By Conor Grayson
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The other term of note was the idea of chaperoned corner time. What it meant in practice was that, unlike normal corner time, which is served in one place, you serve it in whatever room your chaperone is in. If they moved to a different room, you were expected to follow them, and take up a post in such a way that your bare bottom remained in their line of sight at all times. Rose’s governess usually scheduled these chaperoned periods for when she had a lot to do in different parts of the sprawling manor. So the one serving the corner time would be quite mobile, scurrying after them, constantly renewing the undignified view, which made it all the worse somehow. And while Rose would be spending the whole day with her bottom visible, for periods of corner time, like during a spanking, her panties were expected to come down or off entirely. And while the girls (or their brother Tom) were generally permitted to cross their hands in front to preserve their modesty as they migrated, it nevertheless made all the moving and adjusting absolutely humiliating. Which, of course, was the point.
The itinerary conveyed, Dorothea replaced the small notebook in her blouse pocket. She then turned to the bottle next to her. It was small and squat, open at the mouth. A rash of sand still clung to one side, evidence of its most recent resting place. There was also a large snifter next to the bottle, and the governess tipped the bottle forward and carefully until the remaining contents drained from it entirely. The glass, though large, was nearly full, and resembled a fat, amber apple. Rose felt a bit queasy. The hangover yesterday had not been pleasant, and the scent and site of the liquor repelled her now. She was momentarily afraid she would be sick all over again.
“The bottle you opened was worth more than my annual salary, did you know that? I suppose I should compliment you on your taste. It’s worthless now, of course, once it’s been opened.” Dorothea picked up the glass, took a small sip. “It’s excellent, exquisite really, if you know anything about brandy. Which I do.”
Rose was surprised; she didn’t think of her caretaker as a big drinker. Aside from a stray glass of wine, Rose wasn’t sure she had ever seen her drink. She wanted to ask more about it, about how her sober, serious-minded governess considered herself a brandy expert. But she wisely held her tongue.
“Did you know, when I was your age, I pulled a very similar stunt, only it was scotch I grabbed. I could barely get the first glass down, but the second came a bit easier. Of course I was caught, and my goodness did I receive such a spanking! I was given a day of grace, to recover from the worst of my hangover. But did you know what else my father did, besides tan my bottom? He told me I’d be getting a spanking every two days until I drank the rest of that bottle. It was absolutely the worst fate, I couldn’t be in the same room with it at that point. I remember taking one sip and throwing up all over again. Well, my father relented that night, after delivering one more thrashing on my already sore behind. But to this day, I haven’t touched a drop of whisky, or gin, either. I’ve half a mind to give you the same ultimatum, and stick to it. But no, I have a better idea.”
Dorothea stood up and extended her hand to Rose. Reluctantly, nervously, Rose took it and stood up, allowing herself to be turned around, again, and her panties adjusted, again. Then Dorothea, still clasping the young woman’s hand with her own, and taking up the full snifter in the other, began to lead Rose upstairs, like a child. They reached the second floor and turned left into the hallway that contained Rose’s and Christina’s bedrooms. They passed the now-vacant older sister’s room, and then on into Rose’s own. Her abode was neat and comfortable, the walls sea green, with a matching loveseat and a large maple armoire that was a family heirloom. A porthole-style window framed a stand of birch trees, their last few leaves radiantly orange against the rough white of the gently curling trunks. The window had been cracked open an inch, and a stray breeze stole pleasantly into the otherwise warm interior.
Dominating the space was the large, four-poster bed that Francis had had made specially for Rose. A royal purple comforter (or a puff, as the family called them) of thick flannel and goose down lay neatly over the bed. “Remove the puff,” the governess ordered. Rose did so, pulling it off, and then looked back at Dorothea, her hands full of purple cloud. “The floor is fine,” Dorothea told her, “and the pillows too.”
Now, the top layers of the bed piled in a heap on the floor, the pristine white sheets were revealed. Dorothea stood for a moment admiring the thorough job Rose had done tucking in the ends (each of the siblings were expected to make their own beds each morning), and the very fine–and quite expensive–Merino wool material. Then she stepped forward and threw the contents of her glass over them. A red-brown stain spread like a murder across the white canvas. Both topsheet and undersheet were hopelessly stained. Rose had gasped as this was done, and her mouth was still hanging open when she looked back at her governess.
“You are going to be spanked every day until every trace of this brandy is out of these sheets. Every trace. You will scrub, by hand, for as long as is needed. I don’t care how sore your bottom is after this weekend, you can expect my palm or my hairbrush to motivate you every night until this is done. This weekend’s punishments are for putting yourself at risk, and for your deception. The sheets are for your theft. Your father is not raising criminals, and neither am I.”
“But, I don’t have time, I mean…”
“Yes, you have quite the busy schedule the next few days. How you find the time to make this right is up to you. If you’d prefer to spend every evening crying over my lap, even after the weekend is gone, that’s your choice. But I promise you, it’s a choice you will regret. Now…,” taking Rose’s hand again, with the emptied glass still in the other, “I have a good spanking to give you. Let’s get you downstairs and get you over my knee for your first lesson.”
And so they returned to the living room, and Rose stood meekly between her governess’ knees as her panties were eased down, all the way to her ankles. Then the lecture, standing there exposed, feeling the cool air on her most intimate parts, while Dorothea reiterated all the ways she had let the family, and herself, down. Finally, it was time for Rose to ask for her discipline. This wasn’t always a part of spankings in their home, but Rose knew it would be expected of her today. “May I please have a good, firm spanking on my bottom, to help me be an even better girl than I am already?”
This last part was something Dorothea insisted on: she did not want to give her charges the impression that they weren’t good already, or that goodness was like a destination, something to be obtained. That was never what correction was about. “This isn’t a Grail quest, sweetheart,” Dorothea had reassured Rose once. It was right before a punishment, and the girl was sobbing, as she confessed that she didn’t think she’d ever be good. “You aren’t trying to achieve some perfect state. Lord knows I haven’t. You are already a good and valuable girl, and I love you, and so does everyone else in this house. This discipline is just to make sure that you don’t waste all that amazing potential you have, or develop some bad habits that will hide some of that goodness that’s already there. Think of misbehavior like mud: when you’re covered in it, you can’t see what’s underneath. But what’s underneath is there all the time. Does that make sense?”
So ever since then, Dorothea had required asking for a spanking to include this extra clause, even if it sounded a little awkward. Rose spoke the required words clearly. Even if saying the last part filled her with a little warmth, the rest of it was so embarrassing. But, like many of the steps she had executed today, she knew that if she hesitated, she might never recover. It was like swimming in the mountain streams in the Adirondacks, which the family visited every summer. The only way to beat the cold was to plunge into that clear water all at once.
Rose then allowed herself to be placed over the governess’ lap. She felt a warm hand on her bottom, felt it glide across her skin. “Okay, sweetheart, please try to keep in your mind why you’re getting this spanking. And how we can prevent this sort of situation in the future.” Then the hand lifted off and came crashing back down. Dorothea was an experienced spanker with naturally strong arms and shoulders. But it was her hands that, it might be said, revealed the truth of her. Larger than one might expect, and shapely, they contributed to her generally capable appearance and mein. They were hands to take charge of situations. Recalcitrant pots were scrubbed clean, errant shoelaces tied so that they would stay, and stubborn pillows of dough kneaded into soft, airy bread. And they were hands sturdy enough to do unkind things to a girl in the service of loving her.
She had an enthusiastic, athletic spanking style, hard and steady, not too fast. Her hand bounced off Rose’s round bottom until it was lacquered in angry pink. And she would admit to herself that she took a certain joy in it. She did not enjoy hurting Rose, and she hated to hear her cry. But there was satisfaction in the work of correcting the errant girl, in punishing her soft, pretty bottom. Each of the girls had received terribly embarrassing compliments on their bottoms from their governess over the years, during or sometimes not even during discipline.
Rose was spanked long and hard, across every inch of her bottom. Then the palm descended to the sloping pearl of each thigh, even to the girl’s knee hollows. And in its wake pale, sunrise-colored flames rose up. Rose, her tears growing wilder, bucked and kicked and tried to get away. She always endeavored to take her spankings with dignity. It was by its nature an undignified process; compliance and comportment were her best tools for mitigating, though not eliminating, the very worst of it. But she also felt somehow that when she complied in a spanking–endured the pain without fussing, held her position, answered as she was expected to–it made the whole routine seem almost collaborative. Indeed, it was as if the person being corrected was someone else, someone that both Rose and Dorothea agreed needed a harsh reminder, alas. They were both adults, after all, and only wanted what’s best for this other, past-tense Rose. The fact that all of this reasoning occurred just under the level of her conscious thought, and thus went unexamined, meant that she began each serious punishment with a faint but persistent hope that this time would be different. Of course, her governess had no intention of making the spanking a collaboration of any kind. Rose would be wholly acted upon, rigorously and, for the moment, without quarter. And as the sting built in her flesh, the girl quickly abandoned what hope she had, knowing or otherwise, and simply tried to swim and cry her way to an end.
It came, eventually, after perhaps ten full minutes of hard, targeted correction. Rose was scarlet from her crown to her knees; her governess would not have stopped otherwise. The girl lay over the older woman’s lap for several minutes, crying, as Dorothea rubbed her back and gently stroked her behind, whispering to her how proud she was, to take the spanking like such a big girl. (Nevermind that she had hardly done so, and was even now sobbing openly, freed of the shame of it, the way small children do.) Finally, Rose began to come back to herself, and was brought carefully to her feet. Dorothea guided her to one of the corners, so that her bottom was presented to the large bay window. “Hands behind your neck, elbows out,” the older woman instructed, and Rose did so, lacing her fingers neatly underneath her hair, and bringing her elbows up so that they aligned with her shoulders. Her breasts were prominently raised in this position, though hidden against the wall. But in raising her elbows, she also felt her shoulder muscles straining, and her rib cage tighten. It was an uncomfortable position, that would only grow more so as she held it. Rose sighed and settled in, resigning herself to interminable embarrassment, and the ever-rising discomfort of her body’s architecture pulled taut.
By the time she was released, it was nearly 9:30. She was allowed to pull her panties up, but then, under her governess’ watchful eye, was instructed to adjust them in back “so that we can all see your punished bottom, sweetie.” Rose was surprised to find that committing this indignity herself, especially with others present (Aoife had come into the living room at this point, and watched them quietly), was somehow more embarrassing than having it done to her. Especially when she was made to turn around, and then verbally instructed in how to better adjust them, which she could barely do, not being able to see what she was doing. The whole thing was much more involved than she wanted, but eventually Dorothea was satisfied. She embraced Rose again, kissing her warmly on the forehead. “Now I’m handing you off to Aoife. She’ll tell you what you’re to do today, and Philippa will be assisting you. I don’t think she will pass up an opportunity to warm your pretty bottom, so don’t give her one, please. Any questions about anything, you can ask her, or me.” Then she extended her arms, holding Rose firmly out before her. “But I mean it, other than bathroom breaks, you are expected to work without pause. You’re already three hours behind. Go on then.” And Rose was turned around and swatted with medium force in the direction of the servant girl, who extended her hand. Lord preserve me, she thought, taking the offered hand and letting herself be led through multiple doors, through the large kitchen and parlor, and then through swinging double doors, into the servant’s wing of the house.
Here Philippa was sitting, at a long wooden table, on which was piled many types of cutlery, plates, and cups. She held a small spoon, and was polishing it with great attention, a small pile of rags and an old bottle of polish beside her. Also on the table was a gnarled old cooking spoon, almost two feet long. Rose did not need to ask what this was for.