Copyright 2026 by Governess, all rights reserved
[2,576 words]´
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ISOBEL, MARIA AND DOROTHY AND THEIR TWO BROTHERS HOWARD AND MILES PART V
The next day started with a pleasant breakfast with the children bubbly yet polite. However, there was a distinct lack
of enthusiasm when we made our way to the schoolroom. For each of the older children I had set a series of maths
problems appropriate to their age; while for Dorothy I intended to have her practice forming her letters and reading
to me.
I was pleased to see among the older children a certain wariness and restraint in their behaviour. This, I hoped,
would not inhibit effort but encourage them to apply themselves to the tasks they had been set. I then taught them for
a hour covering the ground needed by each of them for the morning's work During this time Dorothy was copying out her
letters. When the older children tackled their assignments for the morning, I tested her letter recognition. After a
while, it was clear that she was tiring of the task and finding it increasingly boring, swinging her legs and looking
anywhere but at her book. I chided her, and then reinforced this with a sharp smack to the back of her leg.
“Sit still, Dorothy, and pay attention.”
She stared at me for a moment, and then screaming until red in the face threw herself down, kicking and drumming her
heels on the floor. Her siblings stopped work, and the schoolroom was held in a moment of anticipation. Dorothy had
her hair in a single plait. I reached down and seized it, dragging her to her feet, as she raged and howled.
“How dare you behave in such away. Stop this nonsense immediately.”
I pulled her on to the tips of her toes, and raising my right hand slapped her face hard, and than again. I lifted her
bodily and stood her on a low three legged stool. She stamped and fought, and then collapsed. I again reached for her
plait and yanked her upright, and slapped her face four or five times in quick succession. They were hard stinging
smacks that had her stamping her feet, although she was now standing upright on the stool. I waited while she slowly
calmed down and stood weeping yet still defiant.
“You will stand there in disgrace until I decide how to deal with such a disgraceful outburst.”
I looked at the older children
“Please continue with your work. And remember there is a test at the end of the day, when lack of effort and poor work
will receive the punishment it deserves.”
They all kept their heads down, but I am sure were wondering what fate was in store for their little sister. And, I
too, was considering how best to best deal with her. I recalled what Frederich Nietzsche had written.
Seeing others suffer does one good; making others suffer even more so.
And how true that was, I thought. The older children would watch as I punished Dorothy, and each would enjoy her
suffering in their own way. Those who regarded their little sister as spoilt would take particular pleasure in seeing
her hauled to her feet and forced into tearful submission, and would be eagerly awaiting whatever further torment was
in store for her. But whereas that was a passive pleasure, the greater pleasure came, as Nietzsche recognised, from
the infliction of suffering itself.
I knew that I delighted in a child’s bodily chastisement. Some might discipline a child and regard it as no more than
a regrettable necessity. But for me, and for any committed disciplinarian, there is a compelling and refined cruelty
at work. A sobbing child who had badly grazed an elbow or knee arouses pity; but the roars of a child suffering for
its sins stir a deep satisfaction at its anguish, and the weals raised on firm young flesh, an indescribable pleasure.
Some may deprecate this, but without such a force impelling those tasked with the disciplining of children, the
effectiveness of chastisement would be much reduced.
That there is an element of cruelty in effective chastisement seems undeniable. A mother sends her disobedient
eight-year-old son to the room where punishments are given. She follows him up. The room has little in it but an
upright chair beside which is a padded stool of approximately the same height on which has been placed an oval
wooden-backed hairbrush. Without a further word she strips the boy to his vest. He knows better than to resist. She
picks up the hairbrush and seats herself. The boy is guided across her lap, the upper part of his body supported on
the adjacent stool. She is keenly aware of his shame and his shivering fear of the beating about to be inflicted. He
squirms as she runs her hand lightly over the fullness of his buttocks, and gives several gentle, caressing smacks to
the sensitive surface.
No! Please, no. Please don't spank me. Please, Mama
But he knows no pleading ever leads to the remission of a penalty. He must learn obedience. She raises the brush and
with that wristy action that marks out the experienced spanker from the novice, imprints the first oval mark on the
waiting flesh. He roars and screams. The smarting agony increases until he knows he can bear it no longer. The flames
of Hell are consuming him. But like that place of eternal torment, no end to his suffering is in sight. The strokes
are given in a steady even rhythm. Sometimes she delivers six or more to the same spot. Then, moves around
unpredictably until both buttocks are a deep smarting crimson. Then, she again focuses on a single spot, before
turning her attention to the backs of his thighs. She knows that, above all else, a boy dreads his thighs being
spanked. She gives a dozen strokes to each, working down from the fold of his buttocks to the hollow of the knees. By
now the boy is beside himself. In conclusion, she stands the sobbing child in the downstairs hall, face to the wall,
with the marks of chastisement visible for all to see. After twenty minutes, he is told to dress and rejoin the
family. He knows that if there are house guests, even if they have not seen him standing in disgrace, they will have
heard his screams and now seeing his flushed and tear-stained face be in no doubt that this is the boy they heard
being beaten.
It is impossible to believe that cruelty is not the enabling spirit behind this. And for many that renders such
discipline open to the most virulent condemnation. But can discipline and punishment ever be effective without that
element of cruelty? The saying is “cruel to be kind". And certainly ineffective, discipline that can be shrugged off
by the child is no kindness. The truth seems to be that we need to recognise our capacity for cruelty and acknowledge
that it can be deployed constructively. Parents who shy away from this also shy away from effective discipline and
particularly from those harsh punishments that are so often necessary.
I looked at Dorothy sobbing quietly on the stool. She needed the soundest of spankings to cure her of that propensity
to tantrum whenever checked by authority. And that she was going to get.
“Dorothy, you will remain on the stool. Maria will undress you.”
I nodded toward Maria.
“Remove her shoes first, and then roll down her stockings.”
I watched as Maria eased off the shoes and then reached up under her dress. I could see from the way Dorothy was
pouting that her earlier belligerence was returning. As her stockings slithered down her legs, she burst into angry
tears, hitting Maria’s arm and knocking her hand away.
I don’t want to be on the stool. I don’t want my clothes off. You can’t, you can’t.
She jumped off the stool screaming and kicking, and threw herself on the floor. Maria stepped back looking pale and
apprehensive.
“Resume your seat, Maria.”
I looked down at the screaming child. Then, kneeling beside her, stroked her head affectionately, and pulled her
stockings inside out while leaving her feet inside the ends. I continued to caress her head.
“Stop crying, Dorothy. These tantrums have got to stop.”
I took the lengths of stockings and criss-crossed them and wound them tightly around her ankles and then knotted the
ends firmly together. I stood up.
“Well, Dorothy, you have chosen to lie on the floor and that’s where you’ll stay. Until I decide otherwise.”
I turned to the other children
“Please resume your work.”
After a while Dorothy passed from angry resentful crying to tears of self-pity. Over the years I have become quite the
expert in the interpretation of childish tears. The way a child cries when it cuts its knee is quite different from
the tears of an angry defiant child; and both differ again from that tearful contrition that is the aim of a sound
spanking.
“You can stop grizzling, Dorothy.”
She pulled up her knees and curled into a ball, weeping softly. When the short break in lessons arrived at eleven
o’clock, I again turned to Maria.
“Pull her knickers down to her ankles, Maria, and remove her clothes.”
I watched as Dorothy made herself into a defensive ball, screaming and clutching at herself. Maria hesitated, looking
at me.
“What is the problem, Maria? Do as I say. Pull her knickers down to her ankles and strip off her clothes.”
Maria reached under the skirt to grasp the hem of the knickers that clung protectively to her bottom flesh, and
slithered them down legs. If she had not been retrained by the stockings, she would be kicking in protest making
Maria’s task that much more difficult She rolled around trying to evade Maria’s grasp, but her sister was, I could
see, visibly excited by the prospect of stripping her and soon Dorothy was completely bare apart from the knickers
around her ankles. She was a helpless lamb prepared and ready to be sacrificed.
And sacrifice was the right word. Each spanking, I thought, is a ‘living sacrifice’ offered to God for the forgiveness
of sin. Regular spanking should be a part of every child’s discipline, bringing the delinquent to a place of sobbing,
heartfelt repentance. If this is followed by absolution and reconciliation, the understanding will grow that sins have
to be expiated and that only through suffering is this possible. In that alone, is to be found peace and the joy of a
renewed life. But Dorothy was far from that desirable state of grace.
“Thank you, Maria. You may resume your place.”
I looked down at the child. Her siblings were watching intently. I had wondered whether to roll her over and spank her
on the floor, but decided that such lack of formality was to be avoided.
“Up on your feet, Dorothy. And stop whining.”
Slowly and uncertainly she tried to struggle up, but with her feet bound each time she sank back, angry and resentful.
Her brothers and sisters were grinning, but fortunately for them made no comment. I picked up the hairbrush and
smacked it across my palm.
“Come along, Dorothy, you are wasting time.”
I moved a chair forward, and she reached out and pulled herself upright. Her bottom was small but perfectly formed.
Two soft sensitive mounds of resilient flesh. I pulled her across my lap. Had she not been restrained, she would have
been kicking furiously.
Some, at Dorothy’s age, spank only with their hand, but from the outset, I have always employed an implement. It
conveys seriousness and expresses the harsh reality of the discipline required when rules are disregarded. My
preference has always been for the hairbrush, with its hard smooth wooden back. The flesh of the buttocks is soft and
sensitive and primed for such discipline. Firm strokes that smart and sting are essential. In a prolonged spanking
such as Dorothy was about to receive, I had every expectation that given the softness of her buttocks, in places the
skin would break and become a little bloody. I see nothing to worry about in that. It is a perfectly natural
consequence given her age and the vigour of the spanking. At the conclusion, I wipe each buttock with a little
surgical spirit which not only cleanses but also has the merit of stinging unpleasantly. When a child is brokenly
sobbing, I stand them in disgrace, facing the wall for a short period. For a child of Dorothy’s age probably for not
more than ten minutes.
With one arm firmly round her body, I raised the brush, laying on firm even strokes and alternating between each
buttock until they were a lively pink. She was crying but tears of anger far from the contrition that was desired. I
paused for a moment, glancing at the other children and then raised the brush and continued. Another dozen strokes.
Now, the cheeks were a deeper pink. She continued screaming and I could feel the resistance in her small body,
fighting the punishment and opposing my authority. Up to now, the strokes had been firm, stinging and unpleasant, but
lacking much of the wrist action that reduces a child to wriggling agony, believing they are about to die. And that is
how the next two dozen strokes were given. Now both buttocks were crimson and in places the skin had worn away,
leaving patches of damp red soreness.
The naughty five-year-old was gasping for air, screaming and writhing. Holding her firmly in place was made easier by
her inability to kick. I waited. Her screams were, I thought, now driven more by the sheer pain of the spanking, and
less by her earlier rage and resentment. And yet . . . there was a stiffness in her body that spoke of self-will
rather than complete submission. She struggled and attempted to rise.
No! No! Stop! It hurts. No!
That was sufficient evidence that my work was not yet done. And, in truth, I was not displeased. Holding this defiant
little five-year-old over my knee and imparting a painful lesson in obedience and good manners was deeply pleasurable.
To bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion I decided that a dozen strokes to the back of each of her thighs should
be sufficient to break her resistance and open the way to a genuine heartfelt contrition. In the event, I gave her two
dozen. She was sobbing, limp, and exhausted. I lifted her off my lap, and stood her between my legs.
“Stop crying, Dorothy, and listen to me. You have been a naughty, rude and disobedient little girl. Throwing yourself
on the floor, screaming and throwing a tantrum. In future, that is not going to happen. And if it does, you will be
spanked.”
I hugged her close and kissed her.
“Now if I undo your ankles, are you going to behave? If not, you will have to go back on the floor for the rest of the
day, and take all your meals on a plate like a little dog.”
“No, no, not back on the floor.”
“Then, are you going to behave?”
“Yes, yes. Please not the floor”
I went to my desk and fetched a pair of scissors and cut away the stockings as the knot had so tightened that undoing
it easily was not possible.