Anonymous - Birch in the boudoir

… A leather strap round your throat, Noreen, that I may guide you by its reins… Rise now, turn, and bend… Sit upon the love-lance… Deep in your behind. Noreen!… Move up and down gently… And thus, my sweet Lizzie… Harder, Noreen, you young bitch!

Believe me, Lizzie, your own adoring Charles.

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 sovs 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.