Saturday, June 6, 2015

Five Get Six ... Of The Best

1950s Wife is on summer holiday. In the meantime, enjoy this tale by her alter ego, Claire Colinsgrove: a schoolgirl spanking spectacular satirizing the "Famous Five" stories by the late great Enid Blyton.
Five Get Six ... Of The Best
Somewhere in the south of England, a British rail passenger train speeds through the lush summer countryside. Nearly every seat is taken, most by Londoners anxious to get to seaside villages for summer holidays.

Pausing to rest his eyes, an elderly passenger looks up from his Times. A sound decision to leave early, the man thinks, though his modest state pension will be pinched from an extra week on holiday. A railway workers’ strike is imminent, the Times predicts, and the elderly man neither owns, nor has means to hire, a motor car.

A retired schoolteacher, the man has travelled to the same seaside village every summer holiday for more than 40 years and intends to keep the tradition, even though his wife died several years ago.

The man frowns. The Times article predicting the strike, like nearly all news stories these days, upsets him.

A supporter of the Labour Party all his life, the man, in his golden years, has come to doubt the wisdom of his politics. Worker unrest, civil disorder, economic malaise, the country seems plagued with sickness and the left-wing government powerless to cure it.

Worst of all are the young people, the old man thinks: scruffy, impertinent, their music an abomination. So different from the well-scrubbed, well-mannered boys and girls he taught at the grammar school for academically inclined teenagers that served his middle-class London suburb in the 1940s and 50s.

The man casts his eyes about the train and suddenly his mood improves.

For sitting catty-corner from him, a quartet of young people in smart school uniform defies the 1970s English teenager’s slovenly stereotype. Though undoubtedly students at fee-paying schools -- no state school requires such conservative attire anymore -- the four teenagers’ wholesome appearance reminds the retired teacher of the bright boys and girls he taught at grammar school.

The boys, one blonde-haired, one with brown, wear traditional British schoolboy uniform of striped blazers, crisp white shirts, regimental ties, short pants, knee socks and black shoes with peaked school caps.

The girls, also a blonde and a brunette, wear blazers, shirts and ties similar to the boys, but differ in their gymslips, stockings, low-heeled black sandals and beribboned straw boater hats, the headgear firmly affixed via nearly invisible straps that slide behind their ears and under their chins.

The brunette is rather plain and the brown-haired boy a bit cross-eyed, the old teacher thinks. But the blonde boy and girl, such a handsome pair!

With his piercing blue eyes, high cheekbones and firm jaw, the blonde-haired boy exudes masculine good looks. The teacher can’t hear what the boy is saying, but young man’s earnest assurance as he gestures indicates wisdom beyond his years. And the girl, such a beauty with her sleek blonde hair, blue eyes, pert nose, shiny white teeth and creamy skin.

The boy looks like the sort of decent young chap, the teacher decides, who is bound to read law at Oxbridge, but, rather than pursuing wealth, will use his privileged education to promote civic virtue though public service. The girl looks like the type who would make an excellent wife and mother, happy in role of helpmeet to a husband with a high-powered political career.

Though he probably won’t live to see it, the old teacher suspects this handsome boy might be a high-ranking Parliament member some day. Perhaps even Prime Minister and lead the United Kingdom’s return to its glory days by promoting free-market economic reforms while retaining a decent social safety net consistent with Britain’s sense of compassion for its fellow citizens.

The teacher returns to his newspaper in a good mood looking forward to his holiday. If the Nation can still produce such fine-looking young people as the blonde hair boy and girl to lead, as well as respectable, if less impressive, young ones as the brown-haired pair to dutifully follow, all is not lost.


“Nearly there,” the blonde hair boy says. “After today, we’ll be out of short pants forever. A big change, wouldn’t you say Dick?”

“Yes Julian. I’m so used to wearing knee britches. I imagine we’ll be quite uncomfortable wearing long trousers when we return to school as sixth-formers.”

“Well I’m perfectly happy to throw away this gymslip,” the brown-haired girl says. “It’s far too confining and uncomfortable. Going to school in long pants will be such a relief.”

“What do you mean, George,” asks the blonde-haired girl. “You know sixth-form girls wear skirts.”

“George is not going to be a sixth-form girl like you Anne,” says Julian, “not with those O-levels results. She failed every exam.”

“Yes, you better not toss that gymslip out just yet, old girl,” says Dick. “You’ll need it next term when you repeat fifth form.”

“Bother exams,” Georgina says. “I’m not going to sixth-form college. I’m taking a metal-working course at comprehensive school next term. No skirts there.”

“We’ll see what Aunt Fanny has to say about that,” says Julian.

“And her cane,” adds Dick.

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Dick, Julian and Anne shout in unison.

The quartet is silent for a moment. Then Dick says “No chance of you getting caned by Aunt Fanny, old boy, your O-levels were splendid.”

“Yes, ‘As’ in every subject,” says Julian.

He continues: “Headmaster says I’m sure to get a place reading law at Oxbridge if I keep up the hard work in sixth form. And you did quite well on exams yourself, old boy, considering your … difficulties.”

“Yes, ‘Cs’ in English, history and science and a ‘B’ in maths,” says Dick, “plus a certificate of recognition for being ‘best boy’ in games. Headmaster says I’ve got a decent chance earning a spot reading physical education at Red Brick University if I continue to show improvement.”

“Yes, you’ve done quite splendidly recovering from your horseback riding accident last summer,” Julian says. “You’re such an inspiration Dick. It must be quite difficult going through life with a steel plate in your head.”

Dick blushes. “Oh, I don’t know, dear fellow. It can be quite the advantage making tackles on the rugby pitch.”

“Ha, Ha, Ha!” the quartet shout.

Silence for a moment then Georgina mutters “I wish I could play rugby. And it’s so unfair that I didn’t get a certificate like Dick. I’m the best girl at games by far. I hate being a girl.”

“Now see here George,” Dick says sternly. “It’s high time you quit thinking you’re just as good at games as a boy. Exercise from girls’ games is all well and good for keeping a slender figure like Anne’s, but they aren’t serious business like boys sport.”

Yes, George,” Anne scolds, “you would do well to pay less attention to games and more to your hair, makeup and clothes. You’ll never get a husband going about looking as you do.”

Julian throws in his two cents: “Yes, George, it’s foolish to be sorry about being a girl. You’ll have far more to cry about when Aunt Fanny thrashes your behind for your ‘bottom marks’.”

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Dick, Julian and Anne shout in unison.

The train whistle blows. “Next stop Whippingham, ladies and gentleman,” shouts an agent walking down the aisle. “Whippingham next stop.”

“Hooray! We’re there,” the quartet cries.

The train stops. The quartet pulls their suitcases from under their seats. Julian has his bag in one hand and takes Anne’s bag in the other. “Dick, lend a hand to George and carry hers,” he says.

“I can do it myself, thank you,” says Georgina.

The quartet exits the train. “I’m starved,” says Anne. “George and I will fetch ice creams from the station shop while you boys look for a man to carry our bags to Aunt Fanny’s.”

As the girls walk away, Julian and Dick scan the crowd on the platform for a potential porter. The boys stand near a sign denoting this stop as the “Village of Whippingham”.

Julian points to the sign. “Say, Dick, did I ever tell you the story of how ‘Whippingham' got its name?”

“No, dear fellow, I don’t think you have.”

“For many years, this town was a leading manufacturer of disciplinary canes. All the leading public schools used the ‘Whippingham’ model and the cane factory was the town’s principal employer,” Julian says.

He continues: “But several years ago, when we were just small boys, the owner was forced to close the factory due to unreasonable demands by its union workers. The same happened at cane factories all over England. All canes are imported from Malaysia now and a once-proud British industry no longer exists.”

“Such a shame, Julian,” says Dick.

“A damn shame, Dick, if you’ll ‘pardon my French’,” says Julian. “Unions are the scourge of this country.

He continues: “My good man, I’ve told you before of my life plans: a law degree from Oxbridge, then ten years making heaps of money working for a firm in the City specialising  in commercial law. Then, once my financial needs are assured of being met, standing for Parliament on the Conservative ticket.

This country needs a change in direction, Dick, and I’m just the sort of fellow to help bring it about. I know as a physical education teacher you won’t make much money, but, when the time comes, can I count on you for a campaign contribution consistent with your limited means?”

Dick takes Julian’s right hand in his own and shakes it hard.

“Of course, old boy,” Dick says. “Of course.”

Anne and Georgina return from the station shop. Anne is carrying two ice cream cones, while Georgina, her face covered in goo, is about to finish her cone.

“George ate one of your ice creams boys,” Anne says, “but I saved one for you to share and you can have ‘licks’ off mine, as I’m watching my weight.”

“George, you glutton,” scolds Julian.

Georgina frowns. “I had to eat it, Julian,” she says. “It was melting.”

“Never mind, Julian,” says Dick. “You can have mine. I’m training for rugby season. Must avoid sweets.”

“Look there, a black man,” shouts Anne. “I have a spare pound. We can hire him to carry our bags.”

“Anne, as is typical of a girl, you’re far too soft-hearted,” scolds Julian. “It’s less than a mile walk. Ten pence per bag is ample compensation. A pound note equals 25 pence per bag, which he’ll expect every time from now on, thus adding to the inflation that is plaguing our country.”

“You’re so sensible, Julian,” says Anne. “I would never have thought of that but, after all, I’m just a girl.”

“You there,” Julian shouts at the man. “Take our bags to my Aunt Fanny’s and you’ll be 40 pence to the good. Plus I’ll throw in a potato from her garden.”

“T’ank you suh,” the man says as he steps forward to fetch the bags. “Lead de’ way.”

Anne takes Julian’s hand. “Forty pence and a potato,” she says affectionately. “Who’s being soft-hearted now?”


The quartet sits at the kitchen table while Aunt Fanny tends to the stove. A small dog jumps through a loose gate at the bottom of the door and scampers over to Georgina who picks up the animal and lifts it to her face.

“It’s Timmy,” Georgina cries in delight as the little dog licks her face. “The five are together again.”

Aunt Fanny turns from the stove and smiles at the teenagers.

“I suspect you children are hungry after your long journey,” she says. “I’ve prepared a big supper of your favorite meal, turkey and giblets. But, before you tuck in, I should see your report cards.”

“Oh Aunt Fanny, can’t we wait until after dinner,” Georgina asks as she sets Timmy on the floor. “I’m starving.”

“Now Georgina,” Aunt Fanny scolds, “a lady must learn to control her appetite. Let’s see those exam results.”

Julian pulls his report card from his blazer pocket and hands it to Aunt Fanny.

“Such splendid results,” Aunt Fanny says as she scans the card. “I’m sure you’ll be named ‘Head Boy” when you return to school for sixth form.”

“Yes, indeed,” Julian says. “An honour richly deserved if I may say so.”

Aunt Fanny reviews Dick’s exam results.

“Passing marks in all subjects including a ‘B’ in maths,” she says. “I’m so proud of you Dick.”

“Thank you Aunt Fanny,” Dick says. “I try extra hard in maths. A physical education teacher must be good at sums, particularly in calculating useful running times for training pupils for ‘hares and hounds’.”

Anne’s report card is next. Aunt Fanny beams as she reads then says:

“Grades of ‘A’ in domestic science and pleasant speaking, a ‘B’ in French and a certificate of merit for your needlework. Marvelous results, Anne!”

“Thank you, Aunt Fanny,” Anne says. “I do try, even though I’m just a girl.”

Four sets of eyes (Timmy is distracted at the moment by a biscuit in his bin) stare at Georgina. After an awkward pause, Georgina pulls her report card from her blazer pocket and hands it to Aunt Fanny with a sheepish look on her face.

Aunt Fanny scowls as she reads.

“What is the meaning of this, Georgina,” she scolds. “Failing marks in biology, chemistry, maths and physics.”

“I tried really hard to pass, Aunt Fanny, ‘honest injun’ I did,” Georgina pleads. “I wanted so much to someday be a famous scientist like Uncle Quentin. But those exams are so difficult.”

Georgina continues:

“There’s really no reason to concern yourself Aunt Fanny. Whippingham Comprehensive Modern offers an excellent course in metal work that I know I’ll complete. And when I finish, I’m sure to get a fantastic job. Licensed machinists in a unionized factory earn as much as 75 pounds a week.”

“Certainly not,” Aunt Fanny scolds. “No niece of mine is going to work in a metal-grinding shop. No, you’ll simply have to repeat fifth form at your present school, this time studying subjects appropriate for girls.”

Aunt Fanny continues:

“Georgina, to remind you to do your best when school resumes, a caning is in order. I know you’re very hungry children, but supper will have to wait. Discipline takes first priority. Now come along everybody, upstairs to Uncle Quentin’s study.”

The four teenagers exit the kitchen and walk upstairs followed by Aunt Fanny and Timmy. Julian opens the door and the others follow, except for Timmy, who’s left outside after Aunt Fanny closes the door. The little dog scratches frantically at the door, so Aunt Fanny opens it.

“Oh Timmy, I shouldn’t let you in here,” Aunt Fanny says. “But you miss your Uncle Quentin dreadfully, don’t you my little man.”

“Say, Aunt Fanny, where is Uncle Quentin,” asks Julian.

“He’s away at the moment doing research for the government at a special laboratory, the location of which I’m forbidden to disclose,” Aunt Fanny says.

“He’s permitted to tell me the parameters of the study but, as a woman, it’s far too difficult for me to understand. But perhaps when he returns on weekend, he can explain the project to you Julian, as you’re such a clever boy.”

Aunt Fanny walks to the cupboard at the side of the study and retrieves the cane, which has a crook handle and is very long. The cane curves in the middle, thus enabling it to better wrap itself around the offender’s bottom leaving longer, more painful marks than it might otherwise.

“Very well, Georgina,” Aunt Fanny pronounces, “you know the position. Bend over the desk.

Georgina complies. No use arguing now, the girl thinks. But she vows to take her caning with a stiff upper lip and not cry.

Aunt Fanny lifts the skirt of Georgina’s gymslip and tucks it into the waistband of the garment. Georgina’s regulation school knickers are very thick, but they still won’t protect her bottom much from the cane’s bite.

Julian interjects:

“I say, Aunt Fanny, as you know, I’m bound to be named ‘Head Boy’ when I return to school for sixth form. Among my duties will be beating younger boys for misbehaviour. Perhaps it might be good to practise now.”

“Splendid idea, Julian,” Aunt Fanny says, handing the cane to him.

Aunt Fanny points to a couch at the far end of the study. “You should practise on a pillow first,” she says.   

Julian, Dick, Anne, Aunt Fanny and Timmy walk to the couch. Georgina retains her position bent over the desk with her regulation-knickered bottom high in the air. Aunt Fanny takes a pillow from the couch’s edge and places it in the middle turned rightside-up.

“Aim for the middle and be sure to use wrist and elbow in taking your swing,” Aunt Fanny advises.

Julian swings the cane, making a loud thumping sound and dust fly in the air as he strikes the pillow dead-on. He takes a second swing creating just as much noise and dust.

“Jolly good, Julian,” Aunt Fanny commends. “You’re a natural at this, I’ll be bound.”

Aunt Fanny wrinkles her nose and coughs.

“So much dust,” she says. “This couch is far overdue for a thorough thrashing with the carpet beater. I should be caned after Georgina for neglecting my housekeeping."

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Julian, Dick and Anne shout in unison.

The group returns to the edge where Georgina remains bent over. Julian steps behind her and lifts the cane high.

Aunt Fanny interrupts: “One moment Julian.”

She goes to the front of the desk and retrieves a piece of chalk from a drawer. “This should help with your aim,” Aunt Fanny says, as she makes an “X” mark covering the seat of Georgina’s knickers.

“Thank you Aunt Fanny,” Julian says. A second later he brings the cane down hard on Georgina’s behind, making a loud thwacking sound.

Georgina’s stands straight and makes no sound. “Prepare yourself, old girl,” Julian says. “Second stroke coming.”

Another sound crack of the cane, but still no reaction from Georgina. Julian frowns. Insufficient arm strength, he wonders. Perhaps I should increase my regimen of morning press-ups from ten to twenty, he thinks.

Julian brings the cane down a third time grunting as he swings. The crack of the cane resonates through the room, but still Georgina refrains from calling out.

“My what a stiff upper lip you have Georgina,” Aunt Fanny says. “But there’s no sense in pretending it doesn’t hurt. Go ahead and cry if you like.

Julian takes a fourth “bite of the apple” but cane’s cut again appears blunt. A quiet falls over the room.

“George takes a beating better than any other girl at school,” Anne says finally. “It’s that fat bottom of hers from sweets she eats. It will do her no good attracting a man, but an ample arse certainly comes in handy in deflecting headmistress’s cane.

“Anne, don’t say ‘arse’,” Aunt Fanny scolds. “It marks you as common.”

“Sorry Aunt Fanny,” Anne says.

Sensing a tension in the room, Dick steps forward. “My dear fellow, might I have a go,” he asks Julian.

“Be my guest,” Julian says, handing the cane to Dick.

Dick positions himself several steps behind Georgina. “If George thinks she’s as good as a boy she should be caned like one,” he says.

Dick draws the cane back and then hurtles towards Georgina swinging the instrument forward as he runs. The sound of the cane cracking Georgina’s bottom echoes like a pistol shot.

“Ouch! That hurt!” Georgina cries as she hops from one foot to another, frantically rubbing her bottom in a futile effort to put out the fire.

“Georgina back in place at once,” Aunt Fanny scolds.

“Jolly good, old man,” Julian cheers. “You scored a ‘six’ with that swing, I’ll be bound.”

“Actually, Julian, tennis is the better analogy,” Dick says. “It’s like hitting a top spin forehand. Pretend George’s bum is the ball and swing your arm so that your racquet comes up and through the target.”

After several commands from Aunt Fanny to quit rubbing her behind and bend back over the desk, Georgina at last tearfully complies.

“Here you are, dear boy,” says Dick, handing the cane back to Julian. “Finish her off.”

Julian positions himself several feet behind Georgina and then runs forward. His final crack with the cane is not quite as loud a Dick’s stroke but nevertheless a much more forceful result than previous efforts.

“Bloody hell, that hurt,” Georgina cries, again hopping up and down and frantically massaging her bottom. “My fanny is on fire!”

“Georgina, language!” Aunt Fanny scolds. Georgina ceases hopping but continues to rub her rear as tears stream down her face.

“I trust that taught you a good lesson, young lady,” Aunt Fanny says. “Now you may go to the bathroom and cool your bottom off in the sink.

Georgina runs to the bathroom as fast as her feet will take her.

“I never see George move that quickly except when the sweets tray is brought out after school dinner,” Anne says.

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Julian, Dick and Aunt Fanny shout in unison.


The four teenagers finish their main course and Aunt Fanny clears the plates away. Timmy is busy gnawing at the remnants of meat left on a turkey bone that Georgina slipped under the table.

“Turkey and giblets, my that was good,” Georgina says. “What’s for sweets?”

“Now Georgina, I hate to disappoint you, but you’ll do without sweets tonight as punishment for bad language during your caning,” Aunt Fanny says. “The rest of you children will have my homemade prune pudding that you so enjoy.”

Georgina pouts and a tear forms in the corner of her eye.

“I’m sorry that I said ‘fanny,’ Aunt Fanny,” she says. “But it’s not fair that only I get punished. Anne said ‘arse’.”

“That is true,” Aunt Fanny says. “I’m sorry Anne, but you’ll do without prune pudding as well.”

“But Aunt Fanny,” Anne pleads, “I love your prune pudding.”

Aunt Fanny thinks for a moment. “Very well, girls,” she says. “Georgina is far too bruised to be spanked tonight, but if you’d rather be slippered tomorrow as alternative punishment, you may eat prune pudding tonight.”

Georgina nods enthusiastically at Anne, who hesitates. “Right,” Anne finally says. “Prune pudding tonight. Slippering tomorrow.”

“Hooray!” shouts Georgina.

Aunt Fanny brings four dishes to the table and a bowl of prune pudding. She spoons out a healthy amount on each teenager’s dish. They gobble the sweets down almost instantly.

Aunt Fanny begins clearing the table. “Right children, off to bed with you,” she says. Dick stands with the rest of the teenagers and stretches out his arms to clear room in a stomach filled to the brim with turkey, giblets and prune pudding.

“I say, Aunt Fanny,” says Dick as he finishes stretching. “I was wondering, someday, not anytime soon, but after I finish sixth form and university and establish myself as a successful physical education teacher, I hope to be married, not to a girl like George, of course, but to a proper girl like Anne.

And, once I’m married, I reckon I may need to slipper my wife at times, just like Dad spanks Mum now and again for burning dinner or not dusting properly and things of that nature. I was wondering, tomorrow, when it’s time to slipper Anne, if, instead of you, as a way of getting practise, I might … I might …”

“Slipper Anne ,” says Aunt Fanny. “A splendid idea!”

She continues: “And right you are about husband’s obligation to spank wife. Uncle Quentin slippers my backside red whenever I need it. What do you say, Anne? It would be good practise for Dick and give you a taste for what’s in store once you’re married.”

Anne stammers: “I don’t know …”

Suddenly Julian steps forward and grabs Dick by his necktie.

“Now see here, Dick, you’re bloody well out of order,” Julian says furiously. “If anyone slippers Anne it’s going to me. You know I’m fond of her. I always call out her name when we fellows pull a daisy chain at school.”

Dick grabs Julian’s shoulders and pushes him away. He pauses to readjust his tie.

“I should be the one to slipper Anne,” Dick says. “You’d make a mess of it, Julian, just like you do in a daisy chain. Not that I have any idea what the term means nor have I ever participated in whatever it may be.”

Julian and Dick stare at each other.

Aunt Fanny shakes her head. “Such a dilemma,” she says. “P’raps you should draw straws.”

Georgina interrupts: “Aunt Fanny, Julian and Dick told me many times that, when boys at their school have a dispute, headmaster makes them settle it by boxing.”

“Splendid idea, Georgina,” Aunt Fanny says. “Settling the score like men, the old-fashioned way, with the match’s winner getting the right to spank Anne.”

“I’m game,” growls Dick. “What say you, Julian?”

“I don’t know, Aunt Fanny,” Julian stammers. “It’s hardly fair. Dick has a steel plate in his forehead.”

“Coward!” shouts Georgina.

“Very well,” Julian huffs, sticking out his right hand. “You’re on.”

Dick firmly shakes Julian’s hand. “And may the best man win!” Dick says.

“Right children,” Aunt Fanny says. “Off to bed with you. A big day tomorrow. After breakfast, boxing.”

“Hooray!” shouts Georgina.


 Finished with their hardy breakfast of eggs, ham, kippers and glasses of milk, the four teenagers, Aunt Fanny and Timmy gather in the garden.

 Julian and Dick wear their games uniform of white tee-shirt, short black pants, white socks and black trainers with heavy rubber soles. Anne and Georgina wear summer outfits of gingham pinafores, white anklet socks and white canvas shoes. Aunty Fanny wears a dress, stockings, heels and apron and Timmy wears his fur coat.

Julian and Dick are at opposite ends of the garden warming up. Dick confidently shadow boxes, while Julian nervously rolls his arms. No boxing gloves in Aunt Fanny’s house and she knows of no neighbour who has them, so the boys will fight bare knuckles under Marquis of Queensbury rules.

“I’m a bloody fool to agree to this,” Julian thinks. Dick’s certificate of merit as best boy in games is richly deserved. He’s outstanding at every sport, including boxing, while Julian is no more than moderately athletic.

“He’s going to slaughter me if I try to put up a real fight,” Julian thinks. Perhaps he can figure out how to “take a dive” without it being too noticeable, thus retaining his honour while sparing him injury.

Anne and Aunt Fanny stand to the side of the garden, while Timmy stands at the edge barking at a neighbours’ dog. Georgina stands at Dick’s end watching him shadow box.

“I say, Dick, you’ve marvelous form,” Georgina says, “except I s’pect you’re holding your hands a bit too high.”

Dicks stops shadow boxing and stares at Georgina, his face as red from anger as it is from exercise.

“I’ve bloody well had just about enough of you, George,” Dick snarls. “It’s high time you quit thinking that you’re just as good at games as a boy. Boxing isn’t netball. It’s a real sport played by real athletes. Girls know nothing about it.”

Georgina turns away. “Suit yourself,” she says.

She walks to Julian’s end. “I just came to wish you luck, Julian,” Georgina says loud enough for Aunt Fanny and Anne to overhear.

Georgina extends her hand, “No hard feelings about you caning me yesterday.”

“That’s mighty white of you, George,” says Julian, shaking her hand.

Georgina steps slightly closer and lowers her voice to just above a whisper:

“Listen you bastard,” Georgina says, “No matter what trouble I get into over the holiday, if you ever try to cane me again, I’ll come into your room with a knife while you’re sleeping and cut your willy off.”

Julian blanches as he lets go of Georgina’s hand.

She continues:

“But I’m going to tell you, because I know Anne loves you, not Dick, that Dick can be beat. He holds his hands way too high. If you fake a jab with your left hand, he’ll go to block it and leave himself open for a full uppercut with your right to his jaw.”

Georgina walks away. Julian feels a surge of optimism. “Anne loves me,” he thinks with joy. No matter how badly Dick injures him, he’ll fight to the end to prove to Anne that he deserves her hand.

Aunt Fanny blows a whistle. “Right boys, come to the center of the garden,” she says.

Julian and Dick face each other.

“Right boys,” says Aunt Fanny. “Marquis of Queensbury rules. Now shake hands and then each take two steps back. Upon my whistle, box.”

“Good luck to you, Julian,” says Dick, extending his hand.

“And to you Dick,” says Julian, shaking Dick’s hand firmly.

The boys take two steps back.

“Ready,” shouts Anne.

“Steady,” shouts Georgina.

“Woof,” barks Timmy.

“Tweet” blows Aunt Fanny.

Julian moves forward. Without thinking about it, he immediately follows Georgina’s instruction jabbing with his left hand and swinging his right up with all his might …


Pain! So much pain! It floods through his body.

Only one time has Julian ever felt a similar sensation: age eleven, his first year away at school, Julian gave into peer pressure and followed other boys to a fort in the woods strictly out of bounds. Caught by a prefect patrolling the grounds, Julian and the other boys were sent to headmaster to be called into his study one-by-one and beaten.

Prior to caning him, headmaster told Julian he was getting it extra hard, not because he was a bad boy, but because he was a bright boy with a fine future who must learn not to follow the lead of boys inferior to him.

But the pain from “six of the best” from headmaster is nothing to Julian compared to the pain of having six of Dick’s front teeth stuck in the skin of his knuckles.

Julian shakes his hand and the teeth fall on the ground. Smelling blood, Timmy frantically paws at dirt where Dick’s teeth lay.

Dick is sprawled on the ground.

“Bloody hell,” he wails. “Julian knocked my teeth out!”

“Dick, language,” Aunt Franny scolds.

 “Yes Dick, watch your tongue or you’ll do without prune pudding at supper tonight,” Georgina cries.

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” shouts Anne.

Now girls, that’s not funny,” Aunt Franny chides. They walk to Dick, who gingerly pulls himself up to a sitting position.

“Let me see,” says Aunt Franny, as she holds Dick’s mouth open while peering in. “Yes, you’ve lost quite a few teeth, I’m afraid.”

“No use trying to find them in the garden, Aunt Fanny,” Julian says. “Timmy swallowed Dick’s teeth after they fell on the ground. I couldn’t stop him.”

“Prap’s they’ll come out Timmy’s back door eventually,” Aunt Fanny says. “I’ll feed him a helping of prune pudding in hopes of expediting the matter.”

 “No use checking Timmy’s stools, Aunt Fanny,” Julian says. “As you learned with Uncle Quentin’s sad experience after he lost his teeth in a laboratory explosion, our socialized system of medicine is sadly lacking in providing cosmetic dentistry. No English dentist has the necessary skill to reattach teeth. Dentures are Dick’s only option for now.”

Julian continues:

“Dick will simply have to save enough money to pay for a trip to America to obtain teeth implants. It will be difficult on a physical education teacher’s salary of five thousand pounds a year, but practising thrift will be good for him.

For once I become a leading M.P. representing the Conservative Party, my foremost initiative will be abolishing our wasteful health-care system and replacing it with an American-style for-profit model. No running to doctor then with every ache and pain when you have to pay hard-earned money for treatment.”

“My teeth! My teeth!,” Dick wails. “What will I do with no teeth?”

“Steady on, Dick,” Georgina chides. “It’s not as if you lost them all. You still have plenty to eat with.”

“Yes Dick. Look on the bright side,” Anne says.

“I’m certain that by the time you’re thirty, you’ll have saved enough money for a trip to America to get new teeth,” Aunt Franny says.

“For now, I can lend you a set of Uncle Quentin’s old dentures to spare you having to pay for your own set with your pocket money. They’re a bit yellow from his pipe smoking, but they’ll do.”

Aunt Fanny continues:

“Under Marquis of Queensbury rules, I declare Julian the winner of the match by technical knockout. He wins the right to spank Anne. Now let’s go back inside and attend to the slipperings. After that, we can have lunch. I’m making your favorite, turkey sandwiches with giblets on the side.”

“Hooray!” shouts Georgina.


Julian and Anne sit on the couch in Uncle Quentin’s study. Aunt Fanny took Georgina into the girl’s study for her slippering, while Julian just finished undertaking the disciplinary deed with Anne.

Anne shyly reaches over to take Julian’s hand.

“Thank you for slippering me, Julian,” she says. “You certainly taught me a good lesson.”

“Yes, quite,” says Julian, a thickness building in his throat.

“I’ve ever so glad you won the right to spank me, Julian,” Anne says, increasing the pressure of her grip. “I can’t imagine going over Dick’s knee. He’s a perfectly nice fellow, don’t get me wrong. But he’s not physically attractive.”

Anne continues:

“It’s such a shame he was in that riding accident last summer, as the steel plate in his forehead gives his countenance an overly-square shape. And he’s always been a bit cross-eyed. Moreover, I imagine it will be even more difficult for him to catch a girl’s eye now that he must wear a set of Uncle Quentin’s tobacco-stained dentures to replace his missing teeth.”

“Yes, poor fellow,” Julian says, the lump in his throat growing bigger.

Julian takes a deep breath to regain his nerve then says:

“Anne, I’ve told you before of my life plans: a law degree from Oxbridge, then ten years making heaps of money working for a firm in the City specialising  in commercial law. Then, once my financial needs are assured of being met, standing for Parliament on the Conservative ticket.

This country needs a change in direction, Anne, and I’m just the sort of fellow to help bring it about. And Anne, I aim to climb the political ladder quite high. I’m no mere ‘back bencher.’ I intend to be Prime Minster someday.”

“Oh Julian, I know you can do it,” Anne says. “You’re such a clever and sensible boy.”

“Anne, to be successful in politics a man needs a good woman behind him,” Julian says. “And you’re just the sort of girl who’d make a smashing politician’s wife.”

Continuing to hold Anne’s hand, Julian slides off the couch and onto one knee.

“Anne,” Julian says, “will you marry me? Not now, of course, but after I’ve finished sixth-form and university and completed at least two years of law practise so I’ll have enough money to buy us a decent flat in London’s West End and a summer cottage.”

“Oh, Julian, next to Prince Charles, you’re the only man I’ve ever wanted,” Anne says.

“And we know you can’t have him, don’t we Anne,” Julian says. “No future King of England will ever marry a commoner.”

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Julian and Anne shout in unison.

Julian and Anne stand up together. Anne pulls Julian’s hands to a place decently above her bosom but close to her beating heart.

“Yes, Julian, a thousand times yes,” Anne says. “If I can’t live in Buckingham Palace, Number 10 Downing Street is the only other place I’d rather be.”

“Don’t forget Chequers for weekends,” reminds Julian.

“Let’s go tell the others,” says Anne.

 Julian and Anne exit the study and walk down the stairs to the kitchen. Dick sits at one end of the table desultory attempting to eat prune pudding with missing teeth while Georgina sits opposite on a pillow in her chair enthusiastically eating a turkey sandwich.

“There you are at last,” Aunt Fanny says from her spot by the stove. “I was wondering where you got to. Did Julian teach you a good lesson, Anne?”

“Yes indeed, Aunt Fanny,” says Anne. “But we have even more important news. Tell them Julian.”

Julian clears his throat.

“On this day, Anne has made me the happiest boy in England. I’ve requested fair Anne’s hand and she graciously accepted. We’re getting married. Not now, of course, but after I’ve finished sixth form and university and completed at least two years of law practise so I’ll have enough money to buy us a decent flat in London’s West End and a summer cottage.”

“Pending father’s approval and permission from the vicar, as Julian and I are first cousins,” Anne says.

“Oh Anne, I’m sure they’ll say yes,” Aunt Fanny says. “Uncle Quentin and I are first cousins, after all, and father and Whippingham’s vicar blessed the arrangement. Blood lines are so important, not only for the royals but us commoners too.”

“Now that my future is decided, there’s no point in going back to school for sixth form,” Anne says.

“I’ll live with you and Uncle Quentin for the next eight years helping keep house until Julian is in financial position to send for me. And I can give the money that was to go for my school fees to Dick to help pay for his trip to America to obtain dental implants.”

“That sounds quite sensible to me, Anne,” says Aunt Fanny.

“If Anne doesn’t have to go back to school then neither do I,” declares Georgina.

“One year at Whippingham Comprehensive Modern studying metal work and I’ll be qualified to work as a machinist at Whippingham Gears earning 75 pounds a week. I can live here with you and Uncle Quentin and Anne and the money I save on school fees and rent can go towards Dick’s trip to America and his new teeth.”

“Very well, Georgina,” says Aunt Fanny. “If your heart is set on grinding metal for a living, I suppose there’s no way I can change your mind.”

“Say Dick,” says Julian, “with your intention to be a physical education teacher, isn’t it rather a waste of money for you to complete sixth form at a fee-paying school? Nearly all the chaps who read physical education at Red Brick University went to state schools. The money you save on school fees by transferring to Whipppingham Comprehensive Modern can help pay for your trip.”

“Splendid idea, Julian,” Aunt Fanny says. “Moreover, a clever boy like you is bound to score high enough on A-levels to secure a spot reading law at Oxbridge even if you take also do sixth form at Whippingham Comprehensive Modern. The money you save on school fees will certainly assist Dick travelling to America.”

“I don’t know, Aunt Fanny,” Julian stammers.

Aunt Fanny continues:

“You boys can work after school and on weekends as porters at the train station. The black man who does it now practically has a monopoly business. If you undercut his price to eight pence per bag you’ll have all the work you need.”

“Aunt Fanny, I have a brilliant idea,” Georgina cries. “Helping you keep house will hardly require all of Anne’s time. She can also work part-time as a waitress at Whippingham pub.”

“I don’t know, Aunt Fanny,” Anne stammers.

“Why at this rate, we’ll have enough money by next summer to send Dick to America for his new teeth,” Georgina says with delight.

“We may even have enough for me, Anne and Julian to go to America also. It can be our next adventure. Hooray!”

“Hooth’ay,” shouts Dick through his missing teeth, his mood brightening at the prospect that he may have to wear Uncle Quentin’s grimy second-hand dentures for just one year.

“Hooray,” say Julian and Anne in unison in much quieter voices.

“Woof,” barks Timmy.

“Oh Timmy,” says Georgina, bending over to pick up the little dog. “I forgot about you.”

“What do you say, Aunt Fanny. Can we take Timmy to America with us? Americans are so sensible about letting travellers bring pets. We won’t have to board him. Just show a certificate from the veterinarian that he’s had his vaccinations.”

“A plane ticket for a dog is rather extravagant, Georgina,” Aunt Fanny says. “But perhaps we can send him by parcel post.”

“Won’t that be grand,” says Georgina. “The five together touring America.”

Aunt Fanny sets down plates of turkey sandwiches and bowls of prune pudding for Julian and Anne.

“Once you finish your lunch, children, p’raps you can do your Aunt Fanny a favor,” she asks.

“Certainly Aunt Fanny,” says Julian, temporarily recovering his sense of forthrightness as he momentarily puts thoughts of sixth form at Whippingham Comprehensive Modern from his mind.

“I running low on food for supper,” Aunt Fanny says.

“I need you children to ride your bikes to the market in village centre to fetch groceries. I’m making your favorite meal for dinner tonight: turkey and giblets with prune pudding after.”

“Hooray!” Julian, Dick, Anne and Georgina shout in unison.

“Woof,” barks Timmy.


Saturday, March 21, 2015

Too Many Upsets in "March Madness" Results in Wife's Well-Spanked Ass

A Gentleman Writes:

As a life-long resident of a Major Metropolis with requisite NFL, NBA, NHL and MLB teams, I consider enthusiasm for college sports an infliction shared by unsophisticates living in in Alabama, Kansas and other dullard states forming the "Pumpkin Patch." (Or as those of us important enough to fly first-class on business travel sometimes say "Flyover Country.")

As hiring partner for the firm, I do inquire as to an applicant's interest in sports, as effete fellows who spend weekends hunting butterflies and practicing the violin rather than cheering the home town's professional football, basketball, baseball and hockey teams won't fit in with the jocular nature of firm culture.

But I take a hard look at interviewees who express undue interest in college sports. Our firm consists of professionals at making money. Why take a chance on applicants who care about sporting efforts of amateurs?

So I was surprised when word got round that some of the younger fellows at the firm formed a betting pool based on results of the so-called March Madness college basketball tournament. I considered firing them all for wasting time on such nonsense. But, after discussing the matter with a younger partner with more insight as to the ways of the "Milennial Generation," I changed my mind.

The fellows playing the pool don't actually care about the teams, only about the games' results, the younger partner explained. Similar to how we at the firm don't care about our clients, only the money we make off them. And while betting on March Madness games used to be the province of employees at saving-and-loans, office supply stores and other rubes, in recent years even those talented enough to work in Big Business have gotten in on the action.

We partners aren't slavedrivers with our associates. In the course of the 16-hour work day, associates are permitted a stray minute here and there to glance at the internet and visit the water cooler or restroom. So long as associates aren't watching or listening to games at work via streaming media, just checking on scores, "March Madness" wagering is an acceptable diversion, I decided.

Moreover, as it's good management practice for a boss to take notice of his employees' outside interests, I decided it would boost office morale if I participated.

Initially I was at a loss as to how to fill out my bracket. Of course, I hadn't watched any of the teams on television. I doubt any of the associates watch much college basketball either, though as long as an associate clocks his 80 hours Monday through Friday, plus 12-hour "half days" on weekend, what he does in his spare time is his own business.

From their conversation, I gathered the associates based their picks on high-powered analysis of team statistics. All well and good, I decided. The firm is in the number-crunching business, after all, so this March Madness activity is practically a training exercise. I contemplated billing the matter to a deep-pocketed client but realized that would be a bit of a stretch.

However, I haven't used a spread sheet since I made partner a decade ago, so preparing my own analysis wasn't an option. Finally, I decided to go with the experts and base my picks entirely on the brackets' official seeding.

Playing it safe has always done well by me, as attending the right sort of preparatory school and college, choosing the right sort of major, entering the right sort of profession and choosing the right sort of first wife and her trophy successor made me the success I am today.

For a high-powered, Type A, successful businessman such as myself, there's only one way to watch televised sports: sitting on my luxurious leather-upholstered couch before my movie-projector style TV with 120-inch screen, my shapely trophy wife spread across my lap so I can vigorously spank her bottom throughout the game to express joy for good play by my favored team and disappointment for bad.

While I require my wife to be completely naked during games, I decided it would be fun to decorate her a bit. So for each game she must wear nipple clamps weighted with a locket resembling my favored team's mascot, plus a ball gag in team colors. (It's amazing what you can buy on the internet these days!)

While interviewing for a trophy wife, demonstrating an affinity for taking a sound spanking and the requisite round rump ranked high in the job's criteria. My trophy wife certainly meets the requirement and is a far improvement over her predecessor. (Wife number one wasn't into spanking and would only accommodate me by stuffing a pillow under her pants, hardly a satisfying option.)

But I hadn't counted on so many upsets. We're only through round one and already several favored teams have been booted from the field. These so-called experts who prepared the official seeding of the tournament brackets obviously aren't Big Firm material.

I've spanked my wife so hard in frustration that she must cool her blistered behind in icy water in the bathroom sink for several hours post-game while I stick my aching hand in next to her. And my wrist hasn't hurt this much since we fellows at prep school realized they were spiking the cafeteria milk with saltpeter and quit drinking it.

At round one's conclusion, I assigned our firm's token female associate, who's not participating in the March Madness betting pool, with a top secret assignment. She crunched the numbers and with so many upsets the odds of my winning the pool are unacceptably low.

You strike me as pretty smart for a woman. Would it be bad form for me to cancel the betting pool and tell the associates to get back to work?

Kind Sir:

While we normally have little in common with the moneyed set, I must admit that my husband and I share your disdain for college athletics.

Hubby was far too busy during his college years selling encyclopedias door-to-door during the day and attending class at night to pay attention to his school's athletic teams. Meanwhile, I went on scholarship to a private women's college, St. Scholastica Heart of Mary Sisters of Mercy School of Education and the Secretarial Arts. (Among my work-study obligations was serving as whipping girl so students training to be teachers could practice with the ruler.)

Though my college, the Novitiates, was at one time a small-school volleyball power, the stubborn refusal of the NCAA to allow us to continue fielding teams clad in the traditional knee-length gymslip caused us to abandon sports.

So while we watch in the humble living room of our 800-square-foot Chicago bungalow on a 12-inch black-and-white TV, professional sports, namely da Barez, Bullz, Hax and Sax, are what's televised in our home. (There is another well-known Chicago team, but they're famous mainly for losing and playing in a nostalgia-ladened park popular with tourists and we don't care about them.)

But, no matter how trivial college sports may be, I certainly would call foul if you cancel your firm's March Madness betting pool. Such action would make you a poor employer, for just as you allow your trophy wife to enliven her day by mixing in trips to the gym and beauty parlor with overseeing the servants cooking and cleaning -- I assume a man of your means employs household help -- your firm's hardworking associates deserve their momentary recreation.

While I don't know if you plan to watch the  tournament's remaining games, I certainly don't feel you're obligated to continue spanking your wife during the contests. As my husband likes to remind me, spanking is for my benefit and his pleasure, and if neither end is being met perhaps you should try an alternate means of entertainment.

Instead of spreading your wife across your lap for spanking, perhaps you can allow her to forego a ball gag so she can kneel before you sucking your Big Unit. During half-time she can entertain you by doing cheers causing her nipple-clamped boobs to bounce up and down.

While my husband normally doesn't make me wear nipple clamps during discipline, the idea of wearing a pair weighted with a locket bearing resemblance of our favorite professional sports teams does sound appealing. Putting that on my list for an anniversary present.