Notebooks of the Young Wife by Tara Black Read Free Book Online Page A

feel the colour rising – what would the girl think of such behaviour in one of my advanced years? – but she giggled and hoisted up her long pinafore dress to reveal a day-glo pink tuft above a prominent clit-ring.
    ‘Snap!’ she cried. ‘Well, sort of.’
    I shook my head. ‘You’ve trumped me, Molly. No contest.’
    Her laughter was interrupted by a noise outside and she dropped her clothes back into place. ‘Quick, Jane, we’d better get out there or I’ll be following you over that thing while it’s still warm.’
    The Hall was still empty but the block had been joined by a tall tub from which protruded the handles of two bundles of sticks. I was aware of the technique of soaking the instruments and Molly confirmed that they might stand for up to a week in a mixture of brine and vinegar. At the sound of approaching voices I knelt in place, pleasantly surprised to find the step cushioned. No doubt the principal source of pain was considered to be sufficient without making the victim’s lot any more uncomfortable. A wooden bar was fastened across the calves just below the knee, which turned out to be the only mechanical restraint.
    ‘Laura’ll be here too and we’ll each hold an arm to keep you right forward. If you want to dig your nails in, feel free. I’ll just get you back later.’ But the time for humour was at an end and I lay over the domed top as the audience began to troop in. The last thing I wanted to do was to look openly at those who would be viewing me in extremis , but out of the corner of my eye I got the impression of some twenty souls assembled for the occasion. What I did see, all too plainly, was the woman who came to take her place by the tub. There was no floury apron – that must have been left hanging behind the kitchen door – but the food-marked white tunic said it all, and she was endowed with arms that would have graced a female wrestler. Mrs Jencks called for silence, the maids took the strain and the cook pulled out the first dripping rod with a massive hand. I thought desperately of uxor : her education had undoubtedly included just such experiences as the one I was about to undergo. I was in good company, and if I was ever to read more...
    ‘Begin the welcome.’
    Since then I have been birched in the manner of much early erotica where the circulation is fired and a deep lasciviousness induced. That afternoon, however, the rods were lean, mean instruments far removed from the veritable brooms that appear so often in illustrations. Imagine the switch cut from a sapling that is a straight yard, budded toward the tip. On its own it is capable of a smart cut to bare skin. Now think of five such bound tight for the first quarter of their length, and thereafter free to fan out into five individual switches that strike the target at the same time, again and again. I can report that the shock to the system of such treatment is extreme and through it my conception of smarting pain has been irrevocably extended. The experience was one I have vowed will never be repeated.
    I’m going to gloss over how it feels to have the vinegar and salt of a fresh birch beaten into already raw flesh; suffice it to say that the Great Hall has quite an echo if put to the test. Eventually, of course, the thing was done, the second instrument, shredded like the first, discarded and the spectators gone. Molly was a perfect gem. She left me alone to catch my breath, then returned with a bowl of cool water and sponged down the abused hindquarters to remove all traces of irritants. Then she helped me up and over to the cubbyhole where she poured a good slug of brandy into a tumbler. Not in the same league as malt whisky in my view, but then it was exactly what I needed. After a couple of good slow swallows while the maid carried out another bum inspection, I was ready to think about getting dressed.
    ‘You ain’t too bad, Jane,’ she said, touching me gently with the tips of her fingers. ‘A bit gooey