The Strap

A lovely family get together on the weekend in a relaxing, country garden led to some really interesting and, for me, kinky thought-inducing conversations. It was the kinky thought part of the day that I thought you folk might be interested in...

The matriarch of the family, a most beloved woman, and apparently the best granny a child could ever ask for, or so I was told by endless grandchildren, had married a man who it seems was a strict disciplinarian. He had a strap and he was not shy about using it if the children were naughty. The story was told to me by the son but it seems that his three sisters’ bottoms were not spared either, and they were all pretty familiar with that piece of leather routinely used to correct their behaviour.

Sometimes, when Hamish deemed that his son needed correction, his mother would intervene. Now, she didn’t intervene in the usual way that mothers do. She didn’t say, “Oh, Hamish, please don’t belt my darling son. He’s a good boy really and I am sure he meant no harm.” (Or words to that effect). Instead she would say to her husband,

“I’ll handle this, dear.”

She’d take the strap from him and take her son to the study whereupon she would close the door and say,

“Now, when I hit the arm of the couch make sure you yelp loud. Got it?”

And, on would go the charade with this dear woman belting away at her couch whilst her son yelped away on cue, eventually whimpering his way out of the room to have a little mock cry in his room.

It was the story he wanted to tell on her passing, all these years later. His much loved mother had been his protector when he was a boy and continued to love him and all her great big family with exuberant abundance to her dying day.

I was not surprised to hear the story really. She was an amazing woman, the likes of which won’t be seen again, nor the times in which she lived. I relished the opportunity to see the photographs of her life on display and there was one of her sitting with her husband. They looked completely at one, and he not at all the disciplinarian of his son’s story to me. And yet, there was a steely looks in those eyes that I would have missed on first glance.

How clever she was to keep him happy and content! She had him think that she was in accord with his disciplinary views whilst she went about bringing up of the children in her own way. For you see, she was no ‘walk over’. She had most exacting expectations of behaviour of the children and when she gave away money to the grandchildren towards the end of the life, she did it a few years before she died, so that she had some input as to what they did with the money.

“She didn’t exactly give instructions as to what we were to do with the money,” explained one grandchild to me, but she made it clear in her letter to me that I was to think carefully about how I would spend the money.” She said that if I were to buy a house, it should be a house “to raise a happy family” and “a welcoming home.” She wanted the best of the past to remain in their lives and for their lives to be led in a noble and nourishing way. Born nearly a hundred years ago, she was a woman who embraced the youth, absolutely adoring the babies, but holding on with all her might to a more genteel time when manners, etiquette and hospitality were exemplary.

This morning, my mind is filled with those times, of fathers who disciplined with the strap and of daughters who either did as they were told or were corrected for their behaviour. Of course, I know that in reality, it is not like a film of the outback where Sam Neill is playing a part of the strict father and has a manly study in which he takes his daughter for punishment. My mind, however, is a whole other thing and when I think about these sorts of events they are translated to be something very arousing.

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I’ve been sent home with a note from the school master, you see. He’d been scolding me for not doing all of my homework and had written a letter to my father advising him that his daughter was not attending to her school work sufficiently well. I am told to give the letter to my father that evening and return it to him the next morning before school, signed. In this way, he can be sure that the letter is seen by my father, and of course, he’ll want to know what action my father took.

I feel a sense of dread at having to take the note from him and I consider whether to appeal to the schoolmaster to deal with me himself. Must we tell Father? But, I’ve tried that before. The schoolmaster considers it imperative that fathers be advised of unacceptable behaviour and his suggestion in the past was that he punish me himself but that a letter to Father advising him of this would still need to be delivered. The chances of double punishment were too great to risk.

“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.”

My afternoon is miserable and when I finally tell Mother that I have a note to give to Father from the schoolmaster she simply sighs, and tells me that I should knock on his study door immediately after dinner. Mother is not like Hamish’s mother at all! But, she has the good sense to know that it is better to feed Father a good meal first before notes from schoolmasters are delivered.

I am especially quiet at dinner. My appearance is clean and neat and my manners beyond reproach but I don’t have much of an appetite. Even so, the policy is that all food presented must be eaten and I don’t dare to leave a morsel. In this way, Mother has been kind because she has quietly instructed Molly, the woman employed to help Mother with me and all my siblings, that Margaret should only have a small helping this evening.

When dinner is over and the girls have finished clearing the dining table, Father resides to his study and tonight, Mother asks me to bring Father his pot of tea. I already have the letter in my pocket and I take from her the silver tray. Our eyes do not meet.

I knock on the door, as required. “Enter” says Father. I place the silver tray with the tea service upon the grand oak desk.

“Thank you, my dear.”

“You are most welcome, Father.”

Father has already returned to his writing.

I go and stand in front of him with my hands behind my back, one wrist above the other.

“Excuse me, Father...”

“Yes, Margaret?”

“Mr. Draculas asked me to give you a note.”

I take the note from out of my pocket and hand it to him and return my hands to their submissive place behind my back.

Father sighs. Another naughty child to deal with...

He reads the note and looks up.

“Margaret, I pay very good money for you to have the opportunity to receive a good education. You must give your full attention to your studies. Mr Draculas is perfectly correct. You need a reminder of your place, girl, and of my expectations of you. Fetch me the strap.”

Although I am certain that these words will be spoken the moment Mr Draculas has begun to write the note, my stomach does a double back flip. I am stricken with fear but know that no good will come from dragging my heels or begging for mercy. On the contrary, Father wants to see a contrite girl; a girl that knows that her correction is for her own good and very much deserved.

I walk to the door I have come through and from the hook at the back of the door I gather the strap and pass it over to Father.

“Assume the position, Margaret, over the desk.”

Whilst Father stands up and walks around the desk, I move closer to it and before bending over the desk, reach under my skirt to take down my panties to my knees. I grip the other side of the desk tightly. I already know that if I raise myself up I will only prolong the correction and so I must hold the edge very firmly indeed. It is Father who gathers the skirt up over my back to reveal my bare bottom.

“Count the strokes please, Margaret.”

Without wasting time, Father begins the task of turning my pale bottom first pink, then a light red and then a deep, scarlet red. Throughout the correction, I do my best to call out the numbers with some self control and decorum.

“Four, thank you, Sir.”

“”Niiiiine, thank you, Sir.”

Twwwweeeeelvvvvvvve, thank you, Sir.”

Finally, Father returns the strap to the hook on the back of the door.

“Attend to your clothing, Margaret.”

Father returns to his seat.

“Have you anything to say, Margaret?”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you for providing me with discipline, Father. My punishment was richly deserved and I shall try much harder to rise to your expectations.”

“Very well, my dear. I am sure you will. You are a good girl when you try your best. Now, I have signed the letter and it must be returned to Mr. Draculas first thing in the morning. Please give him my thanks for bringing the matter to my attention. Now, go and do your homework immediately, please.

“Yes Sir.”

I turn, ready to exit at a fast pace.

“Oh...Margaret...

I turn back.

“Yes, Father?”

“Two hundred lines, please, to be done straight after you have completed all your homework.

‘School girls who do not attend to their tasks shall be corrected with the strap.” Give them to Mr. Draculas, please. We don’t want him thinking I am going soft on you.”

“No, Sir. Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

I return to my room and with a quick rub of my tender bottom, begin my tasks.

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At a certain point of the afternoon yesterday, my husband sidled up to me and whispered, “What are you thinking, cindi? If only they knew!!”

If only, indeed!