Lolly
Story from Blushes 3
Part 1 —
Lolly gets a licking
‘A girl from the new estate over by Burnham, Mr Wiggins.
Kind of girl who’d get herself into trouble if she were allowed to run amok in
her own environment.’ The man from the charitable institution justified the
board’s request that the said girl, Lola Patricia Oldwood, might be allowed to
take up residence with Mr Wiggins, playing it by the book even though he knew
perfectly well what the form actually was.
‘Hmm — I see. Well now, if the board think I might be able
to assist —’ Howard Wiggins, donator of substantial sums of money to the
charity which his visitor represented, was not aware that word had filtered so
far down the pecking order with regard to what role he really played in the ‘rehabilitation’
of these young girls. He, therefore, was playing it by the book too.
‘No room, you see Mr Wiggins — no room at the inn. It
would be a matter of sending her off to an approved school or some such place
if the organisation found that it couldn’t help out.’
‘Dear, dear — can’t have impressionable young things being
sent off to places like that, my dear chap. No, no — I feel obliged to help.’
‘Thank you, Mr Wiggins. We’d hoped you would be able to —’
‘Not at all, not at all. Um — I believe you said she was
the kind of girl who might get herself into trouble?’
‘Well yes, Mr Wiggins. Sad, really — pretty girl like
that, running wild.’
‘Running wild, you say?’
‘Oh yes — bound to get into some scrape or other, that
sort.’
‘Indeed yes. And especially the attractive ones, you know.
Ah — you did say ‘pretty’, I believe?’
‘Oh yes — very pretty, and bright too. But no moral
values, Mr Wiggins — well, that’s if I don’t judge her too hastily.’
‘I see — hmm — well now, when did you say you’d like me to
have her —?’
The man from the organisation had thanked him several more
times then left. Howard had gone upstairs and pottered around happily, making
sure that the room he always put these girls in was ready for use, sorting out
sheets and pillow cases and cute little nighties, humming quietly to himself as
he did so.
So she’d been ‘running around’, had she? ‘Liable to get
herself into trouble.’ He could just imagine it — head boy at her school luring
her into the bike sheds, hand inside her blouse, up her skirt, a finger slipped
under snug knicker elastic — a girl could be led on by lads like that. Better
by far if she were taken in hand, before something happened that she might
regret. True, she was old enough, just about — but that could be a very
arbitrary line to draw, the ‘age of consent’.
Plenty of girls were just not sufficiently emotionally
mature to understand their own feelings, far less those of others who might
want to take advantage of them. No — better by far if she were shown the error
of her ways. He would make sure that she was.’
Lola — or ‘Lolly’, as Mr Wiggins preferred to call her —
had settled in quickly — within a fortnight the domestic pattern of her life
had been firmly established, and she was learning that Mr Wiggins was someone
to whom she could confide those intimate little things — indeed had to confide
them — that a girl might ordinarily not want to tell a soul. Mind you, when it
suited him, even Mr Wiggins could cock a deaf ear.
‘Hmm? What was that, my pet?’
‘I’m — I’m — oogh —’
‘Oh, are you! Well now, you know you’re not supposed to do
that, my dear, don’t you! That really will be very, very naughty of you — very naughty
indeed!’
‘B-but I can’t help it, Mr Wig — ooogh!’
‘Tut-tut! You’re not to do it, Lolly — do you understand?’
‘Y-yes, but — nnnnngh!’
‘I shall have to punish you if you defy me, you know. I
shall have to spank your little bottom —’
‘Oooo — please! Please — I can’t h-help — ooooooh!’
Poor Lolly. She really couldn’t help it, and that was the
truth. It had always been like that, not being able to help it when boys had
been too adventurous, not being able to say no. It was as if her body had grown
up before the rest of her was ready, and all the trouble she had got herself
into had stemmed one way or another from that same imbalance of maturity.
Not that she’d ever been silly enough actually to let
anyone do it — not actually do it to her — not quite, anyway, but she’d been on
the brink more than once. More than twice, as a matter of fact. No, she really
couldn’t help it, and it wasn’t fair of Mr Wiggins to say that she would have
to be spanked for it when it was him who was making her — making her — ‘Ooogh —
Mr — Mr Wig — oooh!’
‘Hmm? What was that, Lolly?’ Lolly’s slight weight across
Mr Wiggins legs grew less as her hips lifted up with the tautening of her legs,
and then she took her feet off the floor and her head came up and her warm
young body rocked to and fro across his lap. She whimpered incomprehensible
little protests — none of them meant, no doubt, because that was just Lolly’s
way of doing it — whispering little pleas but worming backwards with her hips
to keep the feeling coming and coming.
‘I’m c-coming —!’
‘Naughty girl.’ said Howard mildly, the encouragement of
his intrusive fingertip doing nothing to aid the girl in her extremity. ‘I
really do believe I shall have to spank you after all.’
Lolly’s knickers were already halfway down her thighs —
her spanking began even as she was still making a sweet little exhibition of
herself across Howard’s lap, and only gradually did her breathless gasps and
cries change from those of a girl who was doing something rather rude to the
cries of a girl who wished after all that she hadn’t done it!
Part 2 —
Lolly is introduced
The gardener had been sent to fetch Lolly from the
swimming pool — she was to come straight to the conservatory, where Mr Wiggins
and his guest were concluding the transfer of a property which Mr Wiggins no
longer had a use for. Mr Sinclair, the man from the organisation, had been
responsible for Lolly’s presentation to his old friend as a gesture of
appreciation for a recent donation.
He had known, of course, precisely what the girl would be
in for as Wiggy’s house guest; as much as anything he had come down today to
take a look at Lolly in her new surroundings, and hoped for some interesting
divertissement whilst he was there.
Lolly appeared on the path leading past the fish-pond, the
sun bright on her hair and the dappling shadows of trees on her body; and where
the shadows dappled, save for a pale blue triangle of extremely limited
dimensions, she was quite naked.
She came warily into the conservatory, risking only the
tiniest smile of greeting to Mr Sinclair, to whom she hadn’t yet been properly
introduced. Her body was wet from the pool, and the point-down triangle of
shiny blue was pulled damply snug around the plump little pout of her pubes,
soft labial cleft shadowed in the thin, clinging satin.
‘This is Lolly,’ said Mr Wiggins, and his visitor stood up
briefly to shake her hand — a formality which seemed
somewhat out of place in the circumstances.
‘How do you do, sir?’ said Lolly, her voice small and
respectful, and Mr Sinclair said he did very well, thank you, except he said it
without once taking his eyes from her small, round tits with their chilled
nipples standing out pert and hard, which made Lolly blush rather prettily.
Sitting down, and in the absence of any further comment
from his host, Mr Sinclair found himself asking the obvious question, and he
asked it not of the girl but of Mr Wiggins. ‘Does she always swim without the —
er — top of her costume?’
‘Yes.’ said Mr Wiggins, as though it would be odd if she
didn’t. ‘And I think Lolly knows why, don’t you, my pet?’
‘Um — yes sir.’ said Lolly, blushing even more.
‘I dare say she’d tell you, if you asked.’ said Mr Wiggins
in a tone of mock confidentiality, and Mr Sinclair did indeed ask. Lolly’s
tongue peeped out for a moment as though she were concentrating.
‘Er — well sir — it — it’s because girls of my age, sir —’
‘Especially the pretty ones, commented Mr .Wiggins
helpfully.
‘Er — yes, sir — especially if they’re pretty — um —’
‘You’re rather pretty, actually,’ said Mr Sinclair,
sounding quite sincere about the compliment.
‘Um — th-thank you, sir —’ mumbled Lolly, embarrassed
about where his eyes had got to whilst he’d said it: ‘Er — well, they — they —’
She seemed to have trouble finding a way to phrase it. Mr Wiggins helped her
out.
‘They get rather grown-up ideas, Mr Sinclair. That’s what
Lolly’s trying to say. They think that men take a certain kind of interest in
them, you see — isn’t that so, Lolly?’
‘Yes, sir.’ said Lolly, her blushes warmer still.
‘Yes — a ‘sexual’ interest, Mr Sinclair.’ The visitor
raised his eyebrows, perhaps to express his complete lack of surprise at such a
revelation, but Mr Wiggins continued; ‘Some of them become quite obsessive
about such notions, you know.’
‘Really?’ said the guest his eyes on the bareness of Lolly’s
hips where the slender, bow-tied cord of her little pants ran across the gently
tanned skin.
‘Oh indeed, yes!’ said Mr Wiggins. ‘I shouldn’t be at all
surprised if Lolly herself is thinking some such thing at this very moment, Mr
Sinclair.’
Lolly’s eyes grew wider and her tongue peeped out again as
she licked nervously at her lip. A drip ran down the upper slope of one of her
breasts and fell from the very tip of the stiff little nipple.
‘Quite likely she is indulging that predisposition to
self-awareness which young girls are so often prone to — let us call it ‘vanity’,
Mr Sinclair — and is imagining that you and I are eyeing that little place of
hers, which she has so coyly tucked away in that top-pocket handkerchief, with
lewd thoughts in our minds.’ He glanced up at Lolly. ‘Isn’t that so, my dear?’
The girl, who knew — or thought she knew — that that was
exactly what the pair of them were doing, shook her head just the littlest bit,
not wanting to disagree with Mr Wiggins yet not wanting to admit to doubting
their integrity either.
Embarrassed, she kept her eyes lowered so as not to have
to look directly at either of them, and couldn’t help noticing that there was
that same prominence along the crease line of Mr Wiggins’ trousers where they
pulled across the top of his leg that sometimes appeared there when she was
about to be divested of her knickers, or pyjama bottoms — or swimming costume,
perhaps.
She crossed her fingers and whispered under her breath the
fervent hope that Mr Sinclair would be staying until well after bedtime —
although Mr Wiggins was getting on in years, the spirit, when it did move him,
could be vigorous indeed, and she wasn’t always put bottom-uppermost across the
end of her bed just to have her bum smacked. Having to pretend, too, that it
was a game called ‘Bunny Rabbits and Burrows’ that they were playing was almost
the most embarrassing thing of all!
‘— which is why, you see, I have her walking around the
place like that. It’s so that she’s made to realise that her rude imaginings
that every man who sees her is interested only in what’s inside her knickers —
are a product simply of her own over-active femininity. Do you follow me, Mr
Sinclair?’
‘Er — well yes, I think I do.’ The man’s expression belied
his answer — plainly he did not follow Mr Wiggins’ tortuous logic. He sensed,
however, that this was really only a game, and one that he might just as well
play along with. ‘So what you’re saying, in a nutshell, is that if a girl —
Lolly, for example — is made to recognise that it is actually all in her own
mind which, you say, can be achieved by, er — having her be in the company of
those whom she suspects of harbouring, er, ‘sexual’ thoughts while she herself
is un-clothed —’
‘Precisely, Mr Sinclair.’ nodded Mr Wiggins.
‘Er — well then —’ Mr Sinclair faltered, having lost the
exceedingly tenuous thread of this pompous claptrap. His eyes wandered, as
though for inspiration, to Lolly’s damp young body, and in particular to the
succulent plumpness pouting against the wet ‘top pocket handkerchief’ tied so
insecurely around the girl’s hips. ‘Um —’ Little bows on either side, and no
more than a tug at the cord needed to have her — ‘Er —’ Inspiration did indeed
come to his rescue.
‘Well then, why is she wearing that rather provocative
little costume, Mr Wiggins?’
Mr Wiggins looked enquiringly at Lolly’s anxious face.
‘Yes, Lolly dear — why are you wearing that, er,
undoubtedly seductive pair of — pants, I suppose you’d have to call them? Hmm?’
Lolly shuffled her bare feet uneasily and stumbled around
for an answer.
‘Well — you — you said you were expecting a visitor, Mr…
Wiggins, sir, an’ — and, well, I know I’m not allowed to wear anything — er —
up here —’ Her hands gestured nervously in the direction of her breasts, ‘—
but, well, I thought it might be a bit rude of me, sir, if I went around
absolutely — um — er — while your visitor was here. Um — sir.’
‘Do you see, Mr Sinclair? ‘Might be rather rude of me’? D’you
see how this little sexpot’s mind dwells on these things?’
Mr Wiggins turned his amused glance upon Lolly again. ‘Now
then, Lolly my dear. I shall have to whip your naughty little bottom, shan’t I?’
Lolly shook her head dumbly, pleading with her wide eyes
not to be ‘whipped’ — perhaps to be spanked, but not ‘whipped’, and Mr Wiggins
smiled an avuncular smile and said:
‘Yes, ‘whipped’, Lolly — I shall deal with you before
bedtime.
Meanwhile —’ He leaned forward and plucked at the loose
end of the bow at one of her hips. The knot fell undone, and the wet satin
slipped from her pubes, still tucked between her close-pressed thighs but now
lop-sided and concealing nothing.
Reluctantly obedient to Mr Wiggins obvious intention,
Lolly’s fingers went to the bow at the other hip and pulled, and the damp
triangle, now upside-down, clung between her legs for a moment then slid to the
floor with a sodden ‘plop’.
Lolly’s little secret, which she had coyly tucked away
inside that silly costume in honour of Mr Sinclair’s visit, was unveiled, with
the bloom of dampness upon it and as smooth and pink as though it had never
been any other way.
Mr Sinclair coughed, as if embarrassed by his own
fascination. Mr Wiggins smiled almost proudly, and in the shrubbery outside
there was an interested rustle. Blushing a warm pink, Lolly somehow prevented
her hands from slipping across her tummy to hide the humiliating nakedness of
her pubes.
She closed her eyes so that she wouldn’t have to meet
their mocking looks and made herself put her hands together behind her back,
the soft smoothness of her wet buttocks against the backs of her fingers
reminding her with a jolt of the ‘whipping’ — how she hated that over-sibilant ‘wh-’
with which he pronounced the word — that she had been promised for that
evening.
Part 3 — In the summer-house
The long summer evening was slipping steadily towards
twilight, and the high wall alongside the garden path which led to the
summer-house cast a cool shadow over the lawn beside the flag-stoned walk. At
the end of the pathway, raised on a small mound with half a dozen steps leading
up to its glazed door, the small octagonal building stood aloof from the rest
of the garden, one of its windows still catching the warm ruby glow of the
western sky where the sun was dipping behind a low bank of purple cloud. Birds
called in the quietness, and distantly a dog barked, twice, and then no more.
The gardener’s heavy shoes made a little noise on the
path, and then none at all in the soft earth alongside the wall. They’d had her
down there long enough to have got well started, and wouldn’t notice his
stealthy approach. There had been a series of plaintive little cries earlier on
— he’d have been punishing her no doubt — but the cries had stopped, and there
had been no sound from the summer-house for a good five minutes.
Careful of his footing the gardener crept closer, until he
could see everything there was to see.
Inside the glass-sided gazebo the air still held a
reminder of the heat of the day, though it was rapidly cooling now. In a few
minutes there would be enough chill in the air to prompt a little shiver, or to
stiffen a girl’s exposed nipples.
Lolly had already been dressed for bed when Mr Wiggins had
chivvied her along the path from the house — fortunately for that gentleman’s
local reputation there had been no possibility of a neighbour overlooking Lolly’s
progress down the path, a pace and a half ahead of her benefactor with the
eager Mr Sinclair in close attendance. In the summer-house now, the girl was
still dressed for bed — which left rather a lot of her not dressed at all!
On days when she had been ‘naughty’ Lolly wasn’t allowed
to forget, even at bedtime, what a ‘naughty’ girl’s bottom was really for in Mr
Wiggins’ scheme of things. Pyjamas were forbidden her — instead she wore a
nightie, which to the uninformed might not have seemed much like a nightie at
all.
Lolly’s ‘naughty girl’ nighties were silken fripperies
which, had there been more of them, would probably have been very expensive but
their cost had been minimised by the simple expedient of cutting down on the
quantity of material used.
The nightie which Lolly was wearing was red silk, with
minutely crafted white lace edging. There were little puff sleeves, stitched
into elastic at the tops of the arms, and a demure neck-line ran high across
her chest, lace edged front and back. Around her body a silk-shrouded strip of
elastic passed close up under each breast, and to this elastic the main ‘body’
of the garment was sewn, keeping the nightie close-fitting where it mattered.
Below the line of that elastic there was — nothing. Lolly’s nightie, in fact,
stopped just below the level of the under-side of her tits.
There were no pants — it was not after all, supposed to be
one of those ‘baby doll’ outfits. It was for sleeping in, and not intended to
be suggestive.
The garment’s designer had been aware, of course, of the
provocative appearance that impudent young nipples under tightly-fitted silk
would present, and he had solved the problem discreetly by simply removing the
material from places where it was likely to give undue emphasis to the girl’s
body contours.
Lolly’s tits’ freedom from the restricting silk was,
accordingly, strictly in the interests of diminishing the otherwise rather
seductive look the nightie would have lent them; the designer was to be
applauded too for his good taste in allowing the girl’s breasts themselves to
escape the confines of the garment instead of merely leaving peep-holes for the
nipples alone, which might have looked merely vulgar.
The two men were presently engaged in some discussion
pertaining to the property transfer which Mr Sinclair had come down to
finalise. They were seated on wicker chairs, and each had a copy of the papers.
Whereas Mr Wiggins appeared not to be much interested in the summer-house’s one
other occupant — he at least gave that impression — Mr Sinclair could not have
claimed the same degree of detachment.
Constantly his attention was distracted by little sounds
which slipped past Lolly’s parted lips every few moments — quiet gasps,
pantings and breathings with an urgent quality which made them impossible for
him to ignore. Manfully he struggled to keep abreast of the conversation, yet
all the time he lagged further behind.
Lying on a window sill close by Mr Wiggins’ chair was a
slim bundle of twigs, each long and straight, the whole bound together by a
length of garden twine at one end while at the other the twigs fanned out a
little, their ends partially stripped of their thin bark in a haphazard, uneven
way.
There were four or five twigs in the’ switch, each chosen
with care by the gardener an hour before with an eye to their straightness,
their slenderness, and their potential for stinging the buttocks to which they
were to be applied. Brought down across the palm of his work-hardened hand, the
completed switch had imparted enough of a smart to make him chary of doing the
same thing again — how much more of a sting would they lend to Lolly’s tender
little bum!
On the floor of the summer-house, scattered widely across
the Italian marble tiles, were scores of bark flakes which had been flicked off
the twigs by the switch’s application to the girl’s naked bum-cheeks. Several
such flakes were presently sprinkled on the calves of Lolly’s legs, where she
knelt on a wicker stool; indeed a number of them still stuck to her punished
buttocks and one had lodged indiscreetly between the very cheeks themselves.
Evidence of the gardener’s artistry in the making of
switches for naughty girls’ bottoms was emblazoned around the chubby
under-curves of Lolly’s saucy little bum.
Scores of short, thin, tapering marks, thickening towards
the right-hand flank of each cheek where the twigs’ tips had stung harder,
streaked across the reddened skin in unidirectional swathes whose tails were
crimson and whose tips were tiny blisters of reddish-mauve.
Where the sharp darts left by the whipping angled in
toward the conjunction of thighs, bottom-cleft and under-buttock creases,
there, perhaps, was evidence of Mr Wiggins’ wish to ensure that Lolly’s bottom
was most ‘stimulated’, most ‘titillated’, in those places closest to that moist
little runnel between her legs to which, if his theories were to be believed,
all the faults in Lolly’s character might be traced back.
The stool creaked as Lolly shifted her weight to ease the
discomfort in her knees, her thighs slipping apart as she re-adjusted her
balance on the narrow seat. Both Mr Sinclair and Lolly’s benefactor looked up
at the sound; Lolly wished instantly that she had simply kept still and suffered
the hurt in her knees, because with the same easy nonchalance which he affected
whenever he was actually quite determined about something, Mr Wiggins reached
out to the window sill and took up the switch, it’s long twigs shivering as for
a moment he held it balanced in his hand before re-adjusting his grip ready to
use it.
‘I’m not sure you’re really trying, Lolly dear,’ he said
mildly.
‘Oo — ooh — I am, sir — honestly —!’ Her bottom tweaked
nervously as the twigs were slapped gently along a line of aim. ‘Please sir — I
am!’
‘Hands on your head please, Lolly.’
‘Ooh — sir —!’
‘On your head, my pet! Lolly’s hands folded themselves
reluctantly across each other on her head and her whipped little bottom
trembled as she shifted her knees again. ‘Come along now —’ Lolly’s back curved
inwards as she pushed her bottom gingerly out behind, the creases under her
buttocks melting into soft smoothness as the skin there tautened.
Casually Mr Wiggins let the switch curve briskly around
Lolly’s expectant bum — really no more than a swift flick from the wrist, yet
it made the girl yelp and wobble dangerously on her perch. Timorously one hand,
then the other, sneaked back towards her bottom, fingers feeling for the fresh
little marks amongst all the others.
‘Hands out of the way, Lolly.’ said Mr Wiggins coaxingly.
Lolly’s timid hands went back to their assigned place on her head, and then the
switch caught her flinching bum again, the tips of the twigs cunningly aimed so
that one of them, longer than the others, flexed neatly along the line of one
buttock’s underside crease and dipped around the inner curve at the very top of
the inside of her thigh.
Lolly’s frantic little squeal confirmed the accurate
placing of Mr Wiggins’ stroke! The girl dived her hands down between her legs
and a finger groped gingerly for the place where the very tip of the switch had
caught her, her bottom-cheeks flinching at the same time as they were played
with by the twigs again. She panted in fright, thinking that he was about to
give her another stroke, but he slapped her bottom a few more times with the
switch’s tip then put it back on the window sill.
‘Now then — perhaps you’ll try harder, my pet,’ said Mr
Wiggins. ‘It doesn’t usually take you this long, does it?’
Lolly’s buttocks softened as she realised that she wasn’t
going to get another flick — at least not yet. Dutifully she tried again, the
one hand she didn’t have to use for it wandering round to her bottom and
touching hesitantly at the sorest places as she shook her head in answer to Mr
Wiggins’ embarrassing question. Mr Sinclair caught her eye and she blushed more
than ever, because now he had been let into another little secret.
Up in her bedroom, with the bedside lamp glowing softly
and Mr Wiggins being patient with her, coaxing her and only smacking her bottom
if she was silly enough to let him think she was actually enjoying it — well,
it really wasn’t so awful, even though she was still a bit shy about letting
him see her do it.
But here in the summer-house, with Mr Sinclair there too,
and that horrible twiggy thing — Lolly squeezed her eyes shut and tried to make
it happen, because the sooner she did the sooner she’d be allowed to scamper
away to her room, out of range of the switch.
Five minutes elapsed, and then ten had slipped by, and
slowly the men’s conversation lapsed. Lolly’s whispered admission, which Mr
Wiggins made her repeat, that she thought she was going to do it, sir, in just
a moment or two, had faded into breathlessness, her lips apart, her face
flushed, her eyes half-lidded — her hips beginning a gentle, rhythmic, forward
and back rocking which made her stool creak in time with her movements. Mr
Wiggins caught Mr Sinclair’s eye and put his finger to his lips, enjoining
silence, and in that silence Lolly trembled and panted to a muted, embarrassed
little climax.
Lolly opened her eyes slowly, her cheeks pinkening as full
awareness returned and she found herself the focus of her two witnesses’
attention. Mr Wiggins’ hand reached unhurriedly for the switch, and Lolly
licked her lips nervously, mute pleading in her eyes, but such demonstrations
of a girl’s wilfulness in ignoring the morality that her benefactor had been
pretending to teach her since she had been with him could not, of course, go
unpunished.
Reluctantly Lolly presented her whipped little bum as
before, her hands back on her head again, and she was given six hard, painful
strokes. She wept copiously for several minutes on end, allowed now that the
whipping was over to rub at her bottom and taking rueful advantage of the
indulgence. And then, with a condescending smile from Mr Wiggins, she was
dismissed.
The two men watched in silence as she went out of the
summer-house and up the path, her hot young bottom bobbing behind her.
The dangers of these young women being left to 'run wild' is evident in the following link. Oh for the day a Blushes 'hit squad' might descend on this little lot!
ReplyDeletehttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V3-Bd2qdcHc
Off to 'reform and rehabilitation' with every last one of 'em! i could imagine old George Canford (from 'Girl Training 1998') leading the citizens' patrol. Well, old George may hold one or two back for his own instruction.
ReplyDeleteIndeed, all retired gentlemen would need to be called upon in such desparate times. I'm sure there would be no shortage of volunteers! And since all available accommodation is currently taken by illegal immigrants, girls would have to be billeted with our fine citizens to keep them out of trouble.
DeleteThe 'Tweed Army' will make this once great country great again, brazen young hussy by brazen young hussy!
DeleteThe paradoxical logic of Mr Wiggins regarding Lolly's clothing, or lack of, is most amusing. After all, a girl doesn't really need to understand the way of the world, she merely has to do as she is told. I would, though, caution against these little games becoming too playful, particularly for a wilful girl such as Lolly, who may develop a taste for her little "rewards" and being the centre of attention. By all means, indulge in whatever amusement takes ones fancy, but proper discipline should not be neglected: a good hard caning for any minor wrongdoing, or even for no stated reason, will curb any headstrong tendencies. And if it hasn’t happened already, Lolly ought to be properly serviced by Mr Wiggins. In time Mr Sinclair and other members of the charitable institution board might be invited to do likewise to assess Lolly's "rehabilitation" for themselves.
ReplyDelete