From the Top Shelf - Farewell, Dear Friend

Last Friday the blogging world lost a great man. Devlin O'Neill left us, and the blogosphere is a poorer place because of it. Devlin, or Uncle Dev as he liked to be called, was a brilliant writer. He generously gave me some of his books, and I was delighted to find some of his works in the adult section of my favourite bookstore.

I have chose a selection from Dev's Little Red Riding Drawers to share with you as a tribute to him. Deepa, a headstrong teenager, has ridden her horse into a forbidden part of her uncle's estate and has been out all night on an adventure.  The next day, nothing is said, and she enjoys herself at a lunch party. But when the guest leave, it's another matter.

There was light laughter, then everyone rose and made their way out of the dining room. Her uncle led the way to the great room, and Deepa took advantage of the hubbub to sneak out the kitchen door. She was intercepted, however, by Hives, who bowed and smiled a bit coldly.

“Good afternoon, miss. Sir Cyril asks if you would attend him in his study.”

“What, now?”

“Yes, miss.”

“But what about the guests?”

“He asks that you wait for him there until they have gone.”

“Oh. Um, yeah. Sure.” This did not sound good at all, and Deepa bit her lip, following Hives slowly through a back hallway toward her uncle’s inner sanctum.

“Any idea what this is about, Hives?”

“No, miss.”

“Not even a clue?”

“No, miss.” The responses were typical Hives. Of course he knew exactly what was going on, but she never had found a way to breach his steely, majordomo armor and get round him as she had with the other servants. He opened the wide door to her uncle’s study, allowed her to enter, and shut it behind her. She waited for a key to click and lock her in, but that never came, though she was effectively imprisoned, in any case, by her obligation and responsibility to Sir Cyril.

She puffed a breath and wandered to the wide window that overlooked the back lawn.  Absently, she spun the big globe that sat by the window, then rubbed the fat tummy of a bronze Buddha on a pedestal as she ambled toward her uncle’s desk. With a whimper, she picked up and read the note purportedly from her. It really did look like her handwriting, and the message was short and succinct, as she might herself have written it. Next to the note was spread a plat map of the estate, square, three feet on a side, and she traced her favorite riding routes with a fingertip.

An errant sunbeam through the window sparkled on cut crystal and caught her eye, and she went to the table next to Uncle’s favorite chair and poured a whisky. She sipped the heady malt and ambled about the room, glancing at the familiar pictures of dogs, and horses, and men with guns. But ever was she drawn back to the desk, and the note.

She picked it up once more, though she did not read it. Putting it down, she shifted the plat map to peer at it, and her heart nearly stopped. Covered by the edge of the map was a familiar leather strap. It was the one that usually hung by the hole in its worn wooden handle from a hook on the wall in Hives’ office. All the servants respected the majordomo, and none had reason to fear him because he was a fair and reasonable man. He took the strap down from its hook only in cases of gross disobedience or insolence, and even then after a prior warning or two. At that point, the issue became whether the servant wanted to be dismissed or take the strapping. Deepa was certain of only one instance where the punishment had been administered, her maid Grendella, but there were rumors of others, and Mrs. Greengage sometimes threatened to have Hives “fetch his strap” in order to smarten up one of her kitchen helpers.

But Uncle Cyril was not one to make idle threats, or threats of any sort, come to that. If the strap was there, he meant to use it, and Deepa sobbed. Could he know where she had been? Did he not believe the note? If he believed she had been somewhere other than at Nanny’s, would he not have sent out search parties long before she arrived home? And anyway, how could he beat her like a disobedient servant? It was not right, and she would tell him so.

She drained the whisky and went back to the decanter, but decided against another and set down the empty glass. For a long moment, she stared at his chair. There he had sat, patiently listening, the few times that Nanny, as a last resort, had brought her much more youthful and wayward self to see him on a matter of discipline. Deepa was not wild or unmanageable, but she did test limits and she had a temper. On those rare occasions when she pushed Nanny’s patience too far, Nanny would go and speak to Sir Cyril before marching the girl to his study.

Cyril was not a frightening presence in the least, not to Deepa at any rate, but his looks of disappointment alone were sometimes enough to make Deepa cry. So when he gave Nanny permission to inflict a spanking, tears would form in Deepa’s eyes even before Nanny had got the girl properly across her lap. The ignominy of having her bottom bared and the sting of Nanny’s hard hand slaps seemed secondary to Deepa, at least in retrospect, to the pain and shame she felt looking at the disappointment in her uncle’s soft, blue eyes.

Unfortunately, it took several iterations of this lesson, five, as it happened, before Deepa truly got the message. She did have the consolation of his forgiveness, and even a rare, for Sir Cyril, hug while sitting on his lap, once she had repented and said sorry. Her last such session had taken place almost six years before, though she well recalled the event and absently rubbed the back of her skirt.

She sat in his chair, but could not remain still for long, and soon she was up and pacing once more. Finally, the door opened and Hives ushered her uncle into the room. For a moment, Deepa feared that Hives would stay, and breathed in relief when he retreated and shut the door once Sir Cyril entered.

“Good afternoon, Deepa.”

“Good afternoon, Uncle,” she said as cheerily as possible. “I see you got my note.”

“Yes, indeed, and thank you for that. Its coming eased my mind on at least one point last night.”

 “You’re very welcome.” His comment did nothing to reassure her, but she kept the smile on.

“I didn’t want you to worry on my account.”

“Very commendable, yes.” He put a hand on her arm, and she walked with him to the desk.

“You know this chart, of course.”

 “Yes, of course.”

“Would you please show me the boundaries of the estate?”

Her heart sank and she nodded, then traced, with fingers that trembled more than she would have liked, the fence lines she knew so very well. He held up a hand when she reached the point at which she had jumped the day before.

“So you do know that this is the boundary, and that beyond it is, as we say, out of bounds. Is that right?”

“Yes, Uncle,” she said weakly.

“And yet you saw fit to cross that boundary yesterday, didn’t you?”

“I, I only wanted to cool off in the trees for a bit, Uncle, just to ride along the edge of the wood where it was shady, that’s all. Foxtail had got quite warm already, and I was concerned for him. Sir.”

He shook his head. “If you or he were overheated, you might have stopped under one of our trees, mightn’t you?”

 “Yes, sir, only I didn’t think of it at the time.” Her head dropped and she could not meet his eyes.

“Who ’peached on me?”

“That hardly matters, does it? All the servants know the bounds and know to keep within them. They also know to mention it when someone they care about does not, and puts herself into danger as a result.”

“But, Uncle, I never …”

 “Sh!” He held up a warning finger. “I have told you repeatedly, as have others, that those woods are not part of your playground, and I am quite disappointed that you disobeyed me on that score.”

She sniffled and nodded. “I … it was wrong of me to go out of bounds and I am heartily sorry, Uncle. It won’t happen again.”

“I very much hope not, Deepa. I would be devastated should anything unfortunate happen to you, and I intend to guarantee that this behavior will not be repeated.”

 “Sir?” She croaked the word, her heart racing fiercely.

“When you were little, Nanny was here to sort you out when you acted impulsively and recklessly. As she is no longer able to do so, that lot has fallen to me.”

Her lips moved but no sound emerged when he removed the map from the desktop and laid it, still open, on a table. Suddenly visible, like a serpent beneath an upturned stone, the strap filled her heart with fear.

“Uncle, no!” she squealed. “You can’t b--‐beat me like a servant! Please!”

“I will not beat you like a servant, Deepa, but I will spank you like the naughty and wayward girl you acted yesterday, so that you realize how very earnest I am about keeping you safe.”

 “But I do know, Uncle Cyril, I do! You, you don’t need to suh, spuh … to punish me further! I already am so, so sorry for what I have done, and, and I never, ever will do it again!”

But it made no difference to Sir Cyril in any case. He merely shook his head and picked up the strap.

“Bend over the desk, Deepa. I do not like doing this, but it’s for your own good.”

 “No, it isn’t! How can you say that?”

“Go on,” he said calmly. “Don’t make me call Hives.”

 “Uncle!” Fear and anger heated her face, and she banged the desktop with both fists as she leaned forward. “It’s not fair!”

“It is not fair to make those who love you worry for your safety, and now I will remind you just how seriously I take that matter.”

“But I didn’t mean to!” She sobbed into her fists, then squealed when he lifted her flouncy skirt. “Uncle, no!”

“Hush that and stop telling me no, young lady. You will learn your lesson, I am determined, so resign yourself to it.”

“But Uncle, you can see my …”

“I said enough, Deepa.” Embarrassment added fuel to the fiery blush of anger in her face as she felt his eyes on her nearly bare behind. In her haste to dress, she had grabbed a pair of the diaphanous undies she wore beneath her riding breeches instead of the modest knickers she usually put on under a skirt. The seamless silk concealed nothing at all, and her legs ached from holding them tightly together.

Uncle Cyril put his left hand on her back and pushed down, bending her even farther, and she whimpered in an agony of shame and fear.

When the first stroke landed, it was almost a relief. The awful leather stung, but, to her surprise, not much more than Nanny’s hand had done. After an initial squeal of shock, she kept her mouth shut and took deep breaths while her heart pounded.

She wriggled and squirmed, though she did not try to escape, choosing instead to atone for her transgression. As the heat and sting grew in her backside, the fear diminished along with the anger, and suddenly her eyes opened. Her ankles twisted as she lifted one foot after the other, staring straight ahead in wonderment while a tingly ache grew between her thighs. She squealed once more.

At last, her uncle ceased the punishment, though Deepa remained in place for quite some moments after he had stopped. He removed his hand from her back and returned her skirt to its proper position. Gently, he took her arm, and she stood upright and turned to him.

“Are you very sorry you disobeyed me, Deepa?” She sniffled and nodded, afraid to speak for a moment lest her voice betray the unwonted joy she felt in her heart. He wrapped her in his arms, and she wept on his chest, feeling the security she had known as a child after a spanking, though tempered with another, wholly unknown sensation, as if other arms than her uncle’s held her.

“I hate having to be strict with you, my dear, but I cannot bear the thought of your being in danger.”

Finally, she found words. “I am sorry, Uncle, truly, and I will be good, I promise. I know you suh, spuh … punished me only because you love me. And I love you.”

He smiled and lifted her chin so as to see her eyes. “Then everything is all right, isn’t it?”

 “Yes, Uncle, quite all right.” She reached back and winced when she lightly rubbed her behind. “Well, more or less.”

“Oh my. Well, that will pass.” He kissed her forehead. “Go along then. All is forgiven. Perhaps you’ll like to have a warm bath now.”

“Perhaps.” She wiped away tears with her fingers and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

“Thank you for looking after me.”
 
“I cannot imagine doing otherwise.”

Somehow she managed not to skip to the door, but once out of the room she raced upstairs to her room and removed her clothes. Grinning uncontrollably, she peered over her shoulder at her bare bottom’s reflection in the mirror. It was quite pink and warm still, with a few light stripes where the strap’s edge had bitten hard, but the sting had faded to a rather delightful, tingly heat, and she moaned as she caressed the tender flesh.

Glory to Ukraine