Every Picture Tells a Story

A Green Gables story from Blushes Supplement 21

Blonde head bowed, hands placed palms-in and thrust down between her knees, Angela kept her blushes hidden as best she could while out of the corner of her eye she watched his hand stroke the red leather cover of the album, the fingers tap-tap, the thumb lifts a corner of the cover and then lets it plop back into place again.

Awful though the past week had been, she had somehow known all along that this was going to be the awfullest bit; the coming-home from Green Gables and the interview with Uncle Thomas, who had funded her week-long stay at what he had described as a ‘Further Education Establishment’, intended to cater for the girl who had gone to university or had started out in banking or accountancy or the law, which had proven to be one humiliation after another, one hot and spank-tender bottom before the next, with snap-shots taken on each occasion by ‘Matron’, to demonstrate to her sponsor that she had indeed, as promised, been introduced to those aspects of discipline specified by her ‘benefactor’.

Already Uncle Thomas’ questions, casually asked, but asked with a gleam in his eye that she knew well, had promoted hot, embarrassed blushes in her cheeks. And now the questions were becoming more pointed, more and more humiliating to answer, stutteringly, eyes downcast, thighs pressed close together and flushes raging in her cheeks. And soon he would open the book that she had been sent home with; all that way on the train, with the evidence of all the humiliating things that had happened to her heavy on her lap, wrapped innocuously in brown paper tied with string. Soon he would open it —

‘So how many times, in all, would you say, did Mr Ewhurst have occasion to — ah — take your knickers down, Angela? Hmmm?’

She could feel the heat in her face as she stumbled over her answer, making it as oblique as she could, humiliated at having to say anything at all about it.

‘Um — well, I’m not sure I can — can be sure —’

‘Come along now, Angela. I’d hoped this little course of discipline might also have cured you of your shyness.’

‘Um — well, about —’

About how many times was it? Sunday; she’d arrived at half past four. Upstairs, in her little room, after she’d unpacked. Then in his study; and then there had been tea-time, then she’d had to have a bath, so there was that, and then bed-time — the recollection brought all the pent-up emotion of the past week welling to the surface. Silently, Angela began to cry, feeling the tears rolling down her cheeks. Her shoulders trembled then shook gently, then she snuffled and gulped and, at last, dared to look up. Pretty lips parted, eyes shining with tears, she blurted pathetically, resentfully, that; ‘It — it seemed like all the time. Uncle Thomas. Every day — he — he —’

‘Everyday? Oh, my poor dear. Took your knickers down every day?’

‘N-no — every day he — I — I seemed to h-have my knickers off more than on! He sp-spanked me lots of t-times—’

‘With your knickers down. Eh?’

‘Y-yes — always with my knick-knickers down.’

‘More than once a day then. Hmmm?’

‘Yes — lots more than that —’

His fingers were picking at the edges of the pages, eager to open the album and see the evidence of her spankings, strappings, canings.

‘So, how many times, my dear? All together, how many times did Mr Ewhurst take your knickers down?’

How many times? She tried to concentrate, still weeping quietly, half of her mind knowing that it didn’t matter, because in the back of the book there was a folder full of reports, on little forms, detailing every one of her punishments; the other half clinging on desperately to the need to think of something, to add the times up, to concentrate on something so that she didn’t run sobbing from the room and out of the house, away from Uncle Thomas, who wasn’t her uncle anyway, back home to Mum, who’d sent her to Uncle Thomas, with his promises of a career in banking, provided that she went on a course at Green Gables, and other courses too, though she didn’t yet know what those might entail. How many times. At last she took a deep, steadying breath and said:

‘A-about — about thirty t-times — I th-think!’

‘Thirty times. Dear oh dear, Angela. What a naughty, naughty girl you must have been.’

His fingers prised the book open; the cover fell back and she could see a photograph, edgeways on, shining in the light from the window.

‘No wonder this is such a thick book — thirty times — so there’ll be thirty photographs in here, Angela of you with your knickers taken down? Hmmm?’

I’m n-not sure,’ she said, whisperingly. Because six days and five punishments a day, did come to thirty, didn’t it? Only, the question had been; ‘How many times did he take your knickers down?’ And that wasn’t the same as ‘How many times did he smack your bottom? Or cane it, or strap it.’ Because, of course, a girl had to have her knickers taken down if she was going to be — well. Thirty photographs? Oh God — no! No — there couldn’t be more than that, could there!

No! Oh, God! He couldn’t have photographed those times!

Uncle Thomas worked his way slowly through the album. Angela counted pages. At page thirty two, a strange look came over Uncle Thomas’ face; he looked up at her, blush-cheeked as she was, and tears still in her eyes.

‘Hmmm. Angela, Angela — you really were a naughty girl, weren’t you my dear —’