes. Must be awfully embarrassing but, perhaps, if she has the habit of rolling about in hay it is for the best so that she doesn't get bits of straw caught in her pretty clothes." Suddenly I noticed something strange. "Nicky", I said, "what are those?" On the wall behind us were pinned several rows of thin cylindrical objects. Nicky gazed for a moment and said "Tampons, I think."
"How do you know?" I asked. "Oh, 'tis simple, they are advertised on TV along with funny little pads for leaks. Don't know what they are used for exactly, but those certainly look as if they have been used."
The room was very quiet but after a while we became aware that faint sounds from outside were coming through a ventilation grills high up the walls. After a quarter hour or so we heard distant American style woops and laughter. Soon after we heard ten or so barely discernible swishing sounds followed by slightly louder soft thuds and noticeably louder yelps and howls. Nicky and I were puzzled but we guessed that it must be some game being played. Though the room was quite fun to see we became keen to get on to the next stage and spend our eight or so hours the stable. The girl's company would help and no matter what Mummy might think there was no way we would be able to keep our eyes off her. As it turned out we did spend some time with her in a stable but by then we were in no mood to view the scenery.
Our hearts leapt as the key turned in the lock and Mrs PB entered the room. Her face was very flushed, she had a menacing gleam in her eye and a generally exultant demeanour.
Your Grace, please excuse me for signing off now. Recalling what happened next will be stressful and I feel tired. I am going to lie down on my tummy for a bit. Perhaps, I will tell you more another day. Though as Harry has told you about his experiences that may not be necessary.
Your most humble and obedient servant,
Euan
Your Grace,
I thought I would tell you the rest because what happens (frequently, I understand) to Harry is more an informal family matter and may differ in important details. Since that dreadful day I have spoken to Harry on the phone and he said that contract thrashing has become an important sideline at Highgrove and a number of other country estates. My Daddy's government banned corporal punishment in schools. Apparently neither he nor Mummy entirely agreed but had to go along with it. Daddy said that the frequent beatings he received at Fettes College, Edinburgh, never did him any harm. Mr Blunkett would like to reintroduce flogging (he's that sort anyway) but the bulk of New labour would never go along with it. Thus, major public schools and the devoutly pro-beating parents of their pupils had to find a way to thwart the intention of the legislation.
The solution is simple. The parents of pupils of participating public schools send in each term ten signed but undated authorizations for a beating. When the need arises the headmaster fills in the date, severity of punishment, and name of the person nominated to act in loco parentis. That person is nobody connected with the school but someone at one of the contracting country estates. Pupils, boys and girls, are sent in batches to the nearest contractor. The fees are low, many estates do it for nothing and a few even offer to pay to fulfil contracts. As in Highgrove profits are to be had by allowing parties of Texans and Eastern European film crews to view these events.
Returning to the day, I think I stopped at the point when Mrs parker Bowles reappeared. She said "Right my lads its time for you two" and flicked her riding crop nastily. Well Nicky and I were only too pleased to get on with our confinement in the stables and hoped there would be time afterwards to view Harry's videos of the maids' bathroom.
She stunned us by saying "Get your clothes off and place them in a tidy pile." Nicky said "I don't understand" upon which Mrs PB replied "you heard, get on with it now" and flicked her riding crop again. I stammered "But, Mummy says ..." to be cut off with "I SAID NOW!" I could only imagine that Mrs PB had the same concern for us not getting our clothes dirty in the stables as she had for the girl. So I said "Nicky and I won't get dirty in the hay." Mrs PB glowered, flicked her crop worryingly close to me and said nothing. Nicky and I simultaneously decided to comply. We started disrobing slowly but more glowering and crop flexing pushed us into a frenzy. Finally we both stood in our white Marks and Spencer boxer shorts. Mrs PB continued glowering and flexing her riding crop. Nicky with his hand on the waist band of his pants said "And these too?". By this time both our faces were as red as beetroot. She nodded and slowly he pulled them down, folded them and placed them on his pile. I followed suit very slowly. I was ashamed of exposing my "person" to this formidable woman. It wasn't just being viewed by a grown woman that upset me. I knew that my "person" is smaller than that of my younger brother. Further, neither of us has any manly hair other than that under our arms and around our crotches. When I had finished Nicky and I stood side by side. Mrs PB's eyes flicked up and down us both. She did not look impressed.
Mrs PB placed the tip of her riding crop in the small of Nicky's back and propelled him to the door. I followed briskly, needing no urging from her. Nicky and I went up the stairs followed closely by Mrs PB.
At the top we passed through the door by which we had originally entered out to the back of the house. Mrs PB then said. "Follow me and do everything I instruct."
"Yes Mrs Parker Bowles" we both intoned meekly.
We went round the side of the house and were confronted by a lorry with "Channel 5" emblazoned on its side.
We walked toward a large block of stables. Fortunately there was nobody about to see us in our distressed state. I hoped we would be able to get inside and start our vigil without being observed. As we drew closer it was evident that bright lights were shining within the stables, film lighting as it turned out. Mrs PB stopped us beside the stable entrance, told us to place our hands on our heads, stand still and wait. She entered the stables.
We were puzzled why people were inside the stables as it as we who were to be incarcerated there. Nicky remarked that maybe the visitors were getting the atmosphere of the place before we go in. There was distant conversation and laughter. Broad Texan accents could be heard in the hub hub. A few minutes later retainers came out bearing empty glasses and plates. It became obvious then that this was a pre-incarceration party. The people in there would be awfully bored for the next eight or so hours hanging around outside.
I peered through a gap in the door. The inside was cavernous and brightly lit. At the far end people were gathered around Mrs PB who was speaking animatedly and swinging her riding crop around all the time. Near her was a wooden contraption like the one in the funny dungeon. It was a similar to a very solid ironing table except that a short wooden plank sloped downwards from its trestle rather than horizontally. There seemed to be straps at the base of the trestle and on the legs supporting slooping bit. Must be difficult to iron with that, I thought. Perhaps it had something to do with horse care. Speaking of horses, none were in sight. I learned later from Harry that the horses are always put in their paddocks as such events agitate them.
The last of the retainers emerged with trays and the noise in the stable subsided. I managed to make out Mrs PB say "And now I will introduce you to Nicky." I nudged Nicky and said "They want to meet you". He, still red as a beetroot, said "Not like this, surely?"
Mrs PB strode toward the entrance and I smartly got back into the stance she had left me in. She opened the door and said "Nicky, look sharp lad!", escorted him in and closed the door. Everything went quiet whilst they walked down the length of the stable block. I put my ear to the gap and eventually heard Mrs PB say "This is Nicky, quite an interesting specimen but his posterior won't match up to that of the maid. Yet it is round and firm enough for me to demonstrate the farm gate pattern again." I didn't, yet, understand that. "Also, he is unblemished - the maid has been here thrice already in the last six weeks - and, surprisingly, this is his first time ever so you will get a chance to see how he acquits himself. Will he blub incessantly or will he be stoical?" I thought to myself why would anyone blub when locked in a stable unless it is dark. There was some more muttering but Mrs PB was now too far away for me to hear clearly. I did hear "Now Nicky walk over there to the trestle and stand before it. I will tell you what to do next." Something was said I couldn't hear. Shortly after I heard a shocked gasp from Nicky and then all went silent apart from some distant muttering. I decided to return to where I had been standing. I didn't want to risk being caught listening or viewing as I had a gut feeling that there was something nastier about Mrs PB than I yet comprehended.
There was total silence from inside the stable for almost five minutes. Then suddenly there was a sound like someone taking a short run, a loud swish, a sharp crack and a very loud yelp that was unmistakably Nicky's voice. Your Grace, I swear that it was only at that point I realised going to the stables might entail more than I thought. Even then I didn't want to believe. Perhaps Nicky and the others were playing some game where you cry out when you have scored. After a minute or more it happened again. And again, and again, each time after an interval of at least a minute and each time Nicky seemed to be the winner in this strange game. This happened twelve times in all and by now I had concluded that there was something very nasty in the woodshed, oh sorry - stable. The silence continued, apart from some sobbing, well beyond a minute and I dared take a look. At the far end of the stable, through a gap in the cluster of onlookers I could see Nicky's bum jutting off the wooden contraption. I couldn't see clearly but it looked to have red lines over it in a pretty crossing pattern. Suddenly the silence ended with American whooping and general merriment. Nicky was being helped upright and I returned full of apprehension to my station next to the door. I expected to be summoned shortly but that was not to be so.
Retainers were entering the stable, by a door at the other end of the wall from my position, with trays laden with drinks. I was feeling very frightened and had almost decided to leg it into the fields when Harry stood beside me. He said "Young Nicky took that very well, I wasn't half as brave the first time though I was much younger than him then. You must try to do as well. Remember the odd yelp and a little quiet blubbing is Ok but screaming really is not the thing. Indeed, when Camilla is doing the honours screaming is decidedly unwise as it works her into a blood lust and she doesn't know when to stop." I quivered. He went on, "Of course Nicky wasn't the major miscreant so he got only twelve. You will likely get eighteen to twenty four depending on whether Camilla is tired and sated, and on how you take it. Don't worry, I think she is pretty tired by now and won't be able to lay it on too hard. Camilla may look fierce but believe me in a pain infliction contest she would be no match for those Texans. By the way, when I get it father usually insists that the Head stable boy does the honours. Once or twice Camilla begged to do it and she was no comparison. So I reckon you two have got off lightly." My consolation was only partial.
After a moment Harry said he had better get back as the "show" would recommence soon. Retainers were already leaving the stables with trays full of empty glasses. Five more minutes passed after the last retainer left and there seemed to be an atmosphere of raucous jollity in the stable. Suddenly silence. Then I heard footsteps and Mrs PB opened the door and invited me in. By now my legs were shaking and the embarrassment of exposing my person had become the least of my worries. I walked slowly down the long passage to the assembled throng with Mrs PB giving encouraging prods to my back with the tip of her riding crop. It suddenly sunk in: the riding crop - not some traditional school cane which would have been bad enough. We reached the silent throng brightly lit by the television lights. I couldn't see the camera crew but was told later that they were perched in a hay loft.
Mrs PB said "This is Euan. In my professional view a nice round bum and firm if positioned correctly but still no match for the maid. I much prefer girls for the thrashing but boys are more fun for the preparation." I hadn't a clue what she meant. She continued talking about the finer points of bums, my bum in particular, and the art of thrashing but I didn't take it in even when she pointed to me and people sniggered. Then she led me to the wooden contraption. That was very embarrassing. I had to align myself and bend forward a bit so that my person and other dangly bits fell into a crevice on the front edge of the device. Mrs PB insisted on helping them into position, her hands were cold and I am sure she need not have groped around for so long. Then I had to bend over as far as I could go. Harry and an onlooker assisted with the straps. This all took several minutes as Mrs PB kept adjusting knobs that altered the height, angle of tilt, leg separation, etc. of the contraption. Every so often she would stand back to view her handiwork. Eventually it was completed to her satisfaction. Most of the details from then on are a fog but I remember one thing distinctly. I was bent over and could view through my legs the proceedings behind. Mrs PB was flexing her riding crop experimentally. I thought - God is this like tennis? Do they change crops half way through? Amway she then stepped back a few paces and started her run. I tried to ready myself and sweat had already broken out on the small of my back. Suddenly a loud Texan voice. "Wait Ma'am! How about I show you what we Texans can do with a paddle?" She stopped just short of aiming point.
A mean looking red necked Texan was holding out a rounded paddle shaped instrument. It wouldn't be much use for propelling a boat though as it had holes going though the blade. Mrs PB pondered for a moment and then said "OK, you do the honours, nice and slow, and we'll stop round about twenty four. Harry, count for us."
As I was being helped up later I heard Mrs PB mutter to herself "Paddles, no finesse theses Yanks". They put me in a hay filled stable stall along with Nicky and the Maid. None of us felt like talking or rolling in the hay. A couple of hours later we were put back in the dog van, me lying across the back seat and Nicky lying in the dog cage.
Later when discussing my experience with Harry on the phone I mentioned that the getting into position part was almost as bad as the subsequent pain. I said that it would have been far more proper, but not much less embarrassing, for Harry or another male to have assisted me with the alignment of dangly bits. Harry laughed and said that if I were a bit more experienced in life I would view Mrs PB's intervention as a bonus partially mitigating what was to follow. I didn't understand. Harry went on to explain that in S&M circles getting the position right is a very important component of the whole process and gives them lot's of pleasure. However, as regards genuine punishment it is also necessary to get an optimal position (height, angle, tightness of bum, spread of legs, etc.) but an experienced operator can do this quickly. For instance, the settings of the knobs on the contraption have been recorded so that when I am sent again getting into position will take thirty seconds at most. Apparently, there is a database of settings, including Harry's, for the various clients who have already been: public school children (minor allowances have to be made for growth but at least the initial recorded settings are a good starting point for further quick minor adjustment), occasional private referrals such as mine, and elite S&M clubs who hire the facilities. Harry pointed out that the beating business is very brisk. Most weekends the aristocratic country estates of England each may have dozens of genuine punishment beatings to administer. In those circumstances it has to be an efficient and professional process (and certainly no time for groping the subjects). Some weekends Highgrove, for example, is a veritable production line.
I mentioned the dungeon but Harry said he had never been allowed there. Nicky and I had been very privileged to see it. When the production line is running the waiting area is another stable.
Nicky agreed that the positioning stage had been very embarrassing. In fact he blushed deep red when talking about it. It appears that Mrs PB may have stirred up something that Mummy says we must not play with. However, he said that after six that appendage did not figure in his universe of misery any more.
Although when arriving at Highgrove we had not known what was in store for us we agreed that in retrospect it was jolly mean not to allow us to see the maid being punished. Seeing that would almost have made everything else worthwhile.
Bye for now,
Your most humble and obedient servant,
Euan
[Point of fact: in the UK "public schools" are fee paying and privately run as distinct from state funded schools. Ed.]
Dear Your Grace,
I haven't written to a Duke before and I hope I have got the protocol right. Daddy says that we must start dismantling the old order of deference to the landed gentry by ignoring titles and calling everyone "Mister" or "Ms". He said that the BBC under instructions from Mr Campbell, I haven't seen him for a while, is now calling everyone by their forename and surname and ignoring prefixes. Sounds fine to me but I couldn't do that with a real Duke. I would be happy to call you "Uncle" if I may.
I read Euan's letter that was published in Pussy Galore. It was correct in all essential details but I have some points to add. For instance he didn't mention that when she had made us undress in the funny black dungeon and looked us up and down she told us to turn round with our backs to her. For a minute and more she ran the tip of her riding crop up and down and around by bottom. It tickled a lot. Of course he couldn't see that and I didn't tell him later. The feeling was strangely nice and I felt my person get less dangly. Then suddenly she poked me in the back with the riding crop and sent me up the stairs.
When I entered the stables I felt very embarrassed. After all a boy like me brought up to be modest doesn't like walking naked among strangers. The lights were bright and everyone's eyes were on me as I walked toward them prodded, none to gently, by Mrs PB. I was halted near a strange wooden device that grabbed my attention. It looked of malevolent purpose though I couldn't grasp why, but I had a feeling that I had seen a picture of something similar somewhere and the thing definitely was not nice. Anyway, embarrassing as the circumstances were I thought that Mrs PB was going to introduce me to the assembly before Euan and I were locked up in the stables for a few hours. Mrs PB had instructed me, at the door, to keep my hands on my head until told otherwise so I had no means to cover the cause of my embarrassment.
Oddly, Mrs PB started talking about the art of English corporal punishment. She mentioned the maid's behind and compared its topography to that of mine. She said that young female bums gave much bigger targets than those of young males but tended to be less firm. She said that in either case the proper use of the flagellum is essential and always had to take account of individual circumstances. She made me turn with my back to the audience and emphasised her points by running the tip of her riding crop around my bottom and upper legs. By this point I was wondering what on earth was going on but kept still because Mrs PB had long since placed the fear of God in me. I had worked out that being locked in the stables was not going to be the easy option I thought, but the full horror of what to was come had not dawned.
Mrs PB then began talking about appropriate instruments. She mentioned the virtues and uses of canes of various weights but concluded that one couldn't better the riding crop for versatility. At that point one of the onlookers asked what she thought about tawses and other straps. She dismissed them derisively as crude tools for giving pain but with no satisfaction for the operator. Lightly tapping my behind she showed how a cane or crop could be used to cause artistic suffering. She tapped out, without hurting me, what she called a farm gate pattern. The blows cross and the points of intersection are particularly painful. By now I had worked out that what would follow would not be nice. You don't need to be an Einstein to know when you are up to the neck in it. Momentarily I hated Euan for getting me into this. Then I accepted that I had done wrong by helping him use his computer. Both of us had been very wrong to circumvent the parental control on AOL. Daddy was right in punishing us, but why like this?
Mrs PB went on to explain that when thrashing the maid she was working within the constraints of ten blows in total. Basically, those allowed for two really good overlapping farm gates which she had done. Applause at this point. With six blows you have one farm gate and one blow over. With twelve you have two gates and two blows over. She was going to show what could be done with the superfluous blows. I was getting agitated at this point but tried not to show it. She placed the crop on the crease under my buttocks and held it there for a moment. Next she moved it down about a quarter of an inch on my upper back legs and rested it there. "These two points give greater pain than anywhere on the buttocks", she said. "But, they must be used sparingly. In this case I shall use them at the sixth and twelfth blows. Of course when Euan comes in we shall see them laid four times." She went on talking for a while but I think I was loosing touch with reality then ... until "Nicky! Stand just in front of the flogging table." I took that to be the odd wooden contraption and, as in a daze, walked forward. At that point I abstractedly hated Euan, Daddy, Mrs PB and the whole world, but nothing seemed real.
Mrs PB edged me closer, and with her hands on my hips, moved me a little to the left to the front edge of the contraption where there was a crevice. She told me to bend a little forward, pushing me down with her hand on my back. My person was just touching the wood at the apex of the crevice when she bade me stop bending. Then what happened is too embarrassing to tell, but I must. Mrs PB grabbed my person and what Mummy calls "God's two sentinels of purity" and thrust them well into the crevice. Her hands were cold, I think Euan said likewise. This bit seemed to take an age as Mrs PB kept gently adjusting and re-adjusting the position of the parts Mummy doesn't let us speak about. By the end of this my person had mysteriously ceased dangling and had come into hard contact with the upper edge of the crevice cavity. That was most uncomfortable yet nice.
Next Mrs PB ordered me to bend forward as far as I could go. My hands and feet were tied with soft leather straps. I think Harry helped. Then for what seemed like an age Mrs PB kept adjusting knobs on the device. My bottom would go up or down a bit. My chest, on the flat part of the instrument, would go up or down and my legs would go a bit together or a bit further apart. Every so often Mrs PB would step behind me and look quizzically, I could see her between my legs except when the board was at its highest level. Eventually she was satisfied. By then my bottom was as taught as could be and my legs so far apart that I was even more embarrassed than when walking into the stables. Then she explained why this was the perfect position for someone with a bottom like mine and gently touched my posterior at various angles with her crop. I wasn't taking in the details of what she was saying but became alert as the assembled company each came to feel the tautness of my bottom and nudge it it to confirm the firmness of my positioning. Harry was the last. He whispered "Well done so far Nicky" and gave me a playful, yet painful, parting slap on my bottom.
Well I seem to have got two farm gates. When I looked in the mirror just before writing this the pattern was still vivid. Those two extra undercuts were, as MRs PB had predicted, the most excruciating.
Afterward I was helped up and taken to lie on my front in the straw of a nearby stable stall. It took me five minutes to come to any sense that the whole universe did not consist of intense pain on my bottom. I then looked around and found that the maid was lying face down, and sobbing, just a yard to my right. I didn't have the energy to console her sobbing, I was quietly sobbing myself, but I did have the presence of mind to raise my self up a little and gaze at her. Her bottom was as beautiful as I remember it when she was being taken out of the strange dungeon room. It was no longer snowy white. There was a pattern of two very closely adjacent sets of bars, six across and four going downwards. The skin was not broken except for where the bars intersected. I slumped back down and rested. Yet I could not rest, the sight of her had somehow enlivened me. I noticed that my person was non-elastic again, just as it was after Mrs PB kindly helped me into a comfortable position on that ghastly apparatus. The last time that happy state (sinful as Mummy says) had ended precisely at the point of the sixth blow when Mrs PB's riding crop had cut across that point just below my bottom and at the beginning of the top of my legs. Up until that point my person at been getting even less elastic at each blow and was contributing an almost enjoyable counterbalance to the increasing pain.
I awoke from my reverie because the main stable had gone quiet again. Though still feeling pretty miserable I had no intention of lying around sobbing like the maid. Indeed, I gave serious thought to going and comforting her but had no idea what was the polite form of address in such circumstances. Instead I decided to find out what was going on in the main stable. I edged to the entrance of the stall and looked out.
The stall in which the maid and I were ensconced turned out to be somewhat to the fore of the punishment area. I could clearly see the unoccupied apparatus and the silent crowd nearby. Looking to the left I realised the reason for the silence. Euan, hands on head, was being herded by Mrs PB toward the centre of attention. Mummy is very particular about modesty so I don't often see Euan naked. True we had been naked together earlier in the day but we had mostly been side by side. He is a taller than I but I thought his person was not proportionately so, though it was by no means tiny. They passed me and I realised that his bottom is quite protuberant and rounded. He like me is slim but his bottom is bigger than mine. I wondered whether that would have any bearing on how Mrs PB would handle him given the lecture she had given on varying technique according to bottom topography. Dear Duke, you must realise that these were but vague musings in my generally pain fuddled state as even now after three days I still feel very uncomfortable. Daddy is not the least bit sympathetic and says it was much worse at his school.
Well there was Euan at the centre of the crowd standing stoically, hands on head, whilst Mrs PB gave a similar lecture to the one she gave with me as subject. As with me she was indicating with her riding crop the various patterns that would be made on his bottom. At one point I saw her point at Euan's crotch and say "Remember, a smallish organ does not mean a small bum" which aroused titters from the audience.
I think that Euan must have realised long before me what was to happen to him. The point came when he was taken to the apparatus and Mrs PB started putting him in place. During the placement and adjustment of his person and "God's two sentinels" he turned backward, his face and chest thoroughly flushed. I thought we might make eye contact but we did not. Then he was urged to bend as forward as he could go and strapped down. Mrs PB seemed to spend an age adjusting the knobs on the apparatus. Every so often she stepped back to inspect the result. Eventually, poor Euan seemed to be spread-eagled with his legs as far apart as possible and his bottom sticking out as an unmistakably punishable tight target. I must admit that he was a work of art by then and if he were not my brother I would think it admirable.
Next Mrs PB showed her audience where she was intending to place the various strokes of her riding crop. Touching Euan gently with her riding crop, she indicated four overlapping farm gates and four leg strokes, two of which were to be exactly on Euan's crease; every time her crop touched Euan's skin he flinched as if expecting a real blow. My one crease stroke and the one slightly below are still troubling me a lot so no wonder Euan is so distracted at present and could not put all he knew in his letter.
Finally the audience was invited to come forward and admire Euan's position and the firmness of his bottom. I noticed that one Texan woman and one Texan man also checked the stowage of Euan's person and associated bits; again he turned his head in extreme embarrassment.
Mrs PB shooed them away and took her stance for the first stroke. She started running forward and suddenly a man with a broad Texan accent asked her to stop. He showed her what he called a paddle and suggested that he should show her what it could do. Mrs PB was already quite flushed and seemed relieved at the opportunity to let someone else do the business. After reflection she agreed. Mysteriously, before giving the man the go ahead she spent another couple of minutes adjusting Euan's stance. This time he was still quite tight but less so than before.
Duke, do you know what a paddle is, do you use one on your peasants or your spotty son? Well, basically, it is an oval piece of wood attached to a handle. The paddle blade has holes through it. I learnt from the internet that the holes permit air to pass through so that a cushion of air is not allowed to diminish the effect of the blow. Paddles are widely used in US schools (particularly in Texas), US homes and S&M clubs.
It's funny the thoughts that flit through your mind in a situation like that. My bottom was hurting terribly yet I speculated on whether receiving the paddle would be better or worse than the riding crop. On the one hand the energy in the crop comes down on a small area and causes great damage there but does not affect other areas yet on the other hand the paddle, which must have a greater mass also - I remember my physics lessons, disperses lots of energy over a wider area. I soon saw the practical effects.
The guy swinging the paddle was obviously and expert (I learned later that he is principal of a high school in what is known as not only the Bible belt but also as the belting belt of the USA). Methodically, and at one plus minute intervals he hit Euan's left and right bottom cheeks, ensuring that he systematically covered their top and lower regions. No wasteful dissipation of the energy across the two. Euan's bottom was quite tight in its position but even so each time the paddle hit I could see the cheek ripple. I don't think Euan mentioned this for the first six blows he screamed and thereafter yelped and moaned, and I am not surprised; give me dear old Mrs PB any day.
Eventually it stopped and the crowd gathered round to admire the work. The man and woman who had previously checked the safety of Euan's private parts did so again before he was released. Euan was brought into the stall with the maid and me.
Whilst Euan was being taken from the apparatus I saw Mrs PB muttering to herself but did not hear. I did, however, hear her talk to the Texan paddlist. She said that although the paddle does not give any opportunity to make patterns it is obviously effective in the deterence department. She asked if he could recommend a supplier. He made a gift of his current paddle and said he would give the address of a supplier. Mrs PB thanked him for the paddle and said "Charles will enjoy this."
Yours sincerely,
Nicky
Dear Dooky Wooky,
Just a note to let you know that all went well during Nicky's and Euan's visit to Highgrove. They are such sweet boys, particularly Nicky. Our Texan visitors were enchanted with them and the maid. The Channel 5 director asked whether we could discuss making a series of programmes covering a range of S&M practices. He also asked whether this afternoon's trio of performers could figure in some of these programmes. I said I must talk to Charles first.
Though I adore giving a good thrashing I am always on the look out for novelty. I bought an electrical apparatus that gives nasty shocks. It has a wide range of interesting attachments but I am not sure where all of them fit on the miscreant. I will give it a try with Charles. Maybe I can entice Harry and Willy into the dungeon sometime.
Love
Camy Babe
Dear Uncle Ignatius,
I hope you don't mind me calling you "Uncle" but, as I said before, you are more of a father to me than step-Dad. You are aware that I am in deep trouble over cheating in my art exam. Well I am now even deeper in the _s_h_i_t_. When I was summoned to an interview in step-Dad's study I was already expecting the worst over having accepted help from that nice (pretty actually, with good boobs) teacher. Oh, but it got worse. Step-Dad had possession of a tape on which I admitted to the teacher that I had done sod all work for the exam. Fortunately I didn't express it quite like that but I am on record as saying "..tiny, tiny bit...I did about a sentence of it". By the time step-Dad had finished fulminating about these sins, and various others he threw in for good measure, he looked near apoplexy. He was shouting such that the whole household, and its a big house, could hear, his face was deeply red and the veins on his neck were throbbing ominously. I half hoped that a vessel would rupture in step-Dad's head so that I could be adopted by you, give up the royal crap and live on your estate. Compared to Camilla and the sycophantic poofs who surround step-Dad life on your estate seems tranquil and normal; even the Duchess is good company compared to them. I know you torment your sons and the peasants regularly but coming from you, a man of sensibility and discernment, it would be acceptable.
Anyway, the ranting suddenly subsided. It was followed by a long menacing silence. The silence went on and on. It seemed long enough for glaciers to form. "Glacial" is also the best word to describe the atmosphere. Step-Dad fixed me in an unswerving gaze as I stood fidgeting on the rug in front of his desk. Never before had I thought of step-Dad as menacing. He's always seemed a bit of a buffoon, admittedly a buffoon who could, and has, sent me to the stables often.
Finally, sentence was passed. It was so awful that step-Dad might as well have been wearing a black cap. I am to be beaten in the stables before the entire household and any guests step-Dad might have; I am almost used to that. But the really bad part is that this isn't to be a thrashing with Camilla's riding crop, extremely painful I might add, but a beating with a traditional Eton birch. This fearsome instrument has not been used at Eton for decades, indeed its use is illegal in the context of a school: sadly not so in the stables at Highgrove. The final humiliation was the announcement that the birch is to be wielded by the Headmaster of Eton College - one Mr Anthony Little, MA. According to step-Dad, Mr Little is only too delighted to do the honours for two reasons: first, he has always wanted to follow in the traditions of earlier Headmasters and, second, he thinks "the idle little pillock whose only known neurones reside in his penis" (step-Dad's quotation from a telephone conversation) thoroughly deserves a "thrashing that will render his backside bloody." Naturally it shall be on my bare rump and with all my dangly bits exposed to the audience. Talking of dangling bits, I have never liked the expression on Camilla's face when she has witnessed, often officiated in, these occasions that expose all my assets.
I am to enter this hell sometime in the next few days. I seriously thought of bunking off at night and sneaking onto your estate dear Uncle. As far as the rest of the world is concerned entering your estate is akin to a nineteenth century missionary going into darkest Africa to convert the fuzzy wuzzies: not worth the risk of rescuing and never to be seen again. Unfortunately, I seem to be kept under discrete surveillance by step-Dad's pansy minders.
Because step-Dad can prance around at will in the uniforms of Generals, Air vice-Marshals, Admirals of the Fleet and Traffic Wardens it seems he can pull strings to get me into Sandhurst despite this "so damaging scandal for the Royal Family."
Oh God, I feel awful with dread anticipation of what is to happen. Dear Uncle would you like me to wangle you an invitation to the event? I would so much like to have one sympathetic person present. I am sure that if you agree to stand downwind of the other guests, lest one of the dreadful diseases from you estate be transmitted to them, step-Dad will consent.
With fondest regards from your would-be nephew,
Harry
[We fear that even if he survives aeons poor Harry will never mature into a half-way sensible adult. He's a nice enough lad and we don't mind him calling us "Uncle". One has to feel sorry for him: appalling genetic stock from his mother and very poor input from either his "step-Dad" or his putative real father, whichever did the dirty deed. Harry really is "special needs" (a British euphemism for thick or delinquent children.) Unfortunately for him, his "special need" does require a sound thrashing: with people like him reason cannot be instilled via the brain, it must come through the buttocks. We might well go along to witness this Royal Pageant. Of course half our mind is beguiled by the prospect of selling video footage via a dodgy friend's (aren't all our friends dodgy?) Russian S&M website. Ed.]
Dear Morbid,
I am aware of your plea in Pussy Galore for me to go easy on Harry. I thought carefully about it but when the tape of Harry admitting his laziness came to my attention I blew my top and don't regret it. The stupid youth is to be soundly chastised. You are cordially invited to attend the occasion. Please stay for a couple of nights. You will enjoy the cuisine as I shall be having some of my finest organic carrots served. I shall get my equerry to confirm the date (if I can persuade him to stop him painting his toe nails for long enough to attend to my business.)
Kindest regards,
Charles
[We shall take a food hamper and stay well away from the painted ladies. Ed.]
Dear Uncle Ignatius,
Its happened. It was awful, worse than my most fevered anticipation. It's two days later and still I have to stand to type this. I fear I shall have to remain standing or lying on my belly for at least three more days. That bitch Camilla wielding her riding crop is bad enough but this was something else again. I so pity those generations of Eton schoolboys before the dark ages ended a few decades ago. Anyway, I was sorry that you were not able to be there but it gave me some comfort that your youngest son was present. I didn't get a chance to speak to him beforehand and afterwards I was in no state to speak to anyone. That was a nifty looking camcorder he had. He had a tripod and his own lighting, very professional. However, I didn't take it very kindly when at the event of the dreadful event he shouted "Cut!".
It started three days ago when step-Dad's mincing equerry came and told me that I was to report, freshly showered and wearing nothing more than a T-shirt atop clean jeans and underwear, to the entrance to the stables at four o'clock the next afternoon. The expression of lascivious anticipation on his face was such that I wanted to punch him in the gob. I dared not as he is six foot and two inches tall and built like a bouncer at one of those strip joints step-Dad doesn't know I visit. Its a mystery to me how sixteen stone of muscle-bound physique can mince so.
That evening I reluctantly went down to join step-Dad's guests at dinner. I went only because the equerry said I must. I will never forget the looks on their faces as they eyed me up and down during the pre-prandial _c_o_c_k_tails and, later, stared at me across the table. As usual there was a party of rich Texans, these apparently from one of the S&M clubs Camilla has links with. One was a banker of dubious Mafia connections and the other three were High School Principals who had branched out into pornography and made fortunes. Their wives were blue rinsed and seemed as obtuse as that Beckham footballer's moll. Also in the party were your son, who seemed very attentive to the fifteen year old daughter of the banker, a Mr Hain, a Mr Mandleson, a Mr Brittan and a weird guy called King. There were some others, apparently from the Southern Chapter of the All British S&M Federation whose names I don't know but whose faces I have seen at polo matches.
During the dinner I heard several mentions of "scam" but I don't know what those meant. There were occasional remarks such as "He's technically an adult but does have the mind and look of a child". I have no idea about to whom they were referring but I did find the glances in my direction unnerving.
The two most disquieting people present were those sitting either side of step-Dad. The first was Mr Little, my erstwhile Headmaster. I knew that it was he who was to officiate at tomorrow's theatrical event for the cognoscenti. I never liked him and I always knew full well that when I was as Eton if he had the legal opportunity he would have thrashed me to Kingdom Come at the drop of a hat. The other guest was an elderly black man by the name of Mandela. The name rang a bell. I thought that maybe he was related to one of our naval heroes but I couldn't recollect which. Anyway I do remember step-Grandfather mentioning him once. Not so much mentioning but fulminating. He said something like "That evil black bastard of a terrorist should have been hanged whilst they had the chance. That bloody coon is now a _f_u_c_k_ing hero to the scumbag socialists of the world and decent white people in South Africa are under the yoke of ignorant niggers. What _f_u_c_k_ing idiot thought that 'one man one vote' makes sense unless one takes account of the contents of their crania? That bloody Sambo is not worth the price of the hemp that should have been used to separate his neck vertebrae." Step-Grandfather did in fact go on a lot longer, interminably longer (indeed he digressed into expounding his thesis that nigger women have enormous cunts and that he ought to know because he had been in the navy [Noah's Ark maybe]), on this topic but no doubt you get the drift; incidentally, step-Grandmother seemed rather bored during this tirade, as if she had heard such many times before. The black man winked at me several times over dinner.
It was a miserable dinner for me though everyone else seemed to be having a good time. So did your son until suddenly the Texan girl he was sitting next to shrieked, stood up and before rushing out of the room shouted "I will have you know sir, I am a good Baptist girl!" I did notice that she glanced at him enticingly before passing through the door. This hub hub hardly raised a ripple in the conversation at table. Indeed, such is par for the course at step-Dad's dinners and guests are warned beforehand by the greasy equerry to ignore things that might not go down well at soirees of the respectable middle classes. Fortunately, that night the guests were not regaled with the dance of the flaming arses, metaphorically speaking they would get enough of that on the morrow.
The morrow has a habit of arriving even though one might wish the end of the world to intervene. I spent a miserable day wandering about the estate and keeping out of sight of the guests. At a quarter past three in the afternoon I went and got ready and then presented myself outside the main doors to the stables at five to four. A couple of minutes later a jolly throng, led by step-Dad, approached the door and went in; hardly anybody bothered to glance at me but your son gave me a smile and whispered "tempos fugit". I was at a loss for what he meant for a moment and then realised that he was indicating that it would soon be over. The partying crowd was followed by flunkies bearing trays of booze and snacks. The last two flunkies pulled a trolley bearing a barrel out of the top of which a couple of feet of of what might be broom handle was sticking. When the last flunky had passed inside, the doors were closed. I was left shivering miserably in the cold until five past four. I could hear great hilarity from within the stable. Suddenly the noise stopped and the doors opened. I was ushered in by a flunky. Mercifully he and the other flunkies departed from the stables as I began the long walk down toward the convivial party.
I have taken that walk many times but never before with so many guests present. They were standing near portable heaters though I doubt those had been installed for my comfort. Directly ahead of me was the oh so familiar Rugby birching stool that Camilla had acquired some years ago. Standing beside it was the formidable Mr Little looking very grim among the other smiling people. The barrel was positioned away from the stool and to the left. I halted a few paces in front of Mr Little. You could hear a pin drop.
Mr Little said "Take your clothes off Harry and put them there" pointing to a chair to one side. Well I have gone through this many times in front of audiences of several sizes, indeed I have voluntarily streaked on many occasions. However, getting undressed before a crowd every member of which has its eyes glued on one is not a comfortable experience. Indeed I had read about birching at Eton and knew that what I was going through was more humiliating. At Eton boys were merely required to remove their trousers and underpants and kneel on the stool whilst two other boys lifted one's shirt tails off ones' bum - hence the term "shirt lifter" as a euphemism for "arse bandit".
Soon enough I was standing bollock naked in front of Mr Little with everyone around giving me keen attention. Some of the audience walked around me so that they could view me from every angle. When the shuffling about ceased Mr Little went to the barrel and grasped the handle that was sticking out. He removed an Eton Birch. I and everyone else gasped. I could now see that the handle was three feet long and attached to it was a thick bundle of birch twigs that added another two feet to the length of the fiendish instrument. Water was dripping from the twigs. I later learned that the birch had been marinated in brine to make the twigs more supple. The marinade has another desirable effect, which I would soon learn, for the cruel wielders of these instruments. Salt deposited on the twigs and in the liquid brine dripping from them gets into the tracery of small cuts the twigs inflict and greatly intensifies the pain of the aftershock when the birch has made contact. I know that the pain lingers on for hours.
Anyway, shortly after I was positioned on the stool with two volunteer members of the audience gripping my shoulders. Camilla presided over getting my position exactly right. Then it began. I remember little beyond recurring agony and howling loudly after the first stroke. It seemed to go on forever but later I was told that I had been beaten fourteen times which by erstwhile Eton standards was exceedingly severe. I vaguely remember being led limping to my bedroom where I lay naked on my belly, not daring to twitch a muscle in my behind, for many hours. From my room I could hear raucous laughter from the party below. As the hours progressed it transformed into a bacchanal. I was told that your son showed his video many times and every member of the audience gave him money to prepare souvenir video CDs. There must be quite a little industry on your estate.
So there it is. Could I come and visit some time soon? I so need to get away from step-Dad and that bitch Camilla fro a while.
Yours affectionately,
Harry
[It is interesting that Harry mentioned SCAM (the Satanic Child Abuse Movement which is a hobby of the aristocracy and their friends, and is presided over by members of the royal family); it seems as though there is a black South African branch. His quote from sailor-boy Phil the Greek is interesting. We've heard him fulminate too: he can manage fifteen minutes of blasphemy and obscenity without any repetition of words. We've always regarded Phil as good company; between us we can manage twenty five minutes without repetition. We must remember to demand our eighty five percent cut of the money our enterprising son took off the guests. Ed.]
Dear Dooky Wooky,
Doubtless your son will have told you the full gory details of Harry's well deserved chastisement. His video footage is magnificent and I so look forward to receiving my copy but I do think £1000 pounds steep (and that at a favoured client discount too). On the other hand it might be money well spent as Charles and I can use it at parties when the conversation dries up. Funnily enough the conversation tends to run out of steam rapidly when, as always, Charles raises the topic of organic farming; it invariably ends as a lengthy, mind numbing monologue. Anyway, I do hope my copy will contain the shot of Harry's pert buttocks wobbling as he approached the stool. Poor Harry was obliged to approach the stool four times as Agamemnon wanted shots from in front, behind, and both sides; he really is becoming professional and must be a great asset to your cottage porn business. Do tell Agi to put on the disk everything he took including any less than perfect shots he might edit out for the international edition.
That Mr Little was very capable at his task. Its as if he has been doing it for years. I was very taken with the man and must invite him again. Perhaps he would like to see my little dungeon. I wasn't so struck on Mandela but do sympathise with him over his slut of a wife (or is it ex-wife?). I really don't know what got into Charles to invite the greasy and odious Messrs Hain, Mandelson, Brittan and King. None of them are suitable for an upper class S&M club and certainly not for SCAM.
Next Thursday I am holding a private dinner party for the Texan banker and his wife. Why don't you come? I know you are always keen to seek new business opportunities. Charles won't be there. Incidentally, as a special favour do you think you can persuade Agi to get my disk ready so that you can bring it with you?
Love and kisses,
Camilla
[Agamemnon certainly will have it ready on time. He is under threat of starring in his own command performance if he doesn't. Ed.]