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31 JULY 1904
My darling Lizzie,
Catastrophe has come upon us! I write at the first opportunity, knowing not where I am, and having only a general notion of the day of the month.
You will scarcely believe what has occurred - the audacity and the impudence of the young whore who has brought such things about! When I wrote my last adoring letter to you, I was, you may well believe, in a state of nervous excitement after my night of fun with Noreen. I was still lightly distracted and, therefore, made a fair copy of the letter in which I corrected all those small errors one makes under such circumstances. The rough copy, with all its blots and scorings out, I discarded in the waste-paper basket. Why did I not burn it - I would surely have done so within the hour?
I went to post my letter to you. When I returned, the basket had been emptied by the servant, and the paper had gone. I thought no more of this. What could it matter? On the following day, Miss Martinet and I received a visitor - an inspector of constabulary! Noreen, in a wild passion of vengeance for being thrashed, had stolen the copy of my letter and smuggled it out to the local newspaper! The proprietor of the paper, an officious penny-a-liner oaf, had gone with it to the police station!
Here was a pretty pickle! The inspector was friendship itself, and most respectful to one of my standing in society.
"The pity of it is, sir," he said, supping the tea which Miss Martinet had poured, "that something cannot be done about such young whores as Noreen! They get above themselves and imagine it is their privilege to abuse their superiors! If I had my way, such sluts would be taken to the strictest prison and there birched raw twice a week. If they were never set at liberty to make mischief again, it would not greatly trouble me."
This gave me hopes that I should come off well.
"Unfortunately, sir," he went on, "now that this has come to the notice of the newspaper and the police, it cannot well be ignored. If there were any way to prevent it coming to court, it should be done. Alas, sir, it cannot now be done. Even without any generous consideration from yourself and Miss Martinet, I would strive to prevent it. But that is beyond my power now. Be sure we shall have our eyes upon the newspaper fellow and shall prosecute him at the first chance. But what good will that do you, sir?"
I opened my pocket-book, drew out several bank notes, and made his visit well worth his while. Next day came Colonel Whackford, the chief constable of the county. He was full of the same regrets.
"There must be a prosecution, Mr. Charles," he said, shaking his old grey head sadly, "but count upon me for one thing. It shall be delayed a day or two. Make the best of your chance. It would be a timely thing if you could manage to make yourself scarce the next two or three years. The young bitch who caused the trouble might also be transferred elsewhere."
The chairman of the local justices also paid us a call - going away with his pockets fuller. Wringing his hands, he swore that next day he would be obliged to sign a warrant for my arrest and another for Noreen's detention as a witness. He had tried to prevent this but the Lord Chancellor, his master, had been adamant. It was not that the Lord Chancellor too could not be bribed - being only a politician, after all - but rather that his price came too steep for us.
Next morning, Miss Martinet told me to pack my things at once: the officers of the law were coming for me. I was to be taken in custody to the Isle of Wight, where there was a prison for such creatures as I until the time of our trial. Certain of the girls from Greystones were to be sent to a reformatory in the same neighbourhood, it seemed, and would be accompanied by the officers.
The inspector arrived. He arrested me with so many winks and nods that I thought him nervously afflicted. Two constables escorted Noreen, Vanessa, Jackie, Julie, and several other delinquents to the large, closed van. Thus I took a final fond farewell of Greystones and Miss Martinet. You may be sure I distributed all my remaining funds to the officers of the law - twenty each to the two constables and fifty sous for the inspector.
Deuced civil they were in return, providing food and glasses of dark, foaming ale on the way. The inspector confided to me that Noreen's treason had been carried by Vanessa. I looked at her. For the convenience of the journey she had been put aboard in the white singlet and tight, blue riding jeans which she had been wearing when summoned. No sign now of the innocent-looking blouse, tie, and demure skirt of her uniform.
There was still, I thought, a mockery in the face of this fourth-form schoolgirl! The brown hair worn straight to the collar with parted fringe was not unlike Noreen's, as if she aped the older girl. What of the firm, lightly sun browned face, with its clear-cut features, high cheekbones, and laughing blue eyes? Such innocence indeed!
As if to pile misery upon me, the inspector - with the nervous wink and nod of a man in the grip of St. Virus jig - assured me that Vanessa must receive a reward for her cleverness. How downcast this left me! Presently the inspector said we must stop, though I did not see why, for we were miles from anywhere, on a wooded road. All the girls but Vanessa were handcuffed to the detention rail in the van. The young traitress and one of the two constables got out with the inspector and me. Vanessa is not big-hipped or fat-bottomed at fourteen, but she has the slight ungainly puppy fat at the hips and the seat of a goose who has yet to become a swan. As I watched her walk into the trees, the pale-blue tightness of the riding jeans gave an almost slovenly weight to Vanessa's fourteen-year-old arse-cheeks, and to her hips generally.
It seems that the length of the journey had put Vanessa in the plight of a pupil kept in class too long by the teacher, and now needing to squat in the ladylike privacy of the trees and piss for a full minute or two. Imagine the desperate and vindictive mood I was in, Lizzie - as you would have been on my behalf. Given the chance I would have allowed Vanessa to remove her riding pants but not the tight, white-cotton knickers. Would I have allowed visits to the trees? Be sure I would not! I would have set up the folding table and made her lie on her side upon it, her back to the watching girls and officers, her hips and seat in the cotton pants arching towards them.
As a mere prelude to my vengeance, I would have commanded Vanessa to wet her pants in front of the onlookers, enforcing the injunction by tantalising the little water-spout between her legs with finger-tickling. She would soak herself before I was done. I imagine the officers, at least, would have been vastly intrigued to see this little temptress, though a grownup, fourth form girl, wet her pants in this manner.
It was, of course, out of the question. The inspector and the constable led her to a place among the trees. I waited. Presently the inspector reappeared and summoned me with his nervous wink and jerk of the head. I followed him to a small opening among the trees - and what do you think I saw, Lizzie?
A tree had been felled across the glade - a stout trunk. Vanessa was kneeling over it, still fully dressed, the tight and heavy-cheeked seat of her riding jeans well raised. She had not assumed the posture voluntarily for the constable knelt with her shoulders clamped between his burly thighs. The obliging inspector cut a long, slim switch from an ash sapling and handed it to me.
"Take your time, sir," he said courteously, "we need not resume our journey just yet. If I may be so bold as to suggest, Vanessa's bum-cheeks will be more responsive if bare. I feel sure that would be the wish of a teacher at her school."
I was, you may imagine, flabbergasted by the suggestion. Though I had paid the officers of the law handsomely, I had never supposed I would be given this last liberty of taking revenge upon the little minxes who had brought me to this present pass. Yet, my dear Lizzie, you may believe that I was not slow to seize the opportunity.
Half-expecting them to stop me, I undid the riding jeans and tugged them awkwardly to her knees. Vanessa twisted a little, but the constable's hold of her shoulders was strong and secure. Vanessa's knickers were, indeed, the tight, schoolgirl kind of white cotton. I lowered these too, noting how she tensed against the intrusion of fingers inside her pants! I was more than a little nervous, never having had to deal with an adolescent girl pupil before. I craned my head down and examined the slight adolescent heaviness, the almost muddy pallor of Vanessa's fourth-form bottom! To prevent wriggling, I drew off my belt and strapped her legs together just above the knees, then trussed her ankles with another lent by the inspector. Her light-haired young cunt was just peeping between her thighs. There was no point - and indeed no time - to lecture the delinquent on her offence. I warned her briefly.
"You know you're going to have your arse thrashed, Vanessa. For what you've done, you must be hurt, and, believe me, you will be."
Can you imagine it, Lizzie? Such stern words from one whose life has been passed in pleasure. Ah, but life was pleasant no longer! I will not weary you with Vanessa's desperate pleading, the reasons advanced why she should not be whipped, her inability to endure it on her bare bottom, her urgent need to let her fountain gush, her promises to be good, never to offend again. Urged on by the officers of the law, I touched the ash switch across her squirming seat-cheeks, took aim, and thrashed hard.
For the next ten minutes, it was dance time for Vanessa, or at least for the adolescent puppy-fat cheeks of her muddy-white bottom. Her thighs are still quite slim, and I took care not to execute judgment upon them. Yet the taut elasticity of Vanessa's fourth-form bum-cheeks was severely dealt with. It is hard to judge, I suppose, when whipping the bare backside of a fourteen-year-old high-school girl on the frontier of sophistication and feminine beauty, whether to treat her as a young woman or a little girl. Had she not committed a woman's crime? Thinking of this I cast restraint aside and thrashed the slim switch across Vanessa's bottom-cheeks!
How she screamed! Yet I guessed the sly minx was acting a part. There were as yet only two raised and burning stripes across her innocently immature bum-cheeks - both marks low down - which convinced me that they had taken effect well. I resolved to ignore her hysterics, the wild promises of repentance and amendment, the shrill imploring of those, now miles away, who might save her from her fate. I would judge only by the state of Vanessa's arse-cheeks.
When I stopped, and looked at the inspector, he gave me a quizzical glance and directed my attention to Vanessa's behind, as if to say, "Finished already? Come, now! Please continue!" I think there were three rather stiff members in that woodland glade at the sight of Vanessa's backside being tanned! So I gave her a last bout, first stooping to her ear.
"Since I shall soon be within prison walls, Vanessa, and since you will have helped to put me there, I want you to know that I am enjoying thrashing your bottom very much indeed. Now, much worse this time!"
When it was over, Vanessa was allowed into the trees for a weep, a gulping of final tears, and a release of bladder water. I was gratified that she preferred to complete the journey in the van without her pants on and sitting sideways on her hip.
So we came safe, in the arms of the law, to the prison ferry at Portsmouth. The young female delinquents were taken aboard. Before I started down the gangway, the two constables saluted me smartly, congratulated me again on the striping and bruising of Vanessa's bottom, and thanked me for my "great generosity" to them. The inspector came aboard as my escort.
It was now dark, yet I was surprised how gaily lit the prison ferry seemed to be. It had the size and look of an ocean-going steam-yacht. The inspector escorted me to a comfortable chair in the forward saloon and commanded a hock and seltzer for me from a warder who looked for all the world like a mess steward. I began to hope that my sentence might be served in such agreeable conditions. I asked the inspector the name of this prison hulk.
"Do you not know, sir?" said he, "it is the steam-yacht Brandon."
You being less of a duffer than I, Lizzie, will have guessed the truth ere now. My wily Uncle Brandon had seen just such a difficulty as mine and had laid his plans. Not only did he enjoy the Greystones girls but contrived to ship many of them to lands where harem beauties are bought on the auction block! Thus he had made his fortune and, with the cargo I now possessed, he put me in the way of making my own. As for the inspector, Uncle Brandon had bought him as a mere constable. The zealous officer had, many a time, acted as master of ceremonies on these occasions.
I vow, Lizzie, to tell the story of my escape thus far exhausts me. Forgive me, my dearest, if I now take a fond leave of you and lay my head for the night on the pillow of a fugitive.
And so the morning comes and finds me refreshed again. I have husbanded my energies in order to tell you the most comical thing that ever happened to me. Whoever the fellow was who said that life at sea is worse than confinement in prison would eat his words if could see me now.
On our first day out, I cast an eye upon the girls to see which should divert me between the sheets during our voyage. I was rather taken with Julie, nineteen years old. Do you recall her? She it was who sucked old Silas Raven while he watched Vanessa do her naked dance in Miss Martinet's music room.
I chose a morning when she was ordered to don her singlet and working trousers for deck-washing. How well one could observe her now. Unlike Vanessa, a little girl with a woman's appeal, Julie is petite and slim - a woman in child's shape. With tall heels on her shoes, she is still diminutive. Her golden-blond hair is worn in a loose sweep from her high crown, lying on her back to the top of her shoulder blades. A somewhat sulky little face is marked by rather a crude nose and weak chin, hazel eyes with darkened lashes.
She is, to talk colloquially, what is known as a penis-teaser. The blue denim of the working trousers is worn tight and smooth as a skin. One views, as if she were naked, the slender thighs, which, even at their tops, are scarcely thicker than a man's upper arm. She has that taut belly and backward jut of hips which is characteristic of girl children rather than young women. Her breasts are small and her bottom, though its cheeks are quite slim and tightly rounded, has a soft, feminine fatness in proportion to her other curves.
Thus I watched her. To speak the truth, the tight denim trousers were not entirely smooth. The straining of the skin-tight denim caused sheaves of creases across the backs of her knees and, indeed, across the backs of her childishly slim upper thighs. The tight seam under her legs visibly parted her love-lips. I have read somewhere of girls who can frig themselves by the tightness of such clothes. Did Julie masturbate on the cord seam as she walked? When she bent over, her bottom-cheeks became two tight, distinct rounds with a deep and widely open arse-valley between. What a sight the denim trousers had not impeded the view!
Yet to what purpose was all this? Who would bed a sulky little penis-teaser for preference? I said as much to the inspector. He at once promised me that Julie should prove as eager to please me as if her life depended on it, but he would not tell me why or how. Believe this who may, says I to myself! Yet, in the course of the day, I caught many a flutter from the lashes of those dark, hazel eyes, and often a vacant, hopeful smile. How was this, I wondered?
Late that night, I rang the bell in my cabin for my brandy and soda. Instead of the steward, it was Julie who tiptoed in, darkened eyelashes fluttering. The sulky little face made a visible effort to be alluring. As I tossed back my brandy, she stood before me, squirming her tight-denimed thighs together - indeed frigging herself on the seam! - giving out imploring little sighs and whimpers. Next she perched on my knee, thighs still squirming, and led my hand under the gusset of her pants.
"Please!" It was a little girl's whimpering half-sob, demanding to be indulged.
"Get your pants off, then, Julie! Astride my thighs, facing me, as I sit here! That way you'll get the shaft nice and deep between your legs!"
How eagerly she stripped off her pants? Julie's knickers came next, and she gingerly lowered herself onto the erection. How she rode! As if her life indeed depended on winning this race! Jig! Jig! Jig! she went, rising and falling in the saddle like a true equestrienne. Her tongue was more active in my mouth than almost any other girl I have encountered. Nor was this a single bout. After the first pumping of my lust into Julie's cunt, we retired to the bed and there repeated the rogering of her love-pouch three times during the night in various postures.
I was not surprised when she appeared the next night, though a surprise was indeed in store. When I suggested a repetition, a cunt-ride on the prick, Julie gave a sulky little wail.
"We did that last night!"
Never before had I heard that such things were allowed on one night only. A moment more, however, and she was on her knees before me, unbuttoning my trousers. Though Julie's knickers came off, she would do nothing but suck the penis and swallow its tribute, which she did twice more during the night.
The third evening, she would do nothing but make love to herself for my diversion, her bare thighs wide open, knees bent, the nails of her slim fingers painted so that the effect of her masturbation was more dramatic.
On the fourth night, she again insisted on something new. How long could this continue? Turning her back to my chair, she bent over, and I admired the tight, denim seat moulding her taut, well-separated bum-cheeks and the open valley between. So that I might see her face better, I made her plait her hair and pin it in a top-knot. What a little madam she looked! Off came the pants and knickers. She bent with knees tucked a little forward and parted. The tight, slim cheeks of her bottom, her narrow hips, the dark anus-bud, seemed so fragile to look at. Prudently, I took a slim, glass pencil-squirt of liquid soap, inserted it in Julie's behind, and pressed the bulb, giving her half an hour of in-and-out with the slender rod.
"I fear I must stretch you hard now, Julie," I said, adjusting my stiffness to her. Then presently, "I think you like a man to bugger you, don't you, Julie? You know you're going to a harem master? The man who's bought you will give you plenty of this!"
Once again, the pleasure was repeated during the night.
The mystery grew deeper. Next night, Julie came to my cabin but resisted all my approaches. This was too much! I seized her wrist as I sat there and so drew her forcibly to kneel by my chair. Gently but deliberately, she twisted her head, set her pretty little teeth to my wrist, and bit me softly. As she did so, the dark hazel eyes looked up at me.
"I must be whipped for that!" she said quietly.
Before I could deny it, she had gone to the cupboard and come back with a single-cord whip, some two feet long. She handed it to me, took off her pants and knickers again, and bent over, her slim buttocks tightly and separately rounded. She had chosen to bend over a tall stool equipped with attaching-straps. In this posture too I required her mane of blond hair to be plaited and pinned in a top-knot that I might see her young face more easily. Seen from the rear, her thighs seemed almost fragile in their slenderness. The neat, demure cheeks of Julie's nineteen-year-old bottom were tightly rounded and well parted as a result of her petite shape. She had chosen to bend diagonally over the top of the stool-corner to corner-which seemed unusual. Yet what difference could it make, since the straps held her arms and legs so tightly?
"I shall make a note for the pasha who has bought you, Julie," I said, "recommending frequent harem discipline on those bare bum-cheeks of yours."
I thought she might be grateful - even excited. But she cried in her whining voice, "No! Please, don't do that! Oh, please!"
Here was a mystery to be sure! However, I caressed briefly between the trim, saucy little cheeks of her arse and then went to work with the whipcord. No harem whipping would ever lodge in her memory vividly than this, I swore. Her slim neck and the fine blond hair upswept to her top-knot twisted urgently from side to side. The woven cord whipped - and whipped - and whipped - across the taut little rounds of Julie's bottom-cheeks, sometimes catching the inner edges.
Why had the sulky little face with its vacant mouth, petulant air, and whining manner asked for this? The plum-coloured tracery of lash marks soon embroidered Julie's fair-skinned little seat-cheeks and there were such forlorn cries and desperate squirming. Yet the cries were not as shrill or frantic as one might expect. It was then that I noticed what the little tart was doing. She had the edge of the stool between her thighs and was frigging herself between the legs upon it! Though it did not, of course, enter her cunt, she was able to squeeze her clitoris upon it and rub it between her love-lips. No doubt she had learnt such tricks from Maggie!
All my scruples were now overcome. I cracked the cord across Julie's pert backside a dozen more times, and then a dozen again. Towards the end, she gave a short, aching cry of longing and then with a shuddering and limpness underwent her orgasm before my very eyes.
I hardly expected her to return next night - for what more was there to do? Yet she appeared with an armoury of shiny, black straps and a gag which would fill her mouth full enough to silence all shrillness. Her wish was to be strapped down and gagged. Then I was to thread my way into her love-nest. Next, I was to sodomise her bottom! And, finally, I was to whip her bottom as I had done the night before. Prior to the act of sodomy, there were tubes and nozzles to be inserted in Julie's bottom and vagina so that she might be subjected to the ordeals of enema and douche.
Next day, the inspector revealed to me the secret of her strange conduct. "Why, Mr. Charles," said he, "it is the same on every voyage. I choose the two girls who would most delight the Captain and the owner of the vessel, but who are cool towards those gentlemen. In this case, I confided to Julie that the Captain had been taken by an uncontrollable lust for her. And I put on a long face."
"How so?" I asked.
"I whispered to her that the Captain suffered a grave affliction, a penis of such magnitude and weight that in ordinary business he must keep it strapped to the inside of his leg. Alas, I said, a girl of her slimness and petite figure would be split in two by it. A few nights at most and then we should attend her funeral, the cruelly rendered corpse of beauty tipped over the rail to feed the sharks. I added that her only escape from the Captain was to seek protection in your bed as the ship's owner."
"And yet the range of her perversities?"
"I added, sir, that you were a man who could not endure the same form of pleasure twice in a week with any girl. Unless she could devise variety, you would be sure to send her away."
I could not but chuckle at the ingenious fellow, for Julie was just stupid enough to believe such a tale.
"And the Captain?" I asked.
"Well, Mr. Charles," said he, "I separately informed Noreen that she was in the gravest danger: you had conceived a murderous resentment against her for her betrayal of you. Now that you were absolute master, a dreadful fate lay in store for her: you would have her brought to your cabin, and there two monstrous Arab emissaries would use her day and night, rending her cunt and sodomising her bottom with grievous results. The lash would also be applied pitilessly to her backside. After two days and two nights, the more brutal of the two emissaries would take a stout cord, tighten it slowly 'round her throat, and her lifeless corpse would be pushed out through the porthole."
"How readily you malign me!" I said, smiling.
"Indeed, sir. I informed Noreen that her last hope was to seek refuge in the Captain's bed and never emerge from his cabin. Whatever his demands - however extreme - she must comply with them to the letter or else be turned away and fall victim to your revenge."
We laughed heartily over this and then parted. To tell the truth, I sought a respite from Julie's advances and had just decided to appoint Maggie as my cabin-girl. That night, however, there was a terrible outcry and sounds of a struggle. I heard a shout that the Captain's arm had been broken, and then another voice adding that Noreen had done it deliberately. It seemed at first to contradict the very basis of the inspector's plan. Yet, as luck would have it, Noreen had been lurking nearby and had heard every word of his explanation to me! Furious at what she had submitted to without need, she had revenged herself violently upon the captain of the Brandon.
Here was a pretty pickle! The ship was in no danger, but it was clear that we could not permit mutiny to go unpunished. The Captain claimed his right to mete out retribution. With his right arm bound up, this seemed absurd. Yet he confided to us that he wished merely to give Noreen a stern lecture.
Knowing Noreen, we could not approve the leniency - or its wisdom. Yet the Captain was her victim and, as such, privileged to choose. Next day, on the eve of which she was to be scolded, the firmly built, nineteen-year-old trollop showed no remorse. Her first duty was to swab the deck on all fours with bucket and cloth. The Captain looked on. How tight the jeans strained over the strapping young cheeks of Noreen's bottom! Sensing his presence, she sat back. With a shake of her fringe, she stared with all the insolence her pale features and brown eyes could express. There was so sign of repentance whatever.
That evening, our two stewards, Karim and Saleh, escorted her to the Captain's cabin. The poor fellow sat on a comfortable chair and chose to have Noreen strapped face down over his lap for the scolding. For safety's sake, they pinioned her securely so that she could hardly twitch a muscle. The Captain looked down and saw the two cheeks of Noreen's arse, tightly sheathed in denim, facing up towards him. Down came the jeans, and the conversation turned to the subject of Noreen's knickers!
Noreen's knickers were, it seemed, of the tightest, briefest cotton. The Captain expressed interest at such tight, scanty encasing of the sturdy, full-cheeked backside of a strapping young trollop, as he habitually termed her. Noreen's knickers came down too. It was, of course, necessary to prevent her answering back during the scolding. The still warm cotton, carefully folded and secured, made an admirable bridle.
Now he was alone with her. We listened intently. A match flared and the Captain drew gently at a rich Havana. "I shall scold you now, Noreen, for quite half an hour. Ah, there is nothing like a choice cheroot for bringing the roses to a pair of pale cheeks! Keep that backside of yours quite still, if you please! Why, I vow you would break your straps if they were any less stout than they are! Such determination, Noreen!"
It seemed the ship's cat must be trapped in there somewhere. Surely it was a shrill feline mewing which obscured some of the Captain's words, as we clustered outside the door to listen! He seemed to smile as he spoke, as if his injury had become amusing to him.
"Your first taste of ordeal by a glowing cheroot, Noreen? Ah, those strapping, nineteen-year-old bottom-cheeks of yours! How many men have admired them in tight denim, as you worked on all fours at your polishing! Did you reward their admiration by a flick of your dark fringe and a cold stare? Then how those gentlemen would love to be in my place now!"
There came the dry squeak of leather strained in vain.
"An ardent caress on the crown of your left-hand arse-cheek to begin, Noreen! Ah, does that make your toes curl? You would burst our eardrums were it not for the wadding! A moment to draw the Havana to brightness. Now we can rouge you as daringly as we like on your arse-cheeks, Noreen, since they are not the ones you display to the world!"
The feline mewing made his next remark inaudible. Then we heard his voice once more.
"A moment to brush away the grey blemish of ash, Noreen! And now the ardent red touched to your pale bottom-cheek once more.... Ah, what a soprano aria you would sing if you could, Noreen!... So deep a blush already.... Do you try to turn the other cheek in order to spare this one? So desperate already, Noreen, to feel the vital glow on the other side? Have no fear, its turn shall come. First, let us tap the ash and draw. A little more touching-up on this cheek first. We must rouge it quite outrageously!"
His words were lost to us for a moment. Then he said presently, "Dare we highlight the dark valley between the snow hills, Noreen? Let us be bold! The red glow marks our trace along that rear valley's lower slope. I hear a zephyr blow rudely, do I not? Such high notes, Noreen. An encore is imperative! Now we ascend the second bottom-hill, as yet so pale.... Those stout, leather straps will not break, Noreen. Resign yourself to that! A fall of powdered grey and now the touch of ardent cherry red. Such is the penalty of violence, Noreen! After this you shall be my obedient cabin-girl!"
So it proved, showing the power of scolding over a trollop!
Tomorrow we sight land, they say. Every hour brings me closer,
Your own adoring, Charlie.