A Contrary Woman’s Reformation

‘Spare the Rod — Spoil the Woman’

Approximately 4,090 MS Words

Copyright by dmallord, August 3, 2022, USA. All rights reserved.

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Introduction

This short story occurs in the early eighteen hundreds, somewhere in a remote manor in a faraway land. It is the story of the necessary reformation of a woman when her wealthy parents ‘spare the rod’ and end up with an unmarriageable ‘spoiled woman.’ Like most affluent people, the baron and baroness pay a distant uncle to reform their error. Such is the case with Lady Willow.

As for sex, it has some spanking going on that gets sexy in that old Victorian way. And, of course, the master’s spanking hand also goes elsewhere. Not giving out more than that at this point… nothing too rough.

A few words of gratitude acknowledge Kenjisato, a Literotica grammarian, for his editing skills in correcting this small missive. It was my attempt at emulating written works from four centuries ago. It may seem stilted just a tad, but I believe it has enough of that tone and vernacular from the era, mixed with today’s modern style, to lend believability to the storyline without being too uncomfortable to read.

You will discover some vocabulary differences: bed chamber for bedroom, boudoir for closet, a cabinet for study or den, larder for the pantry, and probably a few more along the way.

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It Began So Well Intended

Willow’s parents were of the sort that wondered she should be pampered, unbridled, and praised ceaselessly. Their damsel must be gifted with all the refinements their wealth could bestow, given their social status. Still, by some magical means perhaps, they anticipated she would grow up to possess a remarkable character of her own accord. Even in her naming, they mused for weeks as to what her name should be. Referencing classic literature, her parents looked to Shakespeare for inspiration before seizing upon Willow as her name.

Feeling that if she were named for a magical tree, she would possibly acquire its fabled powers. Young willow twigs, you see, were also chewed and relieved people’s pains and, as such, were considered magical. Eventually, nineteenth-century scientists isolated the active ingredient responsible, salicylic acid. And created the world’s first synthetic drug, acetylsalicylic acid, or aspirin as it is known today. Perhaps, had they also ‘chewed on Willow’ as a child, she might have grown up befitting her name.

Sparing the rod and spoiling the woman had become the primary factor in Willow’s malodorous nature.

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Ages Eight to Eighteen

However, they had not ‘chewed on’ Willow as a child.Yet, they expected her to grow up to be a refined young lady, possessing gracefulness, charm, malleability, and to be attentive to her husband’s estate requirements. Why they assumed that was anyone’s guess. When you raise an undisciplined child, the grownup outcome was a rebellious and soured woman — it was as simple as that!

Willow was pretty, acceptably so. Buxom, perceptibly so. Graceful, perhaps less so. Marriageable, certainly not in her current behavioral state! Suitors would have flocked to her side at fourteen to seventeen years of age, given those qualities and the fine dowry that came with them, yet, there was a ‘but’…

Lady Willow had grown up to be a toxic woman. She was the product of an unsatisfactory upbringing. Overly pampered and spoiled, she never had anyone set limits upon her truculence. As a child, her parents gave in to blackmail and allowed her to wield power that she was neither old enough, nor mature enough, to handle. Everyone in Willow’s path was subject to her demeaning cruelties. In short, growing up, she had honed every trait associated with insolence, thoughtlessness, selfishness, and remorselessness for the pain she caused others.

As an eighteen-year-old, she was on the waning end of marriageability in this time and age; time was running out. Marriage should have been no later than sixteen as everyone expected of a woman of breeding and one possessing a fine dowry knew. Indeed, it would have been disgraceful not to have her married off — and soon. Her parents still had not found a qualified suitor — it seems her reputation for maltreatment and demanding methods had spread beyond her surroundings, and although she would come with a sizeable dowry, not to mention a royal title, she was quietly and discreetly deemed — unmarriageable, even among her kin!

So, on a pretext, the baron and baroness decided Lady Willow required a change of climate and fresher air to improve her pallor. During summer, she was to sojourn eastward nearer to the great city. Lady Willow would be treated, as one befitting her station, learning to dance the latest dances, enjoy the operas, and perchance meet the great-family member, Arthur, the third-bard of Avon himself. At least, that was what she was told.

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At wit’s end, her parents arranged for her to be placed in my care and re-training into a proper person befitting her station. I was their last resort. My reputation, of course, was noted for dealing with such family issues. Even then, begrudgingly, I took on Willow as a family favor.

She arrived by carriage from the train station. It was two long days’ journey, coming on a heated Sunday afternoon. Pandemonium immediately began, as she attempted to assume dominion over my manor. Making demands upon the staff, she presumptuously tried the role of dominion princess. I could hear her in the courtyard ordering her carriage driver to immediately unload and transport her things inside.

“Hurry along, you dolt,” she scolded, “I’ll have you whipped for your uselessness, old man!”

The poor man, old and slow, did the best he could to carry out her demands. She gave not so much as a single wondered to his thirst or the long journey’s toll his soul had endured under the sun’s rays along the route. I watched from the tower, as the drama queen stirred up the servants like a bear diving into a beehive.

“Welcome, Lady Willow; no need to bother yourself with those petty things. Let’s get you out of the hot sun. You must be parched. This sun is not good for your fair skin, my lady.”

My chamberlain was playing to her vanities, coaxing her along and distracting Willow long enough for the stableboy to spirit the poor man away to rest. The unfortunate chamberlain took the brunt of the rest of Willow’s annoyance when she found the coachman had disappeared. She had meant to threaten his miserable life with how her father would peel his hide from his body, when he returned, for such poor service!

Much to Willow’s dismay, she was promptly ushered to her bed chamber and her luggage placed at the foot of her bed, not in the boudoir. She wanted to continue her beratement of the poor devil that drove her here, but he was nowhere to be found.

Dinner, she was informed, was served at seven and would be in the dining hall. As she took in the status of her room and its appointments, my staff slipped away. No one unpacked her things, as she demanded. No one drew her a bath, as ordered. And when she failed to show up for dinner, it didn’t arrive at her room, as she demanded. Driven by hunger and left alone, belatedly, she eventually came to the dining hall. There, she found the room empty. Her warm plate had sullied.

“This wine has warmed to the temperature of piss!” she announced vehemently, to the empty room. Suitably pissed herself, her temper and tirades resounded off the stone walls, as she stomped back to her room. She was hungry for the first time in her life, and had left any morsel she could have eaten, in the main dining hall.

Passing an unfortunate chambermaid, she demanded to speak with the head of the manor immediately. Berating her, Willow said, “There will be hell to pay if you do not get him to my chambers immediately!”

The chambermaid knew my instructions were to be followed precisely. She could only curtsy while assuring her she would deliver Willow’s message straight away. I don’t make chamber calls. I don’t make calls at all on a Sunday, unless it involves pain or death. So, Willow’s demands went unheeded.

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Monday, following, Willow was at breakfast after the chambermaid informed her that breakfast was in the process of being served. If she desired to eat, she had best arrive shortly or miss another meal. Hunger got the best of her. With her hunger appeased, she stormed into my office, roaring about hell and brimstone raining down upon me.

She raged for at least five minutes as I stood watching the mantel clock, before she realized that I wasn’t the least bit interested, nor flustered, by her tirade. This was a novel situation for her as she was expecting someone, rather everyone, to jump to her demands. Looking down, I set my half-finished cup of tea on the corner of my desk. Slowly, purposely, my eyes wandered back to take in her presence. Her face was marked by terse drawn lips and dagger-sharp, fiery green eyes. I could see a tempest raging within them as her skin flushed pink and the purple veins in her temples pulsed.

‘What form of venomous viper had taken possession of this angelic-looking body?’ I mused. I listened to her grievances but gave no quarter.

“You’ve failed to meet my expectations. My father will hear of this!” she bellowed, then stomped out of my sanctuary.

On Wednesday, I tried again, with the same results, as she hurled her demands in my face.

I met her again on Friday and failed her for the third time. She informed me in no uncertain terms, heaping ridicule upon me. I bore it stoically. In time, her vitriolic words would diminish; I knew when she found it affected me not.

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Willow’s truculence was proving to be complicated. Her situation required further wondered, so I informed her that I would be dismissing the following week’s sessions. Thus, allowing her free range of the manor. She concluded that she had won the upper hand when I told her we were taking a session break. I knew it by her arrogance and contempt toward me, and by the force, she used to slam my cabinet door. Had the walls not been stone, I was sure it would have rattled my four prized books upon their shelve. With head held high, she haughtily sashayed out into the courtyard to explore more.

Through my window, I watched as she hastened across to the stables. I noted that she rather enjoyed afternoon rides. Something she didn’t have access to, living in the city. Willow was an eighteen-year-old, living life like a vitriolic thirteen-year-old imp. Not uncommon among undisciplined and unschooled women.

I watched as the stable boy did her bidding. She ordered him about, as though she owned him, body and soul. He chose a mount for her, but she picked a more-spirited one, and ordered it prepared as a lady’s side-saddle. Ordering him to kneel rather than use the stair, she used his back as a step up into the saddle mount. He then led her to an open pasture for a ride to breathe fresh air.

“Hurry!” she admonished, “I haven’t all day!”

Dissatisfied with his slowness, she laid the whip on the stable boy, as he was too slow in opening the gate.

“Fart catcher, get out of my way!” she cried, and reined the horse forward. Her crude city vernacular in using another word for servant, being most recently in vogue in the cities, was unwarranted.

‘Yes,’ I wondered, ‘servants do, as is their station, walk behind their masters or mistresses. However, their role is not to catch…’

Well, she could at least ride a horse, it seemed. Knowing not to berate it, nor lay a whip on the animal else, she would have been lying upon the ground before the gate closed behind her. On the other hand, the stable boy, she felt she could beat with impunity, not expecting him to return it in like measure.

I could work with that.

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Monday following, I summoned her. She was ‘not up to Dick’ as said in the city, or ill, as it’s rightly called, and could not accommodate my schedule. So, she informed the chambermaid.

The maid informed me and added, “Lady Willow seems otherwise well, having come from the stables after a ride for fresh air, sire.”

Duly noted, I had her plate changed to one of bread and water at dinner. It was met with a tirade, as she hurled it to the floor. Fruitless, however, as I left instructions for no one to be found in the dining hall when she chose to show up. Nor in the chamberlain’s residence when she sought out other victims to berate. The manor was quiet, save Willow and me.

She stormed into my cabinet, a repeat of the first Monday we met. Well, not exactly.

As I set down my cup of tea, I rose and quietly rounded the corner of my desk as her caterwauling disparaged the manner of her treatment by the staff and, by extension, myself. I closed the distance between us, quietly, quickly. Willow didn’t have an inkling as to what was coming.

The report of my palm striking her cheek resounded across the room; she was stunned, speechless. As she had applied the whip to the stableboy for his unsuitable service, I employed a similar method and had her shocked attention.

Two remarkable things happened this day in Willow’s life. One was the mild use of force to instill a sense of authority. The second, for the first time in her life, Willow was stunned into silence. Turning, I retrieved a list from my desk and presented it to Willow.

It was a simple list:

What are my name and title?

What is the name of your chambermaid?

What is the name of your cook?

What is the name of the stable boy you struck?

“To replace your bread and water meal, you must apologize to each for your insolence. You will write out the answers to these items on the list and present them to the chambermaid before morning’s breakfast,” I ordered, as she stared at the list.

“I shall do no such thing!” she retorted. “And I shall report you to my father and the authorities!” she added, rekindling the anger she first carried into the room. Willow didn’t see it coming the second time either.

Her right cheek was glowing as red as the left; she was again stunned into silence.

Quietly, I spoke without anger, “Look around you. I am the authority! Your father placed you in my charge. Under our terms of his agreement, I will release you to your father when you are civil and properly trained to befit your station. Know, Mistress Willow, that I also determine when and if you have received such educational reform! You are dismissed!”

Her mouth opened and drew in a sharp breath, but nothing was uttered. Although she was strongly considering another tirade, she held her breath, spun on her heels, and scurried out of the cabinet much faster than she had barged into it.

I could work with that, too.

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After her morning breakfast of bread and water, I sent for Mistress Willow. She was slow to arrive, but she did. The door opened, and she appeared before my desk with the look of a child who had received a sack of coal for Christmas. I sipped another swallow of tea, set down my cup, and looked into her eyes before speaking.

“The chambermaid said you had not given her your list, Lady Willow. Why?” I inquired.

“Lady Willow,” she curtly informed me, “doesn’t have to follow your directions, fill out some damned list, nor apologize to anyone!” She practically spat out the words.

“Actions or not taking actions, in your case, Mistress Willow, have consequences!” I spoke the words quietly, as I took another sip of tea. I had rolled my chair around the corner of my desk to the middle of the office, knowing she had not prepared the answers. Today, Mistress Willow learned that she, too, would learn about consequences for the first time in her life.

I seized her by the arm and pulled her forward. Before she realized it, I had her bent over my knee. She squealed as I pulled up her dress, her petticoats, and finally her shift, revealing a pair of long slender squirming legs and a divided-round-bare bottom. My upper arm held her firmly across the middle of her back, as she screamed to be released. I applied a sharp stinging swat across her bottom. Undoubtedly, it was the first time her buttocks had ever been treated in such a manner.

“That swat was for failing to give the chambermaid your list, Mistress Willow,” I announced.

“What is my name and title, Mistress Willow?” I demanded, as she squirmed and tried to slip out of my grasp.

“I don’t know you or your damned title!” she snarled.

I landed another stinging blow. “That one was for not knowing my name and title,” I intoned. I smiled at that. She knew, truculent thing, she knew.

Her body arched and bucked like the jerk of a riding horse under the sting of a whip.

“What is the name of your chambermaid?” I asked, as my hand rubbed her bottom to ease the pain somewhat. My question went unanswered, at least in name, but it did by the sharp cry out as another blow landed on her backside, with more significant effort this time.

That blow was met with a cry, “You’re hurting me, uncle!”

“I’m not the least bit bothered by that, Mistress Willow,” came my scathing reply. “Be glad I left my cane in the conservatory this morning, or… it would be worse for you!”

“The name of your cook, Mistress Willow, tell me her name?” I demanded, a bit more tersely than before.

“I don’t know!” she bellowed, as she tried to twist away again.

“Could that be because you didn’t bother to ask, Mistress Willow?” I inquired, as I examined the handprints marked in a rosy-pink imprint of my fingers across the crack between her buttocks. I could distinctly count impressions, and the fingermarks left for each slap. Another better-aimed swat landed on the farthest cheek with a smacking sound reporting across the room. The rose-bloom blush filled those round orbs, as she struggled.

Mistress Willow cried out in actual pain, then. Her head snapped upward as the next blow landed.

“Now, tell me the stable boy’s name you struck with the whip, Mistress Willow?” My hand was poised in mid-air to rain another blow down upon her glowing orbs.

“William!” she whimpered aloud, before I could land the next one on the other orb.

Her answer caught me by surprise. I rubbed the last cheek to ease the pain instead of another swat.’Perhaps, there is some potential for redemption for Mistress Willow after all,’I mused. I pondered her knowledge of his name and not the others. Perhaps, I needed to speak with William.

“I told you, Mistress Willow, that to replace your bread and water meal, you must apologize to each of my servants you offended for your insolence. Did you do that, Lady Willow?” I inquired. I smiled as she started to struggle again.

She didn’t answer, instead squirming once more, trying to escape the pending blow. I knew what she would answer, though. I delivered another blistering smack, hard enough to hurt my hand. “Mistress Willow, the last one serves as a reminder that your actions or lack of actions are to have consequences. From this day forth, you shall follow my orders!” I demanded.

My hand rested on her bottom. She had stopped fighting me and laid sobbing across my knees. My fingers stroked her bottom and slid gently between her legs to discover her a bit damp — not from pee. Then, too, a waft of a woman’s desire came into the air. I rubbed the soft mounds and eased my fingers up and down along the narrow slit between her thighs until her sobs ceased — at least those gentle strokes eased her pain. Soft moans replaced it, and her breathing soon increased until she shuddered across my legs, letting out a mouse-like squeal. It sounded like one of pleasure, as if finding a piece of cheese in the larder.