Pleasure From Pain (Part Three)

May 9, 1896

Margaret Spooner

Do you like to whistle? I like to whistle. I do it most of the time much to the annoyance of my roommates. I should probably care but do you think I do?

After two years at Primrose College you might even think I would have made a lot of friends. You would be wrong to think it but you might anyway. I really cannot even recall most of their names. Which provides for some amusing mornings in the hallway.

Take a couple mornings ago, I was waiting for my turn at the bath. In front of me was a blonde, I have seen her before. How could I have not? We live on the same floor. I have not an inkling of what her name would be though. She was carrying on a conversation, normally such things require a minimum of two participants but she was quite gifted. Maybe I should have listened to her but I was thinking about biology and whistling. I think I mentioned I like to do that. What was the tune? Hmmm… I guess it really has no bearing still annoying I cannot recall it.

Where was I? Oh, yes, blonde soliloquy in front of me in the hallway. Imagine, me whistling away and she actually thought we were having a conversation? Sometimes I wonder if Primrose College is a brains optional facility. No doubt I could make a case for it. If only I could perform a dissection on a few likely candidates, I might even prove it.

“So what do you think?” The gifted, brainless, blonde asked me.

Now exactly how was I supposed to answer such a generic question?

“About what?” I asked.

“Penelope!”

Every head in the hallway turned toward us. I looked around and shrugged.

“Which one is Penelope?” I asked.

The girl behind me, she is one of my roommates, Carrie, Cathy, Carol, or something like that, said, “The blonde.”

I wanted to ask why she was talking about herself in the third person but somewhere in the back of my mind an etiquette instructor advised me it was inappropriate.

“Oh um, very talented.” I said diplomatically.

Well it was true from a certain point of view. How many people can carry on a ten minute conversation with themselves without a breath?

“Oh and I suppose you think we should be schooling with the boys as well?” She sounded annoyed at me.

Now, I realize I am not the most socially observant person, but considering Primrose College is located in the midst of Brown University and the land is all owned by the aforementioned university, I cannot figure how any would consider we were not schooling with the boys. According to the prospectus the classes at Primrose are equivalent to the classes at Brown. If they want to send a boy or two into Primrose Hall for classes I cannot see why I should care one way or the other. Clearly the deranged blonde was not one with whom to debate this though.

“Penelope,” I began.

The bath door opened at the same moment and a girl with curly blonde hair exited. She looked at me strangely.

“Yes?” She said.

I looked between the two blondes and realized after a small amount of deduction that the one exiting the bath was Penelope and the one in front of me was simply deranged.

“Nothing.” I said, deciding an explanation was going to be far too complicated.

I am better off whistling. The one I presume to be Penelope, huffed (and puffed) before trotting off to her room to finish dressing. No doubt she drew an incorrect conclusion from my response but I doubt any explanation I could provide would improve matters.

My roommate standing behind me stepped forward to explain once Penelope was gone. Wonderful timing, yes?

“Her name is Lucy.” She said pointing at the deranged blonde.

“Oh.” I replied with a slight shrug.

“Of course I’m Lucy, Who did you think I was?” The deranged girl seemed to be getting more deranged.

“Penelope.” I replied to her almost instantly.

Her cheeks blazed red and she huffed (and puffed) and turned around in line to ignore me from that moment on.

I sighed and returned to whistling.

My roommate giggled as did a number of the other girls around us. To be honest I wanted to as well but that etiquette coach in my head said it was bad to laugh at someone. Oh well.

Interestingly, on the same day later in the afternoon I encountered the Penelope girl yet again. I was sadly bringing a note from Dr. Phallic to Mrs. Carrington.

He has a decidedly sour personality. The good doctor that is. He is knowledgeable enough but has the annoying habit of getting ahead of himself in lectures. For the last two years in his class I have repeatedly offered my assistance in filling in the gaps.

Unfortunately, his raging ego on occasion roars up (as it did this day) and he satisfies himself by whacking my butt red. As though it will somehow make me less right?

So, yes, it was with a sore, irritated, backside I re-entered the house in the afternoon. Worse, I was in possession of a scrawled note for Mrs. Carrington with a suggestion (Is it really a suggestion if she never takes private consideration?) that she further my chastisement. Looking around I did not see her about as she usually is and so naturally I proceeded to her den.

The door was closed but then it is always closed. I did not hear any sounds from within. If I had I might not have entered without knocking. That is when I encountered the Penelope the girl for the second time.

She sat in one of the chairs, crying her eyes out into Mr. Carrington’s handkerchief. Both Mister and Misses Carrington were standing with their backs to me and apparently offering her some comfort. I can only imagine what woeful tale she must have told them.

Mrs. Carrington turned toward me looking about as startled as a five year old caught in the cookie jar.

“How dare you?” She accused.

“I have a note.” I offered.

“Of course, give it here.” She snapped impatiently.

I handed it to her without trepidation. I stood still waiting for her to announce my impending doom. Honestly, it is never so bad but I cannot say I look forward to her chastisements either.

She did not read the note but put it into the fold of her skirt and pointed me to the door.

“We will discuss it after dinner.” She said closing the door on me.

I heard it lock before I walked away. I was disappointed not to get the whole thing over with. Waiting for an impending punishment is often a punishment in itself. Do you have any idea how an active imagination can ramp up the tension before an unknown yet anticipated event? Trust me, it is significant.

The best way to deal with such tension is to bury oneself in studies. I decided to do such and it was there I encountered the deranged, uh Lucy girl, for the second time in the day.

She had a gleeful look about her. Had I not known better (curious phrase as I really do not know better) I would have thought she was the child who got away with stealing from the cookie jar.

I pretended to be happy, it is not so easy with blazing buttocks sitting on hard wooden chairs. If you do not believe me, try it! I thought it might do well to be polite to the deranged, uh Lucy girl.

“Good afternoon.” I said.

“So it is.” She beamed.

“Someone is in a good mood.”

“Oh, yes. The best I have felt in ages.”

I wonder if she really believes she has been around for ages?

“Good news indeed. I could use some of that cheer.” I stated remembering etiquette for the umpteenth time in the day.

“You remember Jennifer Abbott?” She asked.

I nodded that I did. I have no recollection of the name or any face to go with it but I sensed it would be unwise to admit it to the deranged, uh Lucy girl.

“She was not responsible for what happened to her. It was Penelope who set her up.”

I had no idea what she was talking about. So I nodded my head politely.

“Well, I finally found a way to get revenge for her.” She giggled.
Revenge? Hmmm… In my experience this is a dangerous word.

“How so?” I enquired despite being certain I wanted no knowledge of it.

“You cannot tell a soul.” She said leaning closer to me.

We were quite alone. I looked around to reassure myself even. Looking back at her I determined she was bursting to tell someone and while my instincts told me she should be confessing to Mrs. Carrington, I thought perhaps I had better listen and do the confessing for the deranged, uh Lucy girl.

“I promise.” I lied.

“She made it look as though Jenny had cheated by altering her school work.” Her eyes were bulging at me as she spoke.

It was at this juncture I recalled the poor girl who was expelled and attributed the name of Jennifer Abbott to her. I nodded for the deranged, uh Lucy girl to continue.

“It is so fitting.” She giggled.

“Yes?” I prompted her more.

“I burned her school work and replaced it with her notes.” She burst into a fit of maniacal laughter.

My initial reaction should have had my own eyes popping from their secure placement in my head. I maintain some common sense though and decided it would be safest to join her in laughter.

When she finally regained some slight semblance of composure (how composed can a deranged girl be?) she turned to me with a deadly serious gaze.

“You cannot tell anyone.” She hissed.

“Not a soul.” I lied with an equally serious look upon my face.

How could anyone be so cruel to a fellow pupil? She skipped on her way apparently elated to have shared her secret and even more elated to have landed a fellow Primrose girl in trouble.

I recalled the crying Penelope in Mrs. Carrington’s den and resolved I would expose the deranged, uh Lucy girl at the earliest avail. Not surprisingly, it turned out to be after the evening meal.

I re-entered the den, with express invitation this time. I have been behind the closed door enough times to no longer bother with false hopes of escaping with not but a scathing lecture. I began unfastening my dress and removing it. Mrs. Carrington always seems appreciative when I am accepting of punishment in this way.

“Just the dress, Margaret. I think we can handle this without the need for more.”

That was a relief.

“Yes, ma’am.” I replied.

She took a seat on her armless chair and once my dress was removed and lying safely on the floor I draped myself over her lap.

She rested the wooden brush on my upturned buttocks and gave me the required if not tired lecture.

“How many times have we been here?” She began.

“Too many, ma’am.” I answered honestly.

“Too many indeed. I would think by now you would learn to keep you silence in Dr. Phallic’s classroom.”

“I forget myself at times, ma’am.”

She gave a small laugh.

“You do indeed, Miss Spooner. You do indeed.”

She slapped the brush down on me. My eyes stung with un-fallen tears. She spanked again. I bit at my lip. And so the spanking began.

Mrs. Carrington is an expert in delivering spankings. My own father has seldom done as well let alone better. Her punishing smacks slowly build in intensity. She covers the entirety of the buttocks in a slow methodical fashion, creating a near intolerable burn that stings like a thousand ant bites.

I writhe from side to side on her lap. My legs kick involuntarily in the air. My fists clench in desperate frustration. Tears fall in a pool on the floor and my face reddens as well as my tortured buttocks. I try to remain silent but I never succeed. She always drives the cries from my lips and the pleas for mercy and forgiveness. Only when she has heard the sincerity in my broken voice does she lay the brush aside.

My father would be pleased.

She helped me to stand after it was all over. My hands shot back to rub my blazing butt. It never helps but the action seems inevitable just as the hopping from foot to foot in a circle. It is a humiliating moment and when it is in private as it was that night I am eternally grateful.

Mrs. Carrington allowed me a few moments to calm down before she helped me into my dress again. She was feeling generous and not giving me stool time. I suppose she has come to realize these sessions will be a fixture of our lives as long as I remain at Primrose College. I know I have resigned myself to it.

Modesty restored, I decided timing was right.

“May I have a word ma’am?” I asked.

She let her hand fall away from the door and turned back to me.

“What can I help you with Margaret?” She asked not at all unkindly.

“I had a most illuminating encounter this afternoon…”