Tessara's Letter

Copyright by Mael DelaVara

The following letter was found in the binding of a Bible belonging to Miss Henrietta Waters, who lived in the village of West Stafford, Dorset, England. The Bible had lain forgotten in the attic of a cottage which was occupied by generations of the same family. It was discovered only when the property came into the hands of new owners.The date of the letter is unknown, but from the years recorded on Miss Waters' gravestone, it can be conjectured as 1885 or 1886. Also unknown is the identity of the writer, but research in local records would doubtless prove fruitful.


My dearest Henrietta,

I miss you terribly. I know I am most fortunate to have entered the service of Lady Fotheringill, and as her personal maid no less; but I am pining away for you. I don't miss that horrid finishing school or that beastly Miss Beecham. I know she takes a special delight in whipping you. I just know she does. She almost never beat me, but she never misses an opportunity to subject you to prolonged chastisement. I think you are her favorite. Do you still have the marks from the last birching? I'm sure you do; your skin is so soft. I miss when you'd show me your bottom afterwards, and I would cry at the sorry sight, and I'd lick my tears along your welts; and you'd say it stings and burns, but it's a sweet pain, so I'd trace each weal with the tip of my tongue, and you'd coo gently and get goose pimples--and I'm getting goose pimples just writing this!!!

I will give this letter to good old nurse Cracknit. I see her every few days in the village. She can smuggle it to you up at the school. There's always someone sick up there, so she should be visiting soon. Make sure you hide it in the usual place, otherwise I will lose my position and you will get the birching of a lifetime, and I wouldn't be there to comfort you.

I wish so much you were here with me. You could stay in my room; the bed is big enough for both of us. I'm going to suggest this to her ladyship once I get in her good graces. And I could certainly use your help. Her ladyship has a bath twice a day, and my back is so sore from carrying cauldrons of hot water to the tub. She makes me wash her private parts for at least five minutes, and she keeps on saying, "Cleanliness is next to Godliness." I don't think she is that unclean down there, but she has a large and thick coat of black hair in that area, as if she was wearing a stole over her mound of Venus.

I'm writing this sitting on a prickly bottom. Yesterday morning I took coffee to her ladyship in the drawing room, and she said to me, "I haven't inspected you." I didn't know what she meant, but she continued, "you girls from those finishing schools are always so unhealthy. I believe it's because you all engage in furtive practices." I still didn't know what she was talking about, so I let her ramble on. She said my skin had an unwholesome palor, my eyes were unfocused and droopy, and my general demeanor was listless. Now it's true I had a particularly bad visit from auntie this month, and I'm usually weak for a few days after, but that's just mother nature.

I let my attention drift away from her ladyship's monologue until I suddenly heard her say, "Strip, girl." I don't know what surprised me more, her ordering me to undress, or her calling me girl. After all, I'm now old enough to be married, and I wouldn't mind marrying her ladyship if she was a young man; she's a handsome woman. So I felt no reluctance to obey her command. I wanted her to see me and like me. Of course, I'd seen her naked many times by now. And there were no men in the house: her ladyship retains only female servants. But I still didn't understand why she needed to inspect me, and what that was.

She began pressing me and poking me and prodding me as if I was a horse she was intending to purchase. She called me a skinny little thing. I liked it when she cupped her strong hands over my titties; you know how small they are. She said, "Don't worry, my pet, they'll develop in time." And I liked it when she grabbed and squeezed my tiny bottom cheeks. She said, "These too will round out delightfully." I didn't like it when she inserted a finger tip into my private parts and asked if I was still a virgin. I just blushed because the question was improper and unnecessary. So she asked me again, more directly: "Has a man ever put his thing in here?" Of course I replied no, but she said, "We'll have to check, won't we?"

She had me bend over and I began to think this must be what the inspection is all about, to make sure I am pure. She peeled apart my lips, and a rush of cool air made me realize how moist I was.

"You are dripping wet and your lips are swollen. You have been indulging in the solitary vice."

I could feel I was being accused of something, but I didn't understand what, so I made a denial. Her ladyship was not appeased, and she almost screamed out, "I will not tolerate my servants lying and abusing themselves. These are two faults I will whip out of you." She then rang the bell.

The housekeeper appeared promptly, looked me over as if to say she'd seen it all before and I was nothing special, and then awaited her ladyship's directions.

"Fetch the birch."

I just knew I was to be beaten, but for what? Now I understand how you must feel on those many occasions of unmerited chastisement.

The housekeeper returned with that splaying buddle of rods and twigs.

"Will you keep your position, or does Bertha have to hold you down?"

I assured her ladyship that I did not have to be restrained; after all, I was accustomed to discipline at the finishing school.

Her ladyship nodded for Bertha to depart, and I was positioned, arms out-stretched, with my hands clutching the edge of the mantlepiece.

I don't need to describe the birching. You of all people know what it feels like--a thousand tongues of fire alighting again and again. The pain was bearable, except when a rod coiled around to slash my hip, and except when some errant twigs snapped across those moist lips that seemed to have been the cause of my woe.

Her ladyship whipped away until the birch was spent, all the while fulminating against prevarication and the sin of Onan. When she'd exhausted both the rods and herself, she reclined on the ottoman and ordered me to crawl around on all fours picking up the far flung buds and twigs.

I left the drawing room with an admonition that is still ringing in my ears. Her ladyship said she intends to conduct regular inspections, and when she finds evidence of the solitary vice, she will apply the appropriate disciplinary measures.

Oh, my dearest Henrietta, I wish you were here to explain to me how I am at fault. What is the solitary vice? Maybe it's really an imaginary vice, a pretext for her ladyship to whip me, just as horrid Miss Beacham loves to whip you. I don't think I'd mind that so much, though, as long as you were here to comfort me afterwards. I will accept a few more birchings and then ask her ladyship if you could be permitted to join us.

Your ever affectionate Tessara

Dana's Lunchtime Story

Copyright by Mael DelaVara

Dana sat down to lunch pulsating with exultation. At 36 she was returning to college, and the admissions interview had gone so well her body quivered with the heedless passion of a twenty-one year old.

"Yeah, he said, 'Do you want to play?" The words came from the Redhead the next table over.

"What do you think he meant?" Those words came from the Blonde, whose eyes betrayed a keen interest in anything salacious.

Dana leaned to her right to catch more of the conversation.

"Well, that's what I'm trying to tell you," continued the Redhead, impatient at the question. "I was at the frat, like, last night, and it wasn't a real party or anything, but there was beer and a bunch of people. And this guy comes up, and he's got this ping pong racket."

"What did he look like?" The Blonde could not resist asking.

"He was cute, in a rugged sort of way. He didn't look much like a college kid. More a construction worker. His neck and arms were, like, sunburned, and he had these really big hands, and the nails were a mess."

"Maybe he's got a job off campus," the Blonde volunteered.

"Anyway." The Redhead dismissed the interruption. "I said, 'sure,' and then you know what he said?"

The Blonde obviously didn't, but she was getting the sense her contributions to the conversation were not welcome, so she said nothing.

The Redhead took the silence as a cue to continue. "Well, like, he said in the frat we play for forfeits."

"What's that," the Blonde asked. The question was irresistable.

Dana leaned so far in the direction of the exchange that her elbow almost slipped off the edge of the table.

"Well, the loser gets a number of whacks, same number as the amount of points they lose by."

Dana felt a familiar moistening and throbbing.

"Of course you walked away," the Blonde said with conviction.

"No," the Redhead corrected her. "We played ping pong."

"Oh my God," yelled the Blonde, drawing the attention of everyone in the dining room. She then leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "So then what happened?"

Dana was straining to hear the conversation, but the Redhead resumed at her regular volume.

"Well of course I lost. I can't play ping pong. And as I was losing, more and more people were gathering around the table. And then I think, like, that's when I began to lose more than I should have."

"You mean you wanted to be spanked." The Blonde was incredulous.

"I dunno. I began to like the idea of showing my butt to everyone. I was wearing those tight shorts, you know the ones we got on sale a few weeks ago, and I look good in those when I bend over. And I kinda liked the idea of being overpowered by this strong guy with people watching. Kinda like having sex in public but not having sex in public if that makes any sense."

Dana began to wish she'd used a panty liner.

"So he spanked you." The Blonde was eager for the story to continue. "And with the table tennis paddle. That must have hurt like hell."

"No, it wasn't like that." The Redhead struggled to regain control of the narrative. "He made me an offer."

The Blonde narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

"He said that the forfeit was usually given over clothing with the ping pong paddle, but if I pulled down my shorts and panties, he'd use his hand instead."

"You didn't," the Blonde screamed, once again causing heads to turn.

The Redhead simply nodded in response.

Dana began to squeeze her thighs together in a slow rhythm.

The Blonde was at a loss for words, so the Redhead began answering the unasked questions.
"The worst part was, you know, I hadn't shaved, like, down there in two or three days, and you know how bright that hair is against my pale skin. That was kinda embarrassing. I could tell people were looking at that."

"Yes, but what about the spanking." The Blonde was impatient to know what she did not know.

The spanking really hurt. His hand was like a bear's paw. But I wanted to show everyone, especially him, that I could take it. And so I never yelled out or flinched. I stuck my butt out more and more with each blow, and when I did that it was like the burning heat seemed to pass through my pelvis straight to my clit."

Dana almost passed out in a paroxysm of bliss.

"She's listening," the Blonde whispered loudly, with a sidelong glance at Dana.

The Redhead smiled knowingly, and getting up said, "I'm late for class anyway."