The correspondence began here.

Dear Miss Carlisle,

As I write this I am standing at my writing desk pen in one hand while the other cannot but stray to my behind where my skirts still chafe me. If it wasn’t for the Mary I would be risk the indecorous state of doing without my draws or even leave my skirts pinned up as you did on Sunday.

Last night I had to resort to having to stand at the mantelpiece over the fire in the small drawing room while I took supper. Mary was most confused and I had to claim lumbago. I think she was more surprised that I wore little but a housecoat over my loosest night gown, but since it was evening I felt decorum would just allow it.

Although you did not ask it of me I am writing to thank you for relenting when I asked to beg off church. I could no more have sat at my pew than flown to the moon and containing my tears or standing still at the back was quite beyond me. I fear it has been too long since I was so thoroughly chastised, although no doubt you think it needful.

Saturday afternoon was quite a trial, who knew that a simple childish smack bottom could hurt so. Well I did I suppose, from our life before, but I had forgotten. It was quite humbling to have ones skirts and petticoats turned up one by one until ones intimate parts are exposed to the ceiling.

Your hand stung my bare bottom so but that was nothing to the bite of the hairbrush which chewed and burned at me sometime after. It occurred to me that it had almost been futile to dismiss Mary for the afternoon as my heartfelt cries should have been heard in the village anyway. But seriously I do hope the windows were closed as I had forgotten about the gardener.

The spanking was sound and well deserved, although I did cry so. I would tell you how red my bottom was, but as I recall you saw that well enough when as promised you set me in the corner for the best part of the rest of the afternoon.

Nor had the ache subsided overmuch when you roused me at dawn for our excursion to the woods. I had forgotten how humbling it is to have ones skirts and petticoats pinned up to the waist and to be quite exposed bare behind to the world as one walks the dewy lanes. Thank the heavens that it was Sunday and no one was about at that time. I suspect you cared little about that and would say that my shame and humility were well deserved.

Had it not been for our hopes for church, no doubt too you would have had me wear less as in former days when I was marched out to the fields in little more than my shortest shift.

The gathering of thin wands of hazel, apple and birch was a grim parody of days spent picking wild flowers; I had forgotten how tummy twisting the apprehension is. Not to mention the added terror that at any moment we might be discovered and our purpose, my shame and so very bare bottom would exposed to a stranger’s eyes; still worse a friend or neighbour or perhaps the servant of such. Oh how they would gossip.

When we chanced upon Miss Dandridge gathering wild herbs in Denver’s Copse I nearly died. I thought you would burst with amusement as I tried to keep my aspect facing forward so that she would not guess what we were about. Thank heaven she did not dawdle.

Once back at the house the making of the rods came flooding back, but it only then occurred to me that Mary was up and about and might discover us at any minute, clever of you though to have pre-prepared rods, and so many.

Luckily the house is so large and my late father-in-law’s study so far from the kitchen. As I lay bent over the Ottoman I wonder how I would have looked with my bare bottom so upwardly exposed if Mary had of come to investigate the noise.

Oh the noise.

The thrash of the rods in the air and then finding its target was nothing to my screams. I must apologise for my cowardice. But you have no idea of the searing burn of those wicked hateful withes. I was sure my skin was quite cut off or at least melted. The tiny grazing and blisters are something to behold even now.

I did not count the strokes or the number of times you change rods. At the ending of each set I suppose, but my senses were not equal to notice.

Were there three sets of strokes or perhaps more? I know there were no less. I know too that the stroke count could be numbered in dozens at each turn of my thrashing. How my bottom boiled and blistered. It is no wonder that I cannot sit down, nor will I for a day or two. Justice I suppose, and honour requires I thank you. I think I neglected to do so amid my tears on Sunday?

I am quite fatigued but strangely cleansed still. Perhaps you will take tea with me on Thursday?

Yours humbly and obediently,

Amelia

To be continued…