I knew he was 'attending to her' regularly every Saturday afternoon - regardless of whether she had misbehaved or not. I could not help wondering how Rose was managing to conceal from her lover the physical manifestations of such frequent whippings - if indeed she was. I also wondered how she could possibly allow herself to be so abused by one man, yet love another.Poor Rose!
One Saturday after luncheon I was lying on my bed, remembering all those wonderful times spent with darling sweet Roderick, when I heard Rose leave her room and walk away down the passage. Guessing from the slowness of her step that she was reluctantly obeying her weekly summons to my stepfather's study, I hastily put on my shoes and followed her at a discreet distance, determined once more to bear witness to her sufferings. Sickened and appalled by them though I was, I nevertheless felt I owed it to Rose to be there - if only to give her silent moral support, as well as to furnish myself with yet more evidence of my stepfather's beastly depravity, in the hope that someday I might thereby engineer his downfall, without in the process causing undue harm to my mother.
I left the building by a side exit and within minutes had secreted myself below the study window as I had before... With pounding heart I raised my head an inch or two higher and peered through the glass. The scene within the study made my flesh creep. Rose's bare bottom trembled fearfully as, completely naked except for her shoes and gartered black stockings, she stood with her back towards my stepfather, her hands vainly guarding her sex.
He inserted the cane between her legs and, using it as a a lever, slowly forced them apart so that the cleft at the apex of her thighs widened involuntarily. I could not see Rose's face - only guess at the grimace of disgust and shame written upon it....Then he commenced putting it to more conventional use by applying a brisk, percussive tattoo of raps to the smooth swell of Rose's bottom-crowns, clearly intended to warn her that the time had arrived when she must bend her wretchedly apprehensive naked body over the sofa in readiness for punishment.
Her blonde hair screened her face as she lowered herself slowly into position, her bottom raised and, because of her slightly bent knees, exaggeratedly out-thrust to receive its painful medicine. My stepfather stood directly behind her for a long minute, gloating pruriently over her submissively revealing posture. Then, moving a couple of feet to her left, he suddenly raised the cane aloft before bringing it down with cruel alacrity.
I saw her body jolt and her knuckles clench as the cane collided with the summit of her buttocks. Her hands immediately shot behind her, and began rubbing furiously at the crimson weal already appearing on her ivory flesh.
Then her hands returned to their former position in doll-like obedience as he again raised the cane, this time attacking the broad but sensitive base of Rose's behind. She flinched, drew in her squirming bottom, and, half turning, let out a shrill cry of outrage.
He next applied four cuts to the plump area of flesh thus vividly demarcated by the two previous ones. Rose was by now sobbing and bawling in hiccuping spasms, deeply distressing to behold. She twisted her tear-stained face towards him and silently pleaded for clemency, at the same time wriggling her bottom frantically across the top of the sofa - partly because of the atrocious smarting...but partly also, I suspected, in the forlorn hope that her desperate movements would distract him from his cruel, disciplinary zeal and channel his energies into a more lustful, but far less painful, direction.
I felt bitterly sorry for Rose, although I certainly would never have forced myself to do what she was doing. I would preferred twice as many strokes of his dreadful cane to satisfying him in that other, appalling fashion. I could only presume that he had pushed her beyond the limits of her endurance. I suppose I could not really blame the poor girl for stooping to such depths.
But I doubted whether he needed any suggestive encouragement, since it was evident from the wolfish glint in his eye that he was already aroused to fever-pitch. I simply could not bear to watch as he began frantically unbuttoning his trousers - so I lowered myself gingerly to the ground, offering a silent, totally selfish, prayer of gratitude to whichever deity rules and ordains our lives, that the girl being abused and shamed up there in my stepfather's dark, claustrophobic study was Rose Potter - and not me!
We took immense pleasure in each other's bodies during that idyllic week, squeezing out our sensual delights to the very last oozing of the grape. We indulged our insatiable appetites constantly, so much so that we often lost track of time, day, month - even year...
In that short span of time, we lived like man and wife - in more harmony, I may add, than do most respectably married couples I have known. We never bickered or fell out, our time together was too precious for that. In all respects I can proudly say that I behaved just like an obedient, submissive wife should behave towards her beloved lord and master.
But that is not to say that I wasn't at times naughty. One of Roderick's favourite terms of endearment for me was 'a provocative little minx', and I certainly did my very best to live up to that title during those magical few days.
Whenever I was naughty I was, of course, sent up to my room and soundly spanked over his knee...usually with the palm of his hand (which I loved even though it hurt) but sometimes with the solid wooden back of my own hairbrush, which always succeeded in reducing me to penitent tears.
Hairbrush spankings somehow had a mortifying piquancy all of their own... I suppose it was the shame of being punished on my bottom by the very same boudoir implement with which I prettified my flowing chestnut hair...
Rarely did a day go by without me being spanked more than once. Consequently I went around with an incessantly sore red bottom. It was one of Roderick's jokes that mine was 'the most well-spanked bottom in Christendom!' Strange as it may seem, I regarded his good natured jibe almost as a compliment.
After our mid-day meal we more often than not squeezed ourselves through the gap in the back garden hedge - thereby avoiding being seen from the lane - and raced along like high-spirited children into the lush meadows beyond, frolicking and fooling to our hearts' content. Once we took a picnic tea and climbed to the top of Long Mountain where we spent the remainder of the day high up among the rocky crags and flowering heather, descending only when it began to grow dark.
On other occasions we explored the rich fertile plain to the east, strolling hand in hand through drowsy fields golden with buttercups, stopping now and then to dip our sunburnt bodies in the cool clear waters of lazily meandering streams.
Often, when we found ourselves in safely remote areas of countryside, we played games of our own devising; dangerous, exciting games that re-created all our half-forgotten childish dreams and fantasies. One such, which we dubbed 'Farmer's Revenge', consisted of me playing the part of a mischievous little girl who unwisely trespasses on the land belonging to 'Farmer Spanker'.
Dressed in a short, skimpy little frock that I used to wear when I was twelve, and which now barely covered the brown flesh of my thighs, I would make a great show of disporting myself on Farmer Spanker's forbidden property. I would do handstands and cartwheels galore, shamelessly displaying my bare thighs and my white cotton knickers.
Then, with a loud angry roar, 'Farmer Spanker', played with great exuberance by Roderick, would emerge from a hedgerow and, after a furious chase, which had me squealing breathlessly in genuine terror, he would pounce on me, shouting triumphantly, "Caught you, you little minx!" and dragging me down across his knee, he would raise the back of my brief skirt, tear down my white knickers and lustily spank my bare, wriggling little bottom until I yelled for clemency ...upon which he would lay me down on the warm green turf and there, in the open air, have his wicked farmer's way with me!
At other times we played something called 'Gamekeeper in the Woods', which was a dramatisation of a recurring dream I'd had as a child. I had dreamed of being pursued through a dark forest by a terrifyingly ferocious gamekeeper who, when he finally captured me, had chastised my bottom with loud spanks that resounded through the forest like gunshots - these gunshots in turn producing within me the sexual climax of what had obviously been a girlish 'wet dream'.
'Gamekeeper in the Woods' was, if anything, more spine-chillingly exciting for me than 'Farmer's Revenge' because ever since I could remember, I had always been terrified of the brooding silence in among the dense trees where no sunlight ever penetrated...
We used to enact this tense thrilling melodrama amid the tall oaks and beeches of the thickly wooded hills above Deadman's Pool, and I would shiver in agonies of suspense and trepidation while I dodged blindly in and out of the trees, mindful of every snapping twig and rustling sound around me. Like some poor hunted animal I suffered all the prolonged torments of the chase and dreaded the sickening inevitability of the ultimate capture.
On the village green, near the churchyard with its lychgate, lay the ancient stocks; long abandoned and disused - but where in former times vagrants, troublemakers, harlots and shrews had been sentenced by the grave, worshipful village elders to public whippings at the hands of the beadle. There were still ancient folk around then who remembered those days,and who would nod sagely and say: "Aye, an' it's a pity them stocks ain't used still today! There be one or two folks hereabouts who could do wi' a dang good whippin'!"
I always was a 'blabbermouth', and this was one occasion I paid dearly for my clacking tongue. I should never have told Roderick about those stocks, because late one night when all the village was soundly snoring he led me, a dismayed petrified figure of a girl quaking in just my nightshift, into that slumbering moonlit square, bent me over the stocks with my wrists held firmly between their crumbling wooden jaws, seized a nearby bunch of nettles, and began silently to whip my naked bottom with them, so that very soon my poor loins and hindquarters were throbbing madly with nettle rash.
I hasten to add that this highly whimsical punishment he chose to inflict on my person was not nearly as cruel as it seems. The goose-pimply bumps which the nettles raised on my flesh were not at all painful - rather the reverse, because they created sensations of such unbearably intense sexual longings that I begged him to release me from my bonds and to...put me out of my frustrated anguish.
He did - there and then, beside those venerable village stocks in the deep silence of the night, with only the hooting owls to see us greedily slake our passion.
Afterwards we crept back to the cottage on tiptoe, feeling rather subdued and in awe at what we had so daringly done. I breathed a huge sigh of relief when at last we slipped, safe and snug, into bed. The nettle-rash still affected me violently, causing me to wriggle my bottom frantically - which in turn aroused Roderick and spurred him to take his pleasure of me yet again.
Evening heralded yet another of Roderick's daily rituals, for he insisted that I be spanked every night at bedtime irrespective of what I had, or hadn't, done. My initial response was to pout wilfully at the idea of such an inflexibly rigid regime of discipline .but as the days wore on I soon became used to getting my bottom well smacked each night...and true to my perverse nature, even beginning to look forward to it.
After our bite of supper which we had in the parlour at about half past nine, he would rub his hands together in anticipation and declare, "Well, Ellen May, I think you are due for your bedtime spanking now!" and I would pull a face and reluctantly begin slipping out of my frock and petticoat while he discreetly drew the parlour curtains.
I always made sure that I was wearing my very best underthings, because the sight of me in my brand new frilly knickers and black silk stockings never failed to...drive him mad with desire to have me. I, of course, adored being a terrible tease, even though he made my poor aching bottom suffer dearly for it afterwards. He would make a point of spanking me in the parlour so that, at the end of it, he could send me on upstairs ahead of him - thus enabling him to study at close quarters the crimson spank-stains on my wobbling bottom flesh.
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