This is a story, and all of the characters are eighteen years old or older. The story contains graphic descriptions of corporal punishment both consensual and semi-consensual, so if this offends you please do not read on.

The story is set in the early and later twentieth century when social attitudes were different and some of the comments reflect this.

Although, this story is a standalone one of the characters is a protagonist in my story, The Making of a Masochist, and I would recommend you read this first. It will put the present story in context.

This is a story. Names, places, and events are a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

My name is Felicity, and I am sixty years old. This is the story of a letter I received from my mother on the day I turned eighteen. It was life changing.

I was an only child and my mother had me when she was in her late twenties, in the last year before the end of the Second World War. They were both quiet and serious people. She was a stereotypical librarian and wore glasses, and he was an electronics expert and exempt from military service during the war.

We lived in a large, detached house in the suburbs of Manchester. It had been left to my father by his parents, and my parents were comfortably off. I was a lonely child and only vaguely remember my mother’s parents who died before I started college. My paternal father died of lung disease caused by long years spent in a mine somewhere in the Welsh Valleys and my grandmother died shortly afterward of cancer.

My upbringing was loving but strict. My mother was very clear about the value of education. That was how she said she had improved her life after coming from humble beginnings. From a very early age, she sat with me and taught me to read and write and made sure I learned my tables. As I grew older my mother would bring me library books to read. First I read my way through the children’s classics such as Black Beauty or Peter Pan, and then later, as I grew older, the classics.

My father was very supportive of my mother, and strongly reinforced her message regarding the need for me to do well at college. This did not surprise me, since in our house it was my mother who ruled the roost. Whilst they would quietly discuss family matters such as whether we needed a new sofa, or where to go on holiday, my mother at all times got the final say, and he at all times agreed with her. There were never any raised voices in our household. If my father annoyed my mother; something he was careful not to do, she would give him a piercing look and quietly say, “George.”

I never knew what hold she had over him to make him so docile but when I was fifteen years old I remember one Easter we visited my mother’s sister, and my father drank too much. I could tell my mother was angry, but she said nothing in front of any of us.

Later after we returned home, I overheard my mother quietly talking to him. She was very calm, but her tone was venomous.

“I’m going to make you very sorry,” she said.

I had never heard my mother speak like this and, at first, I was surprised but soon forgot all about it. I think this was, in part, because she was in such a good mood for the next few days. This mood continued right up until the following Saturday when she gave me several shillings to go to the afternoon film matinee in the local cinema and take a girlfriend. When I arrived home later, she was positively glowing, and there was no sign of my father who had taken to his bed. I remember asking my mother where my father was, and her reply.

“He’s in pain and needs to rest.” Then she smiled her “be quiet” smile, and the matter was dropped.

I was an obedient child, did as I was told, and did well at college. I was I suppose, a swat. I went to the local grammar college and excelled at English and foreign languages, and when I was sixteen successfully received 9 O level passes and started to study for my A levels in English language and literature, German, and French. It was at all times assumed I would go to University and study modern languages.

Then, when I was seventeen, tragedy struck. I was orphaned. My parents had gone shopping and left me at home to study. They were driving through a crossroads when the lights were on green when a truck went through the lights on red. It was travelling at sixty miles per hour, and In the subsequent collision, they died instantly. In a moment, their lives were snuffed out by a driver who had not slept for twenty hours until he fell asleep at the wheel. It was no compensation he was jailed for four years, and his employer fined.

So, still a child and parentless, I went to live with my aunt and uncle. They were not particularly happy to foster me, but I was rich having inherited the house and my parent’s savings and I think they had their eyes on some of that. There was a fat chance of that, and after the sale of the house, the money was put in trust until I turned eighteen.

After living with my parents, the home life of my aunt and uncle was a mess. They bickered incessantly and couldn’t agree on anything, The house was dirty and untidy mainly because my uncle was a lazy drunken slob and my aunt didn’t have enough hours in the day to go to work, cook, clean, and tidy after him. I was counting the days until I could leave.

***

I turned eighteen, two months before I went to University. With four grade A A levels I was off to Oxford in the autumn. On the day of my coming of age, I went to see my lawyer to sign some documents and because he told me he had something for me.

I sat in his office when he opened the safe and retrieved a brown envelope that he handed to me.

“Your mother wanted you to have this,” he said.

“Thank you,” I replied. “I’ll read it later.”

“As you will, Miss Gower. Now is there anything else?”

“No thank you, I’ll take my leave.”

Later, in the early afternoon, I sat in my bedroom having first locked the door, and for the first time, I examined the plain brown envelope I had been given. The message on the outside was written in my mother’s bold, rounded handwriting, “To be given to my daughter in the event of my death and on her eighteenth birthday.” I opened the envelope and inside were several sheets of paper covered in the same characteristic writing. I took the first page and started to read.

30 ^th September 1960

Dear Felicity,

First of all Happy 18 ^th Birthday. I wish I was with you today but If you are reading this I am dead.

Along with this brief note, you will discover a letter describing a hidden part of my life and advice that I would have given you today if I were still alive. I wrote it over a year ago. In these pages, I have probably given you a great deal more information about myself than I would have done face-to-face. I have described some of my experiences in significant detail because as I was writing about them I enjoyed reliving them. As you will figure out I have significant “kinks” in my character, and in this letter, I have so enjoyed “coming clean.”

I have in many respects been a selfish person and have lived my life on my terms. The only person I have ever put before myself was you.

Now that I am gone I can’t be ashamed of what I am or what I’ve done. I did think of asking that you receive this letter and its contents when you were twenty-one and less likely to be shocked. I have decided that three years from now my advice might be given too late, so here goes.

Oh yes.. I would have destroyed this letter if I were alive today.

Make what you want of what I say here, Darling girl. I pray you live a long happy life. At all times remember that you have only one go at it. Live to regret what you didn’t do, not what you did. I know you’ll be a success. I am so proud of you and am looking down on you (not all of the time, I promise).

I Love you,

God Bless You

Mum XXX

When I had finished reading my eyes were moist, and then I started to cry. I cried my heart out, grieving for those I had lost. Then I slept. When I awoke the clock said six o’clock and it was still an hour before dinner, so I picked up the letter and started to read again.

15 ^th June 1959

Dear Felicity

There are things in my life that are completely unknown to you, but lately, I have decided I want to distribute them with you. Some of what I have written happened a long time ago so my recollection may be a little hazy, but I have done my best to describe events as they happened.

I have not at all times been as organised or as law-abiding as I am today and when I was in my late teens around the age you are now I fell into bad business. I was caught shoplifting on a couple of occasions and when I was nineteen the magistrate sentenced me to two years in an approved college.

The idea was that I could be made, with the application of firm discipline, to apply myself properly to my studies and make something of myself. Discipline was strict. The cane and the strap were used liberally, but not without reason, and in my first three months, I was able to avoid a dose of either.

Whilst I was there, I made friends with a girl called June Deschamps. Whilst the youngest girls at the college slept in a dormitory, older girls slept in smaller rooms, and June and I shared a room. The door was not locked at night, but we were not supposed to get out of bed, even to go to the toilet.

June was incorrigible. She was incapable of doing as she was told and had a deep rebellious streak. She was strapped or caned at least once a month, usually with four strokes on her clothed bottom. It made no difference to her behaviour.

Things came to a head in my first summer there. One evening in August, June and I were getting ready for bed when she turned and whispered to me.

“I’m out of here tonight. It’s my sister’s twenty-first tomorrow and I’m not fucking missing it. I’m going to slip out the window after dark. Are you coming?”

“Are you sure,” I replied softly. “When they catch you, …. and catch you they will, they will bring you back here and use the senior cane on you. Eight strokes. Hawkins couldn’t sit for a week when she got it.”

“I’m going anyway,” she said.

In the morning, the window was open, and she was gone. They noticed her absence almost straight away and I was called to the headmistress’s office.

“Well, Morgan, what do you know about this?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I lied. “When I woke, the window was open, and June was gone.”

“Very well but if I find out you’ve lied to me….”

—

Two days later they brought June back to the college. The police had picked her up at the station in Leeds after she got off the train and before she got to see her sister. The whole thing had been a waste of time and now she was to be punished.

I remember it was a Sunday afternoon when she arrived back. She knew what would happen after the Sunday evening meal and had been told to report to the gymnasium straight after tea and to wear gym shorts with a top and plimsolls, with no bra, panties, or socks. I had been told to come with her.

When we arrived at the gym, the preparations had been made. The headmistress and her deputy were waiting. A heavy oak table sat in the middle of the room with a cane, two short pieces of rope, and a cushion placed on it. A chair sat close to the tail end of the table.

Miss Lawson, the headmistress spoke.

“Morgan, sit on the chair. You are going to watch Deschamps get what’s coming to her. I’m not convinced you didn’t know your friend would abscond. Let this be a warning to you.”

Then she turned to June.

“Deschamps, you never learn, do you? Well, I’m going to deliver a lesson you will never forget. Twelve strokes of the senior cane on the bare. Remove your shorts. You can keep your plimsolls and top on.”

June blinked, and for the first time, I saw fear in her eyes.

“Come on girl be quick,” snapped Miss Lawson. “Then put that cushion under your belly and lie over the end of the table.”

June resignedly did as she was instructed. As she lay over the table Miss Pearce, the deputy head, crossed behind her, ropes in hand, and spoke for the first time. Her tone was calm and reassuring.

“Will you spread your legs apart please, June. I’m going to tie you down so that you can’t jump about and make Miss Lawson miss her aim. We don’t want her damaging you.”

Then she knelt, and expertly bound each of June’s ankles firmly to the table legs, before moving to the head of the table away from June.

“Give me your hands, please.”

As June leaned forward with her arms outstretched, Miss Pearce gently yet firmly took each of her wrists in her hands and pulled June forward so that her breasts lay flat against the tabletop.

June was a short plump girl with thick thighs, big flabby tits, and a big meaty bum. As she lay immobilised, I was offered a perfect view of her large milk-white bum cheeks. They bore the faint residual marks from a strapping she had received a few weeks earlier. Her hairy slit was clearly visible between her outstretched legs.

The headmistress was a tall, slim but powerfully built middle-aged woman. She had a fearful reputation with the cane. I watched her measure the long, heavy, and flexible rod across June’s behind and then I saw Mis Pearce draw June firmly forward whilst simultaneously nodding to Miss Lawson.

In one fluid movement, the cane swept up behind Miss Lawson’s back and then down again in a long curving arc. It whistled and then cracked and bit into June’s bum flesh before bouncing away. There was a second’s pause and then a red line appeared where the cane had impacted, and June screeched. If the headmistress had been impressed by June’s reaction she didn’t show it. She waited twenty seconds, and then, with all her strength she struck again. A second parallel line appeared lower than the first and June screamed.

After that, the cane rose and fell rhythmically, each venomous stroke etching a new line into June’s flesh. Following the second stroke, her buttocks had been in a constant state of motion, vainly squirming to escape the rod, and her hips ground back and forth almost as if she was fucking the table. She wailed continuously.

That caning was the most erotic sight I had ever seen. If I had any pity for June I can’t remember it. I was fascinated by the lewd movements of her arse and thighs, and by how her flesh rippled as the cane bit and within seconds left its mark. I found myself wishing it was me holding that cane and making June suffer. Soon I started to feel a wetness between my legs. I was learning a lot about myself that summer evening.

After eight strokes Miss Lawson paused.

“Now we wait,” she said. “We can only leave eight weals, Miss Pearce. The regulations say no more than eight so I’m going to overlap the last four strokes. That’s why I like to cane on the bare. I can see to overlay, and it’s so much more painful. You can let go of her and let her rest for now.”

June had now quieted slightly and was crying softly to herself when the headmistress addressed her next.

“I’m going to give you a ten-minute break before I deliver the last four strokes. It will give your arse a chance to cool down and I want to make sure you really feel them.

As she was speaking the marks of the cane had darkened, and the pale white flesh was now traversed by eight parallel blue rope-like bruises. Now that June was still, I could see that her labia were flushed and swollen, and the lips glistened with her juices. I was amazed that, despite her pain, she too was sexually aroused.

All too soon (for June at least) Miss Lawson flexed the cane, swished it through the air, and measured it across June’s heavily bruised buttocks.

“Ready, Miss Pearce,” she said.

I saw the deputy head reach across the table, grasp June’s wrists and pull her flat once more.

“No more! Please no more!” moaned June.

I saw Miss Pearce speak to her quietly and smile.

I saw an intense look of concentration on Miss Lawson’s face, then she flung the cane high above her head before bringing it slicing down, hard and fast, across June’s fleshy behind. The cane crackled loudly, and as it bit deep, June’s posterior jumped and then ground wildly for several seconds before lying still.

This time, Miss Lawson did not strike again soon. Her intention appeared to be to eke out the suffering. She must have waited a full minute when without warning she administered the tenth stroke and then at minute intervals the last two strokes.

They must have hurt dreadfully, and June was very noisy as her punishment was concluded, but eventually, she lay still across the table.

Miss Lawson placed the cane on the table, stepped back, and looked down to where June lay snivelling.

“That’s our company concluded,” she said. “It is my experience that very few girls return here for a repeat performance. Make sure you are not one of them. Knuckle down, do as you are told, and work hard. I hope that is understood…..Well?”

I heard the soft reply.

“Yes Miss.”

“Good.”

With that, the headmistress turned and without a further word turned and left the room. Miss Pearce was left to untie June, who rose gingerly to her feet and placed both hands on her buttocks before carefully putting her shorts back on.

“Take her back to your room, and rub this salve into her bottom,” Miss Pearce said to me, handing me a small tube.

She turned to June.

“I’m sorry that had to be done but you deserved it. Lie on your tummy to sleep tonight. It will hurt less in the morning.”

—

A little later June lay on her bed naked, and I rubbed the salve into her wounds. Her bum was traversed by eight parallel ridges, and I ran my finger over them gently from top to bottom. Her arse felt like a sheet of corrugated paper.

“It must have been awful,” I said.

“Hurt like fuck,” said June. ” I’m tired.”

I left her to sleep and went to listen to the radio in the common room. I think there was a church service being broadcast and then the news. Just after nine o’clock, I returned to my room to discover June sleeping soundly. Lights out was early in the college and I slipped naked into bed.

Alone in the dark, I started to think about the events of the evening. Once again, in my mind, I visualised June’s beating. I saw her plump buttocks gyrating in a parody of fucking, whilst the supple rod cut into her flesh, and her labia flushed and swelled. Very soon, I felt a wetness between my thighs and my need for relief became too much to withstand. Under the bed sheet, I reached down and found my clitoris, already swollen, and ready for my touch. Then, slowly at first, and then more quickly I fingered myself to a shuddering toe-curling climax. My orgasm came in waves, and I had to bite my pillow to prevent myself from crying out aloud. Even so, my muffled groans woke June.