By Conor Grayson
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“Take a seat,” Aoife instructed her, and Rose did so, wincing as her unprotected behind encountered the unsanded wood of the chair. Philippa was already passing her a couple rags. “This is all to be polished and spotless by half past ten, otherwise we’ll never catch up on the rest of it. Get to it.”
It was Philippa now that was instructing her, Aoife having disappeared almost immediately after she sat down. Rose wasn’t sure how it was decided that Aoife and not Philippa was granted the day off, but clearly the victor wasn’t planning to stick around for things to be reconsidered. Philippa was a redhead, about 20, very friendly outside of work but not so much during it. She was as tall as Christina, and years of labor had made her strong.
None of the siblings liked asking her to “prepare” them for a spanking, because the required swats were given with such force that they might as well be a paddling, and she rarely gave them just the minimum four. Still, Rose admired Philippa; at only 20, she was already the primary authority in the running of the household, aside from Dorothea. Rose hoped that someday she could shoulder responsibility with such grace.
With this in mind, Rose applied herself. Between the two of them, they managed to fly through the piles of forks and plates and bowls. Only twice did Philippa find Rose’s polishing incomplete, though both times Rose was made to stand up and bend across the table, and have the fearsome spoon taken to her. It was a wicked implement, and the strokes were hard enough on her sore skin that she cried both times. The second time she was made to hold this position, bent hard at the waist, bottom in the air, as she polished, Philippa somehow managing to check each piece of hers and still outpace her in items polished. But after a few minutes, Philippa gave her a smart slap across her backside and told her she could sit down. “These are good enough, you’re learning,” she said. And even though her tone was dismissive, Rose felt her heart leap at the praise. It’s been almost an hour and I’ve only cried in front of her twice, Rose thought. She couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.
They just barely made their deadline. Rose understood that it was a close thing only because she could not work at the pace that Aoife would have, and that fetching her had delayed things further. However, Philippa didn’t say anything about this, and they moved on to their next task without a break. Rose was presented with a brush, a bucket, and a few towels, and told that she had an hour to scrub the kitchen floor until it shone. Rose dropped to her knees and got to work. For the next hour, she scampered across the floor, scrubbing, her still-pink bottom in the air. Her wrists and knees screamed from the work, and she was soon sticky, sweaty, and dusty. Her abdomen and ribs hurt, and doing all this with her bottom presented to the whole room was yet another humiliation. At one point, Philippa and Dorothea came into the kitchen together, discussing some household matter. And as it was being resolved, Philippa passed by a still scrubbing Rose and gave her bottom a little pat. “Good little girl,” she said, with a gentle tease in her voice, and Rose heard Dorothea laugh. She didn’t dare look up though, not even when they had passed out of the kitchen and their voices faded down the hall. Instead, she bent to her task.
The kitchen floor ended up taking an hour and a quarter. The family had had spaghetti bolognese the night before, and Belinda, the family’s gregarious, forty-something cook, had been encouraged to make a mess of its preparation. This was actually a challenge for the former chef, having been trained in the humorless barracks of high-end kitchens, and had as a result prepared her meals with an impressive efficiency. As a result, the “mess” that Rose was faced with was absurdly well organized: a few neat piles of sauce, a clearly intentional scattering of spices and flour (Belinda made all of her pasta by hand, of course).
At exactly one hour, Philippa entered the kitchen, and stood for a couple minutes, watching Rose labor. Then she went out again. Rose was terrified of what this delay might mean—she could tell by the old grandfather clock in the corner that she was over time–but kept at it, scrubbing yet another stubborn orange circle out of the tiled linoleum. Her hands were raw and sore from the friction, her wrists ached, and her bare knees were sore and scraped from crawling around on the floor. Rose wasn’t aware that she was crying until a tear dripped off her nose. It was all so much: the work, the humiliation, the monotony. Her bottom hurt and so did half a dozen other parts of her. And she feared Aoife and Philippa and Belinda would hold her in contempt. Not only was she subject to their supervision, but she showed herself incapable of working at their level. She was inferior to them in practice, but saved from facing this knowledge, insulated by her higher station in life. With this illusory rank stripped away, Rose felt herself revealed for what she believed she was: a useless, unserious girl. All she was fit for was punishment, and that is all that she would get for the next two days.
But then Rose thought of the way her governess embraced her, or the warm and slightly hysteric professions of love from her father. His voice had been scratchy, reaching out across 200 miles of line; but his affection was clear. She thought about Philippa not complaining as their polishing took longer, or how sincere Christina was when she had admonished Rose. Even these admonishments, the sharp swats and intentional embarrassment her sister had caused her, had been applied only because of a sincere belief that Rose was valuable enough to invest time in. And here was nearly the whole household, adjusting their schedules so that Rose could learn her lesson. She should be grateful. But more than that, she should recognize that this whole elaborate weekend was, in its way, an act of collective love. And it was all orchestrated by her dear Dorothea. Rose felt her despair slipping away, at least for the moment. But still there was her wrists and knees and backside to remind her that she had plenty else to worry about.
Rose had just given the floor one last scrub when Philippa returned. This time she had her spoon with her. But instead of immediately applying it, the girl came up and stood over Rose, looking down at her. Rose’s hair had fallen in disarray, half covering her amber-green eyes, which were now full of fearful tears. Philippa brushed the hair away, and Rose looked down, but Philippa put two fingers under her chin and lifted her head, so that her eyes came up again. Then she took the spoon off the counter. “Open up, little one,” she said softly, not breaking eye contact. And Rose opened her mouth, not daring to refuse, and Philippa placed the long wooden handle between her teeth, pushing it in so that it pressed hard against the sides of her mouth. “Now bite down. That’s a good girl. Hold this in your mouth until it’s time to me to use it, little girl.” Rose bit down on the smooth wood. She felt ridiculous holding this long spoon in her jaws like a dog. But she was afraid of what would happen if she took it out.
“Now, let’s get you up, you’re finished here.” And with this, Philippa grabbed Rose’s arm with strong, calloused hands, and hauled her to her feet. In doing so, Rose’s panties slipped own, exposing her. She reached to fix herself, but Philippa batted her hands away. “Never mind that, let’s get you cleaned up a bit first.” And then Philippa took the underwear in one hand and yanked them down further, to Rose’s knees.
“Now, hands on your head and wait here while I get a washcloth ready. Don’t move a muscle.”
Rose stood in the large kitchen, with her hands on her head, in her too-tight tank top and her panties at her knees, while Philippa ran a washcloth under the tap. “Alright sweetie, let’s see here,” she said quietly, mostly to herself, as she returned to the waiting girl and began washing her. Rose felt the warm, wet cloth dab at her sore knees, her thighs that were streaked with sweat and grime. And then, to her shame, she felt the washcloth begin to go over her private area, gently but firmly washing her there. Philippa squatted down, so that her eyes were level with Rose’s intimate area, and then pushed her legs apart a bit. She scrubbed some more, went to the sink again and rinsed the washcloth, Rose still standing there with her hands on her head. Then Philippa returned and continued cleaning her, washing her up between her legs, then moving behind her to do the same to her bottom, being gentle, cognizant of how sore she was. Philippa even very gently washed between her bottom, a new level of humiliation that Rose would not have thought she could endure, and yet was forced to. At last, the cleaning was done, and Philippa stood, patting Rose’s now-white behind; all signs of her earlier handspanking having faded. “I understand you’ve got some cornertime coming up, now you can show your governess a nice, clean bottom. Isn’t that nice?”
After a moment, Philippa came back around to face Rose. “I said, ‘isn’t that nice?’”
Rose could only nod, and mutter a muffled “sank ‘ou,” with the spoon still in her mouth.
“You’re welcome. Now, we have an hour, let’s see what else we have to do. And try not to drool too much on the floor you just cleaned, you silly girl.”
The hour passed quickly: there were garbage bins to empty and floors to sweep. Rose worked fast, even though she was beginning to grow tired. Philippa urged her on, trying to get items crossed off the list before she had to relinquish her co-worker to Dorothea. At last, at five to 12, Philippa demanded that Rose march over to her. They were in the parlor, and Philippa had just sat down at one of the couches that had just been dusted. When Rose arrived, Philippa reached up and took the spoon from her mouth. Rose’s chin was a mess of drool at this point, and it had fallen onto her tank top and soaked it badly. “What a disgusting mess you’ve made, Rose. What an awful mess for a naughty little girl. No, don’t you dare wipe off a drop of it. Stand there and be filthy while we deal with your inability to complete your tasks on time. I already cleaned you once, I can’t believe I have to do it again.”
And with that, Philippa pulled Rose right over her knee. She had returned Rose’s panties to their normal position after the cleaning, but now Rose felt her underwear yanked down again, this time to her knees, and then the spoon begin to wallop her without mercy. For several minutes the spoon bit into her bottom, as she kicked and cried. There was no warmup, just the heavy wooden head of the spoon against her flesh.
At last it stopped, and Rose lay across the servant girl’s knee and sobbed. But there was no time for comfort; Rose was just as suddenly hauled to her feet, and her panties pulled up, and then down again in back. It was noon, and she was due to meet Dorothea in the living room for her corner time.
With one last swat, Philippa dismissed her, and Rose rushed through several large rooms until, just before the clock struck 12:01, she presented herself to a waiting Dorothea.