The Legend of Violet Woodbine and Durward O’Really
Chapter 1 – The Beginning
On a planet and in a time saturated with data and facts and information available at the twitch of a finger, one must grab the emergency brake hard sometimes and bring it all to a screeching halt if only for a moment, stand quite still, and reflect. Such were Mr. O’Really’s thoughts when he related to me the history that follows. The entire ongoing tale shall, I hope, be told in time, so long as his taste for single malt holds. If in wine there is truth, then absolute truth resides in good whisky.
Mr. O’Really is a kindred spirit to your writer and is a writer himself, only in this case he prefers to speak and sip whilst I record and transmit, so I will leave myself out of the narrative as far as possible, even though I quite understand that certain similarities between the two of us will be evident and perhaps startling to some readers. He has published numerous tomes on the art and practice of erotic spanking, and is far from unnoticed in the world that has grown up around the activity. Relatively recently, as these things go, he started an online blog to promote his books, and over time the blog became more a forum than a promotional platform and showcase for Durward’s blather.
He loves his interactions with people all over the world who gather on his blog, and one day a new participant arrived and created something of a stir. This new sensation, Violet Woodbine, read his blog for many months prior to offering a comment. Durward, who sometimes calls himself Professor O’Really, was more than delighted to read Violet’s reaction to one of his numerous pseudo academic rants, and welcomed her with open arms, as did all his regular commentators.
New to such activity yet emboldened by her success at breaking the ice on this fairly popular and oft visited blog, Violet made private contact with the ersatz professor. She already had bought every book in his bibliography, although she was able to read them only in tiny portions simply because the books, O’Really’s words, spoke to her too deeply, too viscerally, to be absorbed except in small doses. Her spanking fantasies began early in life, and she attended one of England’s last bastions of academic corporal punishment, a public (Americans should read ‘private’) school where canings were performed almost daily, though not on our heroine, since she could and did talk, cajole, or weep her way out of any situation that imperiled her bottom in that way.
Much later in life she was spanked frequently in accordance with her vague and general suggestion, though she persisted in talking herself out of such occurrences whenever she felt like setting her mind to the task, to her regret certainly, but she recognized an expert when she saw one, one perhaps not so easily dissuaded from giving her what she needed and invariably denied longing for, and she desired closer contact with Durward. And being a brave, or perhaps foolhardy, girl of sturdy Anglo-Saxon and Irish stock, she soldiered on and kept up the email conversations with him for a time, and then suggested they meet in the magical world of Skype, a true globe-spanning video-phone system.
Durward’s eyes misted over when he described first seeing Violet face-to-face six thousand miles away, and quoted Dylan – he had a date with Botticelli’s niece. As a fellow writer I got the message, although a red-haired, elven-faced young vixen isn’t what I would imagine to be anyone in an Italian painter’s family. But what he meant was that her beauty and buxomness is something only an artist of Botticelli’s caliber could have conceived and executed on canvas. Be that as it may, the two continued their more or less in-person conversations for a few months, visiting at length regardless the time of day, since they live eight time zones apart, and before long the question of their meeting in real time and space arose.
He being more than amenable to seeing her in the flesh, and feeling, tasting, and of course spanking that which he saw on his computer screen, and she being of much the same mind and more than a little impetuous, they rather rapidly came to an arrangement whereby that meeting would happen. She made flight reservations, he suggested a hotel that she booked, and giddy anticipation filled their days and interrupted their sleep with lurid dreams. Both wondered if the considerable energy ripples they generated could possibly cause volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, or premature foaling by thoroughbred mares. Not that either paid much attention to what went on in the world around them, wrapped and enrapt as they were each with the other, though they did give such matters passing notice, and not to put too fine a point on it, the two fell in love.
Violet considered Durward the man she waited for all her life, and Durward said he might have written Violet as heroine in one of his books, had he given the matter several months’ thought and spent a year or three writing it. So neither was much surprised, though both were delighted beyond all comprehension, when they met by the luggage claim at the airport and with scarcely a word but grins that blazed like noonday sun, hugged one another as if they never would let go, which they did not for several minutes. Durward’s powerful clench relaxed momentarily, long enough to tell her to kiss him, which she did, despite being English and not at all used to or comfortable with such an outlandish American custom as smooching in an airport.
“Vi,” Durward said (he almost always calls her Vi as opposed to Violet, reserving that as her in-trouble name) at some point whilst they awaited her luggage, “I hope you appreciate the fact that I won’t spank your delightful little bottom until we at least get out of the terminal. Maybe in the parking lot.”
She did not, of course, appreciate the small comfort of his statement, and assured him that she would actually die if he spanked her in the parking lot, and of course argued that she was ‘being good!’ Durward instantly assured her that the paperwork involved in the case of a foreign national actually dying in his arms was more than he could cope with. Not much assuaged, Violet looked up at him shyly while they continued to await the arrival of her bags. When the luggage finally appeared, the two rolled it away and into the spring night.
He loaded the luggage into the car and they once more embraced prior to getting in and driving off. It must be noted here that Violet did not actually die when Durward kissed her and swatted her bottom, twice, in the parking lot.
Chapter 2 – The Legend Continues
Vi and Durward’s first night together at the hotel involved a great deal more smooching, along with cuddling and hugging, though there was no spanking, unless one counts soft pats on the bum and even Vi doesn’t, averse to the activity as she is. She loves to act a brat, to punch buttons, to push to the brink, and of course she loves the bits that follow a good hiding – the hugs, the kisses, perhaps the lotion and other rewards that might come afterward. But the spanking itself she avoids with a fierce passion, as fierce as an English girl can get that is.
Durward quite understands her approach/avoidance attitude, and has prior experience of such, though never to the extent Vi practices it. As a child and a teenager she committed offenses spankable – or worse – in any society, and did so while attending a school where pupils’ bottoms were considered fair game for thrashing, all properly signed, sworn, and attested by her parents. And yet, as mentioned before, she managed to argue, wheedle, or weep her way through her academic career completely unthrashed. She continued this intense bratitude throughout her early acquaintance with Durward, in email, in Skype conversations, and even in her comments to his blog.
But being the bright, reasonable gentleman that he is, Durward wiped Vi’s slate clean as soon as she boarded the plane, realizing that he couldn’t possibly mete out retribution for such a wealth of badness, else he would have to spank her from early morning to late at night for the duration of her visit, and they would have no time for other activities.
He did make one exception, however. Shortly before her trip she orchestrated a symphony of bratitude on his blog, and he assured Vi that this vaunting naughtiness would be dealt with appropriately on Wednesday (she arrived mid-evening Monday) notwithstanding the blanket amnesty for lesser crimes and misdemeanors. Nearly all her energy following his announcement she spent giving him reasons for not dealing with the matter in that way, to which Durward listened attentively but heeded not at all.
Next day, Tuesday, the two slept late, breakfasted late, and then drove to his house nearby to watch a film – ‘Casablanca,’ which Vi never had seen. Durward, movie aficionado and unrepentant romantic that he is, was appalled of course, but it was in fact Vi who ordered the DVD and had it shipped to him so they wouldn’t waste time looking for it in video stores.
The air of romance as they cuddled on the sofa to watch the most romantic film ever made was thick enough to cut with a knife, and Durward scarcely wept with pride and patriotism at all, as he usually does, when Victor Lazlo directs the café orchestra to play “The Marseillaise” and drown out the German soldiers singing “Watch on the Rhine.” But they both got a little misty when Rick put Ilsa on the plane, claiming to be no good at being noble, and cheered and also laughed a little when Louie instructed his men to ‘round up the usual suspects.’
Vi had brought along a special outfit, and after the movie Durward paced and sipped tea, or perhaps Samuel Adams Boston Lager, he is a bit fuzzy on that point, while she changed clothes in the bedroom. He is not fuzzy at all on the details of the outfit, however. She wore a white hip-length blouse, a plaid woolen skirt hemmed just above the knee, dark nylon stockings with a black garter belt (‘suspenders’ in English English), a white bra, and full-cut white silk panties with cotton eyelet lace at the leg bands. She wore shoes, of course, especially purchased to complete the ensemble, and Vi already had complained vociferously about them, calling the footwear hideous, awful, disgusting, and so on, but Durward thought the low-heeled black shoes – not loafers exactly but not pumps either – absolutely perfect and told her so repeatedly.
Again, Durward was a bit fuzzy on the issue, but her continued objections to the shoes may have been the reason he spanked Vi for the very first time, though the fact she was decked out in schoolgirl regalia and Durward being the sort of fellow he is, it’s unlikely much of an excuse was needed. Then on further reflection he recalled that he had ordered Vi sternly not to interrupt the film with questions or comments, and that she would be shushed and spanked if she did so. She did interrupt, several times, whereupon he neither shushed nor spanked – even the strictest Top becomes fond and tender when Bogart and Bergman are onscreen – so if there was a reason he spanked her that might as well be it.
He bent her over at the bedside, arms supporting her upper body, head down, and lifted her skirt. His thrill at the sight of her white knickers, and the subsequent fairly gentle swatting of her ripe young bottom can scarcely be described, though he did say it was like waking up at the dawn of creation and spanking the first girl on earth.
Forgoing further hyperbole, Durward hastened to add that he also gave her a few light strokes of his school cane across her panty-clad behind, simply because it seemed a waste to allow such a vision of schoolgirlishness off without a tap or three of the rattan, especially since Vi had so long avoided exactly that during her checkered academic career. But then he put the stick away, sat on the bed, and pulled her across his lap. He once more lifted her skirt and gave her quite a few licks with his hand, rubbing the silky surfaces, both of material and flesh, between swats, all the while Vi assured him that such activity was not at all necessary and that he should cease at once and they should go and get ice cream. Somewhat giddily he responded to all her alternative suggestions in the negative, and then pulled her panties down.
Durward had seen Vi before sans cullote but never before across his lap, and his heart thundered in his chest like a thoroughbred at the bell. He managed to keep up some sort of dialog throughout the relatively brief and relatively moderate bottom slapping, and at its conclusion, needful or not, he lotioned Vi’s warm pink orbs, more for his benefit than hers. Then he put her panties more or less where they were supposed to be, sat Vi on his lap, and kissed her for a long time, for both their benefit, but also to still her petulant objections to such high handed treatment.
There is a line in the film ‘Bull Durham’ – “I believe in the infield fly rule, a Constitutional amendment outlawing the designated hitter, and long, slow, wet kisses that last for a week.” That’s Durward’s belief as well, and there were a lot of long, slow, wet kisses with Vi throughout the week, a memory that makes him smile and turn away thoughtfully even now. Men aren’t supposed to like kissing, but Durward missed that day in Man School. It was probably the same day they taught Repacking Wheel Bearings In A ’57 Chevy.
But he claimed her and made Vi his own with that spanking, even more fully than he had when he squeezed her so tightly at the airport she thought she might break. Her recriminations at Durward’s cavalier treatment of her innocent nether regions effectively stifled, at least for the moment, Vi suggested she give him a back rub. A back rub by a naughty schoolgirl being high on his list of incredibly hot activities, Durward quickly acquiesced and shucked most of his clothing without more ado. Vi returned from the bathroom with a towel and said he was still overdressed, so his shorts quickly joined his jeans and t-shirt on the floor.
Naked before his fully clothed lover for the first time, Durward felt no shame, only excitement as he lay facedown across the king-sized bed. Vi straddled his hips and went to work, and proved quite adept at kneading, pinching, and fisting out the muscle knots grown tight and stubborn through years of stress and deprivation and anger. Vi spoke gently, for the most part, and promised to hunt down an exfoliating salt scrub and some massage oil as soon as he took her to the mall, and he told her about a massage and a cornmeal scrub he had got in Jamaica. She rubbed nearly all his knots away, and said she would have to try some of them again later, and then suggested he turn over.
He did, and this narrative does a slow dissolve to scenes of a sparkling sunlit coast, and huge waves surging and spraying rocky shores.
Chapter 3 – The Legend Continues Further Still
Durward and Vi held hands throughout her stay, whether shopping or strolling, while they sat outside and he smoked a cigarette, on a brief hike in a park preserve and a visit to a national monument, and even while riding in his car, when he didn’t need both hands to negotiate traffic. He loved that closeness, and often would pull Vi to him and whisper endearments to her tiny elven ear, although she often took his comments as not very veiled threats to the well being of her sit-upon, and would glance quickly about, fearful that passersby had overheard.
Vi knew what to expect on Wednesday, though she never stopped trying to dissuade Durward from his intent to put paid her account regarding the mischief she created on his blog. But true to his word, Durward gave her quite a thorough hiding that included a sound hand spanking, a few more strokes with the cane, and several good licks with his belt while she lay prone on his bed.
She wore her schoolgirl ensemble again, and it was during this interlude, or right afterward when he took her across his lap to lotion her bottom, that Durward, as Vi puts it, ‘got terribly, terribly rude’ with her, using the same hand that spanked her. We will trust the imaginative reader to understand what such rudeness might have entailed, and it left Vi shaken and squirmy and a bit exhausted.
Durward had promised to take her to a mall at some point and leave her on her own to shop, and that afternoon they drove around looking for such. But the emporia they found in the near vicinity were not to Vi’s taste, so they returned to the hotel, cash and credit cards still smoldering in her purse. Not that he ever needed much of an excuse, but Vi’s pickiness and general brattish attitude prompted him to give her another spanking in the hotel room. That was the first time Durward heard her say, “That’s enough please,” and “You can stop now,” though it wouldn’t be the last, and of course he didn’t stop right away. He had found his stride.
Early next morning they drove quite a long way to a very real, very huge mall, and after breakfast in a restaurant he set her loose in the shops. She promised to meet him in an hour’s time, which surprised him a little, the briefness of her excursion, but he sent her on her way with a kiss and then found a quiet spot to have a drink and people watch to while away the time. She returned to their rendezvous, several bags in hand, only six minutes past the appointed moment, though of course Durward acted quite stern regarding her tardiness, and Vi acted chastened, if more than somewhat put out and a little stomp-ish regarding the ‘only six minutes’ business.
They had a leisurely drive via the scenic route back to the hotel where she showed him her loot – four dresses, two skirts, a couple of blouses, a jar of salt scrub, a vial of massage oil, and a large bottle of body moisturizer. Vi was very pleased with her efforts in acquiring such an impressive haul in so short a time, but not at all pleased when Durward pushed her merchandise aside, took her across his lap, bared her bottom, and spanked her very hard indeed for tardiness – or perhaps simply because he wanted to. The issue is open to interpretation.
Vi’s interpretation, which she was not shy in vocalizing while being spanked, included words like ‘mean,’ ‘unfair,’ and ‘horrid,’ all of which Durward blithely ignored while he once more reddened her wriggly bum with his hand. However, concerned that such loud and strident recriminations might be a sign of illness – or again, just because he wanted to – after the bottom rosening Durward kept her across his lap to check her temperature.
This he did in a manner heartily approved by many Tops, and just as heartily disapproved by most Bottoms, or so they say, and again the allegation of rudeness escaped her lips, though very quietly and breathlessly. Durward, being the kind and considerate gentleman he is, deigned not to spank her for such impertinence, though he did give her a few light smacks on her bare round cheeks while the squirmy procedure proceeded, so she would know he was listening.
Thoroughly chastised and more than a bit fidgety, Vi sat and cuddled on Durward’s thighs, and they kissed and hugged for a long while. Then she suggested giving him a complete exfoliation, apparently forgetful of or unbothered by the fact that he was mean, unfair, horrid, and rude.
A full exfoliation, especially as performed by a cute, sweet, naughty girl, is an experience no man, even the most jaded reprobate that Durward is manifestly not, ever should forego. The sheer intensity of sensation, the glorious grinding heat, awakens nerve endings a guy may have forgot he has.
Shower spray tingled his scoured flesh when Durward rinsed away the scrub, and then, still naked, lay once more on the bed for even more lascivious attention. Vi anointed him with costly oil, caressing but in no wise suppressing newly inspired nerve endings. When his back, arms, neck, legs and feet had been thoroughly slicked, slathered, and polished, she bade him once more turn over, and once more we dissolve away from the scene, this time to a National Geographic video special on spectacular volcanic activity.
Chapter 4 – Vi’s Reflective Interlude
‘Your Hand’
You know how great artists draw still life of a bowl of fruit or some fish on a table? I would like very much to be a great artist and to write great words about your hand.
Sadly I am not a great artist or a great anything, but I would like to spend some time in contemplation of your hand.
It must be said that your hand really is titanium hard. It is the hardest implement that I have ever known; it is more effective than the most horrific instrument feared by the most thoroughly disciplined brat. It is precise, unrelenting, sensitive to every nuance and terrifying in its perception of my needs. Knowing your hand as I do, it has made me grow up when I think of implements. I smile when I hear someone boast that she can take this and that implement and want “more, more, more.” You and your hand have taught me that the skill and consideration of delivery is what has the impact, and those people who crave more have never met someone like you. It is still damned hard though, and unlike any piece of leather or wood it knows just what it does.
Your hand is gentle when you tip my face to meet yours, when I am shy or ashamed or you need me to understand. You don’t hurt me when you do this although there must be some sort of force running through your hand because I always end up looking into your eyes when that is what I least want in the world.
Your hand writes all those words. It writes those words that make me smile, writes those words that have made me gasp and then made me sit very quietly so that I may have the chance to deny my desire. It writes those words that I think may have summoned me into existence. I think that you wrote me, that you crossed an ocean and watched my dreams and recorded them as they tumbled free.
Your hand touches my nose when you find me funny, which makes me shy and duck my head. I like to make you smile; I like the ease with which you know you can touch me, the self-assurance as you reach out.
Your hand holds mine. It tucks my hand into it, yours in front, mine behind, as though I belong right there, in your palm.
Your hand guides me, around my waist or in the small of my back or by placing my hand in the crook of your arm. This tells me I do not have to take care of myself, that you will do that, that I can look around me, that I can relax and you will keep me safe in your care. You are never dismissive or patronising, and I feel at once like a woman and a child, set free and nurtured. The world opens up for my observations as though you have given me a flower.
Your hand rubs your face when you think of something that pains you, which is exactly the same gesture that you make when I am very naughty – except when I am very naughty your mouth is turned up in a smile that is lascivious. Not that I am ever very naughty, but your hand does not seem to know that. You tell me that at such times your hand itches and then you show it to me as though I could see the itch. I would tell you how silly that was if only you would give me a chance before you and your hand disappear from my view.
When you remove your ring from your hand it is a sign that I am about to get spanked. I start to bite my lip, I hope that this is when I get quiet, and I try to be quiet when I see this. Your hand without a ring is a promise that makes my eyes focus on the floor.
Your hand is the rudest device I ever have known, heard of or read about. It does things that no hand has a right even to think of, let alone do, with the unflinching certainty that everything it does it absolutely legitimate. And yet some of these things, when I think about them later, make me sit down and say things quietly to myself like, “My oh my.”
Some of these things make me want to stay very close to you but keep my eyes squeezed tight shut so that you will not know how I feel.
Some of these things make me bite my lip to keep from crying out but moments later I fail and call out anyway.
Some of these things I cannot think about at all. But I never want you to stop. When I kiss your hand that is what I tell it but it keeps the secret from you, as it should.
Your hand is the only thing I can look at when I admit my desires, thoughts and fears. When I say to you the things that I have never dared even to think before, that is when I play with your fingers. I turn your hand in mine, and it tells me that you are with me, that I am allowed to say these things. Your hand does not flinch or pull away no matter what I say. It is constant. It leads me into freedom, into new places. It leads me away from shame and self-doubt.
I still think I have only said a tiny fragment of what should be said, touching with my fingertips, tracing the outlines of what I wish to sculpt. It is all I have though, and I offer it with open palm.
Chapter 5 – The Smoking Issue, He Said
Vi has tobacco issues, of which Durward is well aware. She quit smoking cigarettes several years ago, and asked someone’s help in staying off the pernicious weed. But a few weeks before she visited Durward she fell off the wagon at a gathering of her girlfriends when she smoked two cigarettes.
At Durward’s urging she confessed her crime, and that certain someone took her to task over the matter. He vigorously used a paddle, a hairbrush, and a cane to expiate her transgression, but Durward was disappointed when Vi told him that the punishment didn’t take, and the matter was left, in her mind, unresolved.
Durward has tobacco issues, which he addresses every day by smoking as many cigarettes as he likes, so he feels somewhat less than comfortable ordering anyone else not to smoke.
However, dedicated disciplinarian that he is and loving Vi as he does, he has no problem at all telling her to do as he says and not as he does.
He was bothered by Vi’s disappointing chastisement experience, so when she told him she wanted to go to a bar and drink and smoke cigarettes he took her there. Durward freely admits that he liked the idea of sharing drinks and smokes, flirtation and frivolity with Vi in a bar, though he told her that she would pay for each cigarette in the usual manner, with a sore bottom.
Vi objected to this, calling it quite unfair, but she went ahead and asked for “20 Marlboro Lights” at the hotel gift shop. (In England one may buy 10 cigarettes rather than 20 in a pack)
After dinner, Vi had a wonderful time at the bar, drinking, smoking, flirting with Durward, and also being her usual smart-alecky self.
At some point in the evening, she solemnly asked Durward not to let her start smoking again habitually, and he solemnly agreed, sealing his word with a kiss to her lips, and a sip of his scotch and soda. He let her order a third drink, one vodka and tonic more than he knew she needed, so that when they returned to the hotel room she may or may not have felt the sound spanking he gave her for smoking five cigarettes.
Then he said she was through smoking for the evening, and also that from then on she would be allowed only one cigarette a day. Possibly due to an excess of alcohol, or perhaps merely in response to Durward’s high-handedness, Vi pitched a fit and informed him that she would smoke as much as she liked, and furthermore that she would go outside that very moment and have a cigarette.
Only slightly stunned at her announcement, and more than a little curious to see if she would follow through with the threat, Durward settled back on the bed, arms crossed, and watched Vi sidle toward the door.
It took a devilishly long time for her to collect her cigarette pack, room key, and a cardigan against the chill of the night, and Durward waited patiently, listening closely to her arguments that she was a grown woman and would not be ordered about, that he truly had no right to forbid her anything, and in any case he was much too tired from a long night to stop her.
His responses were soft and gentle when he assured her that if she walked out the door he would blister her bottom until she couldn’t sit down, which is exactly what he did. When her hand touched the door handle he bolted from the bed, across the room, and scooped her up.
Vi complained bitterly and forcefully when he flipped off her shoes, dumped her not very gently across his lap, pulled up her skirt and downed her panties to spank her bottom harder than he ever had before.
He opened her legs with his knees so as to slap the delicate flesh at the very base of her behind and between her cheeks, and she whimpered and wriggled while she pleaded with him to stop. Eventually he did, but not before marking her bottom outrageously, turning some bits of it quite purple.
She apologized while kneeling before him, unable to pull her knickers up for the hellish sting he raised in her fundament, and then there followed an apology of a different sort that Durward said he would rather not describe in detail.
Afterwards he asked if the lesson had been learnt, if the punishment had taken, and again he was disappointed when Vi said it hadn’t. Feeling somewhat abashed he got ready for bed while she went to the bathroom to put on her nightgown and examine the damage to her derriere.
Upon her return, however, Vi told Durward a story. This anecdote concerned a very naughty girl who was truly chastised, and he listened attentively.
It seems the girl had got out of control somehow, and the man who loved her saw fit to punish her. He told her that he was going to spank her, but before he did he made her stand in the corner and spoke gently but sternly and at great length about why he was going to do that, and what specifically she had done to deserve it. Then he left her in the corner with strict instructions not to look around, or to fidget, or to do anything except consider his words and the reason for her current situation. By the time he took her across his lap to spank her she felt very small indeed, and terribly contrite.
Durward thanked Vi for the illumination her story provided, and they cuddled in bed for quite some time before he shut off the light and told her to go to sleep. He lay with her tucked beneath his arm for a few minutes, then she ‘got up for a wee,’ and when she returned she lay down a few inches from him and curled on her side, facing away.
He remained quiet but his mind still whirled as he thought how next he would tend to the wants and needs of the naughty, adorable imp in his bed, and it seemed to him only scant minutes later that Vi once more arose. Durward kept still, wondering if the delightful little baggage could possibly be intent on having her cigarette after all.
The quiet sounds of her movements filled his ears while she dressed, and when he heard the door shut behind her he leapt from the bed.
He opened the door and looked down the long hallway, then said her name, her full name, her in trouble name, firmly but softly so as not to awaken guests in neighboring rooms.
Vi stopped, and after a second she turned. He crooked a finger and she came toward him on tiny cat feet, her eyes gazing at the carpet. Then, the door once more secure, he searched her clothing, found the cigarettes in her trouser pocket and removed the pack.
She told him over and over that she thought he was asleep, while he said little, only that he was not at all pleased with what she had done, and led her to the large armoire that held the TV.
Beside the armoire stood a chair with a padded seat, and upon this he made her kneel, her face to the wall, and there he told her to wait and not say a word.
She said again that she thought he was sleeping, and he slapped the seat of her trousers, repeated his order to keep still, and then paced for a few minutes, coming to grips with the situation, deciding how best to deal with her unspeakably outrageous behavior, and not least, breathing deeply to quell his furious indignation.
When he went to collect her, his mind was set, his fury in check, his resolve unalloyed. He spoke quietly but sternly while he stripped her naked, telling her how very disappointed he was with what she had done, how very naughty she had been to sneak out, and exactly what would be the cost of such defiance to her bare bottom, and then he sat on the bedside and pulled her once more over his lap.
He spanked strictly but compassionately, avoiding as much as he could the purple blotches on her sit spot, striking hard enough to make her whimper, but not so much as to distract her from his calm but powerful scolding.
Durward pointed out the intrinsic naughtiness of what she had done, and also the underlying causes – her willfulness, her defiance, her refusal to accept him as her protector, her stubborn rejection of his guidance.
And beneath all, he said, stood a disillusioned and cynical little girl trying so very hard, against her own better interests, to rebuff the one man whose strong, unflinching hand she needed more than anything in the world. He claimed her for his own, heartily and unequivocally, with hard spanks and a serious telling off, and Vi shuddered and sobbed when at last he took her up and sat her on his lap to wrap her in his arms and hold her close.
Afterward she wore no panties to bed, only the big t-shirt, his t-shirt, she had slept in all week, and he helped her to pull it over her tousled hair.
They cuddled for a long time, Vi tucked safe and secure beneath Durward’s arm, and he kissed her moist lips again and again. He smiled brightly when she whispered, “It took,” and then kissed her once more, and ordered her, sternly but gently, to go to sleep.
She did.
Next day they went out after breakfast so he could have a cigarette, and Durward handed Vi’s Marlboro pack to a woman he saw smoking as they passed by.
When they got to their usual smoking spot, he was flabbergasted and yet amused when Vi reached in and pulled a cigarette from her bra, and he allowed her to smoke it – a final hoorah, he thought, and then later that day, after he had mulled at the problem for a while, told her she would have no more cigarettes, not no how, not no way.
To this day Vi resents Durward’s pronouncement, his edict, his commandment, but so far she has obeyed, loathe as she is to do so, thousands of miles away.
But she knows that eventually, someday soon, and before she might be ready, she will see him again, and moreover that he will see her for all she is – and that is something she dreadfully anticipates with fear and longing, and with a tempestuous giddiness that makes them both shudder.
Chapter 6 – The Smoking Issue, She Said
There is a certain kind of awake in the night when your heart beats fast and your eyes push against the confines of the darkness, you listen to the breathing beside you and it confirms that despite the body heat warming you – you are absolutely alone.
I lie there mulling the same thoughts over and over. I know what you told me and it irritates me, it rubs me up the wrong way, it makes me want to fight you and it makes me angry with you. I mull over your words, your declaration – the declaration that I (me, note, not you) must have only one cigarette today. It is a random decision that you made regardless of what I want or how I feel. I have heard of girls who get to live like that, who have people in charge of them, who are kept safe, who are loved.
I know that could not be for me, not that life. I have a fleeting image of myself cast as a grotty Victorian orphan with nose pressed against the glass on the toyshop, excluded from the warmth, from the joy. I push this mocking cliché aside by squeezing my eyes shut and with a small shake of my head. That life is not for me because it is not for girls like me. The word “pragmatic” says hello and settles in for the night. “Pragmatic” is better suited to me than words like … the words I dare not even think.
I know my place. I have always known my place. Not for me the playful, the safe, the secure.
Not for me the … but I will not write this list in my head. I will not settle into this unhappiness and gather it around me like a shawl. Instead I will do what I can to retrieve my independence. I will walk out on my own. I will find my own way, I will prove to myself how strong I am, how I can find joy and peace in my own liberation. It will make me smile and laugh. I want a cigarette. I will have a cigarette.
I will feel that old thrill, the thrill I used to feel as a child when I crept out in the night. I feel the thrill of silently turning the huge iron lock of the back door and slipping into the darkness that terrified me, the thrill of making myself walk out into the swirling skirts of the trees as they danced the night winds. I will feel the invincibility of the vulnerable.
That old thrill is better by far than the possibility of this hope which is sure to be a trick, a torture of hope, this hope that I could settle into and accept your control over me. I will throw myself out of this warmth. I will feel anger not peace. I will feel freedom not security. I will win. I will not settle into the sanctuary of this authority.
As silently as I can I slip forward and down, out from the covers. Still clutching a pillow I tread soft footed across the room. On the other side of the room I wait, holding the pillow to my front, wishing to be by your side so loudly I am surprised that my desire does not wake you. I want to nudge your elbow with my head and breathe into your arms. I let the cold wall cool my back instead of feeling the warmth of you. I will be strong. It is the only way. I will stop this silliness of wanting to be with you now. I will dismiss the ridiculous imagining of a happy ending, or a happy beginning even.
I remind myself of my place, of my role. I am not the girl who has that life. I must make that clear to the world and to myself. I put the pillow down. I find the familiar box, the cigarettes. I want a cigarette. I am thirty-five years old and I want a cigarette. There is no reason whatsoever that I should not have one. It would be perfectly acceptable if I turned the light on to help me find my clothes but I do not do this. I am showing consideration for you. I would not want to disturb your rest.
So I move in silence, laying my hands flat over clothes to detect them by touch, finding labels to help me put them on the right way. I shake as I dress, telling myself that this is only because I am in a strange place. I am unused to going outside on my own at night in this city and I am scared. I must toughen up and be brave.
But I am so sick of lying to myself. You make me feel utterly enveloped. I want to be in your arms, to feel the safety of you. All I want is to be held by you, to accept you, to stop fighting, to be home in you.
I steel myself. I make my eyes as wide as they can go to get the extra light I need to find my shoes on the dark floor. I touch my pocket and feel the smooth room key and the bulk of the cigarettes. I have all I need right here in my pocket. There is no need to loiter.
I rest my hand on the door handle as I let my head hang down. I am safer out there – I tell myself – safer where I know the risks, safer where I know the truth. As I push the handle down and pull the door towards me I feel a long forgotten thrill of rebellion. This is better than before though – there was nothing to rebel against before.
Will you forgive me for this? Before I even do wrong I want your forgiveness. I want so much to be with you in bed. I do not want to be out there alone.
I am out of the room now. I am committed. Head bowed I scuttle (the rebellious should not scuttle and yet this is how I move), my feet treading the repetitive pattern of the carpet with fast little geisha steps. My hand is empty without yours to hold so I touch the cardboard of the cigarette packet, but it offers little comfort. It is all that I have. I let my fingers trace the letters on the box.
I hear a door open behind me and consider nipping into a doorway to show an empty corridor, but this thought is too slow. I am too late. I hear you say my name.
You say it with such calm authority that we both know that within moments I will be standing in front of you, unable to meet your eyes, biting my lip, waiting for you. Because we both know this, you say my name without any hint of urgency, without emphasis. It is just my name, my full name, the name I do not hear except in the most formal of situations. The way you say it makes me stand still, like musical statues at a child’s party. The way you say it makes me squeeze my eyes shut as though that will make me invisible.
The way you say my name makes me turn around and glimpse you just for a moment before I drop my head. It is long enough to see you beckon me, a superfluous gesture but a kind one. It is kind because this is all new territory now. You are the only light in the dark; you have let me know you want me still.
I cannot tell you what I think as I walk towards you, other than the relief that I always feel when I approach you. I feel nothing but a blank.
Inside the room I tell you over and over again that I thought you were asleep. This is true. I really did think that. I can’t move for misery when you search for and find cigarettes. This is a new feeling, this misery at being caught, this lack of control. I cannot quite grasp that it is not up to me what happens next. I cannot grasp that you will not relent and let me get my own way. I cannot comprehend that you are stronger that I am and that your will is greater than mine. Your will is greater than my false will, my will that drags me around by my hair and hurts me. It occurs to me that you love me. It occurs to be that this is what love is.
I am loved by you. You are coming to save me and I am powerless to stop you.
When you put me in the corner I wish so much that I could cry. I hear you speak gently in my ear and I know for sure that yours is the only sound in the world that can drown out my own voice. I curl up on the sounds of your words and pull my feet in under me. I stay there, nestled in your tone but awkward and dismayed at where you place my body. All I know right now is what you tell me and that I am safe with you because you will only ever tell me the truth.
You move away from me and leave me there. I keep my eyes squeezed shut and my head bent against the vision of myself. I chose to pull away from you, I chose to defy you, and this act was a lie. It was a denial of what I am, it was an assault on my happiness, and ignorance of what we mean to one another. In the corner I am back in your control, with no chance to pretend otherwise. You are showing me how little effort it takes for you to control me utterly. You remain calm and composed; you will not be forced into action. You show me what control is.
I turn circles in my head while in my mind my arms reach for you, a little girl making herself dizzy. You show me how all I want is you. I realise all the lies I told myself, I am aware of all the other things I could have done rather than this. You would have taken me in your arms in an instant if I had asked. I was safe all along.
I need you to make this right. I know you will. I trust you so much that it dwarfs any other beliefs I have. I trust you more than I trust myself.
When you come to collect me it is such a relief that the arguments I offer for why I should not go over your knee are mere habit, part of some brat code of honour, too deeply ingrained to let go. I feel an unfamiliar relief when you ignore my words and soon every part of me is open to you as you talk to me while you scorch into me. You tell me what I have done wrong, you tell me what I am that led me to do it, and every stroke and every word is evidence that you love me. You see me, you see all of me and still you love me. I am safe at last.
I could spend the rest of my life pouring every element of my energy into doing all that I can to give you happiness and it would be nothing compared to what you have given me.
Narrator’s Note: Here ends Part 1 of The Legend of Violet Woodbine and Durward O’Really. Part 2 still is being lived.
