From the Top Shelf - The Third Dozen

Are you ready for the third dozen strokes of the cane? More to the point, is Mrs Hammond ready after that last dozen? Personally, I would have grabbed my resume and terminated the interview. Here's the final installment of Obliged to Bend by R.A. Bradbury.

I allowed Irene Hammond a longer rest, fully fifteen minutes, following the second dozen. From the look on her face when I announced this I knew the respite was most welcome. The desire to finish the session was tempered now by her need to recover somewhat, for her behind must be burning exceedingly.

She rubbed vigorously and, having removed her drawers altogether at my behest, proceeded to walk about the room. Every few seconds she would stop and bend her right knee, raising her foot at the back in that curious way women do when their bottoms are on fire.

For the third and final dozen I decided to try her in an unusual and difficult position - difficult for both of us, that is. I cleared the top of my desk and had her stand upon it, needing both my assistance and the use of my chair as a step to manage this feat. She seemed somewhat I'll at ease ascending to this elevated position, and I held fast to her hand, assuring her I would not let her fall.

I had her stand with her back to me, her heels at the very edge of the desk, and then squat down. At my instruction she gathered her skirts and pulled the loose material about her waist. Her bare buttocks overhung the edge of the desk, positively inviting a slap.

It is not, as I said, an easy position, either for punisher or recipient. Blows must be delivered in an upwards direction, which feels most odd and unnatural and requires considerable practice if accuracy and consistency of strength are to be maintained. It is certainly not a position the novice flogger should be contemplating.

"So, here we are," I said. "The final dozen."

I was standing behind her and somewhat to her left. I rested my left hand lightly on her shoulder to steady her, touched the tip of the cane to the floor directly below her buttocks, then whipped it upward. I made this a very firm stroke, the hardest yet. She jerked; or rather, bounced on the spot. Her face was buried in the gathered folds of her skirts so that her cry was somewhat muffled, as was her voice when she spoke.

"Twenty-five, sir."

The caning continued. I paused after every third stroke... I made the final three harder still. I was striking with a fair degree of force and knew the pain must be considerable. She had curled into a tight ball, hugging her knees with her arms, her head and shoulders down. Muffled though her voice was I could hear her distress clearly as she counted. The final stroke was, in accordance with a cusom that went back to the dawn of time, the hardest of all.

"Thirty-six, sir," she said.

There was no hint of relief in her voice that I could detect. She waited, a shivering ball, her trembling very pronounced - I presumed from the strain of her position. I sensed apprehension. Possibly she feared further punishment. I had learned this classic flogger's trick - the allocation of further strokes just when the victim believed it was all over - at an early age. It can be astonishingly demoralising for them, shattering the last vestiges of control they'd been hoarding so scrupulously...

I told her to get down, taking her hand while she did so. She was rather unsteady on her feet, her face pale and drawn. I led her to the couch and lay her face down while I examined her buttocks. They were, I have to say, in something of a state. They were crisscrossed with weals, some greater, some lesser. The last dozen strokes in particular had been especially hard on her. Owing to the stance I couldn't tell precisely where the strokes were landing; and I now saw that three of them were virtually superimposed. I was pleased and most agreeably surprised that she had borne it all so well, for it had not been an easy punishment and had been her very first.

I rubbed her bottom gently: she stiffened, gasping. I considered applying the lotion I possessed, specially formulated to ease the pain of violated flesh, but in the end decided it was appropriate she experience the full aftermath of a caning. It would be an invaluable experience for any aspiring flogger.

I retrieved her drawers and had her put them on.

"That was very well done, Mrs Hammond," I said, while she was putting herself in order, straightening hair and garments. "Well done indeed."

"Thank you, sir."

She seemed rather distracted, which was understandable, and I imagined she was keen to retire to her room.

I rang for Alice, and told her to send Willy the hall-boy to me immediately. He arrived, anxious and breathless, and stood before me fidgeting and bobbing in that irritating way he had.

"Willy," I said, "this is Mrs Hammond, who will give you your instructions from now on. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," he said, tugging his forelock. "Ma'am."

I fixed him with a purposeful stare. "You blacked the fire grates this morning, did you not?"

"Yes, sir," he said, visibly paling and starting to quake.

I pointed to the fire and the ironmongery in question. "That," I said, "is the most slovenly, careless, disgraceful job of blacking I have ever had the misfortune to gaze upon. I am ashamed to invite Mrs Hammond into a room with such a grate. I expect she wishes to have a word or two with you about it in private - and more than a word, I shouldn't wonder."

I had not relinquished my hold on the cane and held it out to our new governess. She took it automatically as her look of surprise slowly gave way to something else. Something that boded ill for young Willy, I surmised. 

That was not a position I would want to experience. But Mrs Hammond will be a fine addition to this interesting household.