A caning in service

I suspect my story is very different from the majority of spanking memories you receive, primarily because although I was still technically a child when it happened, I had left school and this incident happened in the environment of the workplace.

I should begin by saying that I had a very happy upbringing and had no real encounters with corporal punishment either at home or school. I suspect my mum may have given me the occasional swat to my bottom when I was a very little girl, but I certainly had no experience of being put over her knee with my pants down, as with many of your other contributors.

Although, as I say, I was generally a very well behaved girl both at home and school, at the latter I didn’t really shine. To be honest, I wasn’t much of an academic achiever and by the time I reached 16, I had to think very carefully about what to do next. My exam results were so mediocre as to more or less rule out staying on in the sixth form to do my A levels. However, neither was I really qualified or experienced enough for many of the jobs out there – this was the early 1980s, so employment opportunities were scarce enough as it was.

Eventually, through a friend of a friend, my parents learned that there was an opening for a housemaid at a big house in the next county, the home of a baronet. You will understand if I’m not any more specific than that, given that many of the people of that time may still be with us. With the lack of many other options, I decided to take the job. My parents drove me up to the house, where I was interviewed by Sir David (let’s call him). I passed the interview with flying colours and was handed over to the housekeeper to settle in and be instructed in my duties.

I was a bit homesick for the first couple of weeks but soon settled in. The other servants, five in all, were all very nice to me and Mrs Murdoch, the housekeeper (again, name changed, sorry!), was particularly kind to me – a real mother hen.

All went well for the first couple of months. It was hard work, and the hall was big and drafty. Like most of these houses, it had seen better days and coal fires were needed in most of the rooms to keep it warm. There were radiators but most either didn’t work or perhaps it cost Sir David and his wife too much to run them, I don’t really know to be honest.

Then, one morning while I was dusting in an upstairs room, peacefully humming to myself as I did so, the sleeve of my dress caught the bottom of a plate stand on a sideboard, sweeping it off on to the floor. I looked down and saw that it had broken into three pieces.

For a moment, I was frozen to the spot, unsure of what to do. Then I put my brain into gear. I was sure I would be sacked for carelessness, even though it looked just like a grotty old plate to me. However, there were plenty of others on the sideboard and I thought one might perhaps not be missed if I re-spaced out the others.

So I did that – but what about the broken plate? I dared not put it in the bin, as it would be quickly found by one of the other servants. I rummaged through the sideboard drawers desperately and eventually found a large padded envelope. I quickly put the pieces in the envelope and buried the evidence below loads of other stuff in the bottom drawer. By now a bag of nerves, I managed to finish my duties in the room and fled.

Two days later, all the servants had had their morning briefing from the housekeeper and I was about to get to work when Mrs Murdoch indicated to me that I should stay behind. Once the others had gone about their business, the housekeeper went over to a drawer in her desk and to my horror she produced the envelope, slowly taking out the broken pieces of plate.

“So, Julie, what can you tell me about this?” As I say, I was always really quite a good kid and had always been a useless liar. For want of a better plan, I came clean. Mrs Murdoch was silent for a moment, then said: “Well, Julie, you telling the truth might just have saved you your job. I say might, mind you! I’m sorry, but you will have to see Sir David about this. As you will find out, many things in this house are very old and quite valuable. Go and get on with your work for now.”

There was no relief really in this news, and my legs were distinctly wobbly as I went about my work. I was so nervous, I nearly knocked off an ornament from the mantelpiece in the morning room! About an hour later, Mrs Murdoch came to me and said that Sir David would see me in his study at two o’clock. By then it was about 11, and three hours have never dragged by so slowly, believe me!

Just before two I went for a wee, largely to stop me from wetting myself with fear, then went along the long corridor to Sir David’s study. I knocked nervously, barely a tap, then heard my employer shout: “Come!” I went in and there he was, sitting at his desk. I would say he was in his early 60s by this time. On the other side of the desk sat Mrs Murdoch, with an empty chair beside her, into which I was motioned.

Sir David went through my offence with the help of the housekeeper. Then he turned to me and said: “Julie, I’m afraid this is very serious. That plate was worth several thousands of pounds and there is no hope of you realistically paying that money back on your wages. Furthermore, you tried to cover up your crime, and I don’t stand for deceit at any price.”

I squirmed, expecting my dismissal to be announced. Then Sir David added: “However, you are young and inexperienced, and Mrs Murdoch has kindly emphasised to me that you didn’t lie about the incident when confronted with it.

“Therefore, I am going to give you a chance – and a choice. You can be sent back to your parents today – this will not be a formal dismissal, but I will not give you any sort of reference, nor will I attempt to hide why you had to leave my service if a prospective future employer asks me about the matter.”

I squirmed again. That was really almost as bad as being sacked outright, and I couldn’t begin to think what my mum and dad would say if I came home under such circumstances.

“Alternatively, as you are still quite a young girl, perhaps a dose of corporal punishment might teach you to be more careful, and more honest, about your duties in future. In which case, it will be six strokes of the cane. It will be given on your bare bottom, and I’m afraid it will hurt you very much.”

I must have gone white as a sheet. Sir David rose. “I have to talk to my agent for a few minutes. I will leave you here with Mrs Murdoch and expect you to have made a choice when I return.”

When he left I burst into tears. Mrs Murdoch remained calm. “Come on, my dear – I’m sure you’ve had a smacked bottom from your father before now? It’s much the best option – you don’t want a bad record.”

But of course, I had never been beaten as a child and I was now a very frightened girl. Tears flowed as I agonised over two terrible choices. Mrs Murdoch hugged me. “Come now, it’ll hurt and be sore for a few days, but it’ll soon be over with and it’ll never be mentioned again. What do you say?” I wiped my eyes and said: “All right.” “Good girl.”

Sir David returned and I informed him of my choice. “Very well, Julie. I think it’s much the best thing, myself. Mrs Murdoch, prepare her while I go and fetch the cane.”

After he shut the door behind him again, Mrs Murdoch turned to me: “Stand up, take your knickers off and give them to me.” I did so, grimacing with the embarrassment. I handed Mrs Murdoch my pants and she scrunched them up and tucked them up her sleeve. Then she took the chair I had been sitting in and put it to one side. “Bend over the desk, please.” I obeyed, putting my hands flat on the tooled leather top.

Then I felt Mrs Murdoch lifting the hem of my dress away from my bare bottom and folding it up my back. I turned my face to the right – there was a full length mirror in the room and I caught my reflection, bent over like a naughty schoolgirl for my first ever dose of the cane. Mrs Murdoch looked at me in the mirror and said: “Best look to the front, Julie. If you see the stroke coming, you’ll tense your bottom up and it will hurt a lot more, believe me.”

She patted my left bum cheek in an affectionate, motherly way. “Come and see me as soon as it’s over, and we’ll rub some Nivea in and you can have your knickers back.”

I heard the door open once more. “Thank you, Mrs Murdoch. You may leave us.” “Yes, Sir David.” I looked in the mirror again, this time to see my employer with the cane in his hand – a standard school model, by the look of it, about 3ft or so long with a crook handle.

“Eyes front, Julie!” Sir David barked. Remembering Mrs Murdoch’s advice, I obeyed. “Now, I expect you to take this like a big girl. If you need a cry, you will do it after the punishment, not during. And you will stay in position until I say you may go. Is that clear?” “Yes sir,” I managed to croak back. “Very well.”

As I now stared resolutely forward, I felt the cane being tapped across the full width of my behind. I’m not sure what was worse at this point, the fear or the embarrassment that this dirty old man was getting a good view of everything I had back there. I didn’t have long to contemplate, though, as I heard a short ‘whoosh’ followed by a ‘whack’ and a thunderbolt of pain across my bum. I yelped but tried not to cry.

The next few minutes were agony. Sir David took his time with the beating, leaving a good 30 seconds or stroke between so I could appreciate the sting and presumably so that he, the old perv, could appreciate my body.

After the sixth stroke, Sir David put the cane rattling down on to the desktop in front of me, then briefly felt first one cheek of my now very sore bottom and then the other. It wasn’t exactly a feeling-up, but it was obvious it was done out of pleasure rather than necessity.

“You may go back to your duties, Julie,” he said at last. He picked the cane up and left. When he had gone, I looked at my bottom in the mirror – it had six neat parallel stripes across it. I looked like a bloody zebra! I let my dress fall back into place, wincing as the rough serge came into contact with my arse.

I walked unsteadily back to Mrs Murdoch’s room, determined not see anyone see my cry. But once there, I did burst into tears. She held me for a few minutes, stroking my hair and calming me down. “Learned your lesson?” she asked. I nodded emphatically. The housekeeper went to the drawer where the broken plate had been and this time took out my knickers, and a jar of Nivea cold cream.

“Raise your dress, my dear.” I did so and then felt her motherly hand rubbing the cream into my buttocks, now corrugated with the blossoming cane marks. Finally, she took my knickers out of another drawer. “Come along, now – pants back on and let’s make you decent again.

“Back to work – and be more careful in future, all right?” “Yes, Mrs Murdoch.” “Off you trot, then.” She gave me a crisp smack on my bottom as I passed her, which was innocuous enough in its own right but which made me wince given the treatment my rear end had just received.

After I’d been at the hall around another nine months – with thankfully no repeat of such an incident – another of the servant girls, just a bit older than me, disappeared suddenly. The staff were told she had suddenly had to leave because of ‘family matters’. That proved about spot on, as many years later I learned that Sir David had got her pregnant and paid her off.

Today, of course, he would have been reported to the police and faced some serious charges – but that’s not how it worked in those days. It’s obvious now that his ‘offer’ on the broken plate was just an excuse to beat me – and get a look at my bum, arsehole and fanny in the process.

Contributor: Julie

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