From the Top Shelf - Early Memories

I recently picked up a lovely book called Obliged to Bend by B. A. Bradbury. It's the story of an English gentleman who has become the guardian of three lively  nieces in their late teens. The first excerpt I have chosen to share with you is about a significant day in his childhood, when he learned some important lessons about administering corporal punishment.

It is often said that boyhood is the happiest time of a man's life, and for me that was certainly true. Growing up in my grandfather's house, watching him (and in later years helping him) discipline maids, housekeepers and cooks galore was a magical time indeed.

Though my grandfather was undoubtedly the centre of my universe, he did not have the sole claim on my affections, but rather shared them with Grace Forsyth, his lifelong friend and companion. I became aware of the hidden side of their relationship one Christmas morning. I went along to Grace's sitting room to thank her for my present. Finding the door closed, I opened it and ran in -- a gross invasion of her privacy and inexcusable, even for a youngster carried away by the excitement of the season.

Grace was standing before the fire, hands clasped behind her head, leaning forward from the hips. She wore nothing but a thin silken shift, pale blue in colour and trimmed with white fur. The hem was raised to her waist and pinned there so that her broad bottom, plump thighs and calves were fully displayed. Her limbs were white as milk though her buttocks were a deep pink with darker red patches. My grandfather was standing behind her, a tawse in his right hand. With his left hand he stroked her buttocks, as though assessing the damage caused by the strap.

Grace's eyes were closed, and for a moment or two she was oblivious to my presence. My grandfather looked over at me, however, and straightened, a broad smile spreading slowly across his whiskered face.

"Jamie," he said cheerfully, "there you are. Come closer and don't be shy. Mrs Forsyth doesn't mind, do you, my dear?"

Grace opened her eyes and regarded me. She appeared less comfortable at my presence, but murmured that I was welcome always.

"Come, Jamie-lad," my grandfather said. "You haven't seen Mrs Forsyth take her medicine, have you?"

I went further into the room. Though I loved Grace dearly, and would never wish to hurt her, a part of me tingled with excitement at the prospect of seeing her spanked.

"Since Jamie's here," my grandfather said to her, "we'll have another dozen."

"Gerald," she protested gently, "he's just a lad."

"Damn it, Grace," came the reply, "he has to learn sometime. In any case, he's seem a good few thrashings already, haven't you, lad? Didn't upset him a bit. A man after my own heart, our Jamie."

Pride surged through me. This man that I so revered was speaking of me as an ally and confidante. I felt closer to him at that moment than I'd ever been to anyone in my life.

Grace made no protest thereafter, though I could tell she was not entirely happy having me there. My grandfather told her to adopt the position once more as she had straightened and lowered her arms during the exchange. She complied, leaning forward once more clasping her hands behind her head.

"A dozen, then," my grandfather reminded her. "Count them, if you please."

He raised his arm and gave her a hard stroke full on the curve of her buttocks. He was using a long, heavy, three-tailed tawse -- though at the time I thought of it simply as a strap, being unaware of the distinction -- and the crack as this fearsome article contacted her skin was astonishingly loud.

Grace let out a cry and her shoulders rose.

"Down," my grandfather warned her. "Bend lower."

It was clear that the force of the blow had caught her out. Slowly she reassumed the stance, leaning forward so that her torso was almost horizontal.

"One, sir," she said in a voice that was far from steady.

His second stroke was even harder but this time Grace bit back her cry. "Two, sir."

My grandfather raised his arm. I was facing the same dilemma now that I had encountered at those previous sessions, watching Fanny, Sylvie and Nell under the rod. I wanted to look at her bottom, to see the strap bounce off her quivering flesh and observe the change in colour -- from pink to red, and red to purple -- as tender flesh protested this treatment. But I also wanted to watch her face as the blows landed, to see her mouth gape and her eyes mist with pain. In short, I was in the classic flogger's predicament.

I resolved it now as I had before, by watching the first half dozen from the back, then moving forward to witness the rest from the front. This tactic clearly amused my grandfather, though he made no comment.

Stroke number seven was brutally hard, and Grace's face showed extreme distress. Her posterior had been well drubbed even before this dozen started, as evidenced by the substantial bruising, so these fierce strokes must have been agonizing for her.

The punishment proceeded slowly, my grandfather clearly in no hurry. The twelfth stroke came at last, hardest of all. Grace Forsyth took it with immense courage, remaining in position as a dutiful penitent should. "Twelve, sir,"

My grandfather turned and treated me to a wink. "What do you say, Jamie? Shall we give her a few more for luck?"

I stole a glance at Grace and saw her face fall. That the beating should continue when she thought it was over was a cruel reversal, and dreadfully hard on her.

"How many more should we give her, do you think?" my grandfather asked. "Six? Twelve?"

This landed me in another dilemma. As Grace's friend I wished to spare her more suffering, but the spanker in me was caught up in the excitement, wanting the punishment to go on forever.  I was in a quandry and unable to decide. I stared at my grandfather in confusion. He must have perceived my difficulty, for he posed the question to the lady herself.

"Six or twelve, Grace dear?"

"Twelve, sir," she replied promptly.

"Hard strokes or medium?"

"Hard strokes, please sir."

It was with the utmost lack of enthusiasm that she spoke these words,  yet there was no hesitation or uncertainty. I was astonished that she could ask for such a thing, given her present distressed state.

"Well, Jamie?" my grandfather said. "Do we do what Grace wants? Is it to be another dozen sizzlers?"

He was smiling, but I knew it was a serious question. It was as if this were a test. The quandry remained, but I knew I must answer without delay. Knowing no better, I said what was in my heart.

"No, grandfather. I think she's had enough."

His smile broadened and he nodded. "So do I, my boy, so do I. You may stand up straight, Grace. This punishment is concluded."

At the time it seemed not so very different from the several other thrashings I had witnessed, except that the recipient was someone dear to me. But looking back on it now, I understand that my grandfather was furthering my education, making me aware of new aspects of this noble art of spanking. I now knew that a strong, courageous woman could endure a hard punishment with fortitude and spirit; that affection for the victim was no bar to beating them; that the victim should never beg for leniency, rather she should ask for more. And finally (and most importantly of all, perhaps), that it was sometimes appropriate and just for a flogger to show mercy and restraint -- a valuable lesson.

I will have another excerpt from this book soon, and you will see how Jamie the man follows in his grandfather's footsteps.