Mija’s Room

Category: fiction

Teaser – “Inez of the Upper Fourth” – a Saint Clare Summer Saga

Posted on By Mija

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This summer in Mija’s Room, I’ve come back to to Saint Clare’s School for Girls. Here’s a teaser of what’s to come, starting, hopefully, later this week. 

Saint Clare’s School for Girls. 

Where you eat what you’re given.
Where the prefects are as sharp as their pens.
Where the staff only agree on one thing: a clever girl is dangerous —and must be managed.

Yet Saint Clare’s School is for clever girls.

 

Enter Inez de Vries.

At fourteen, she is a strategist in a gym-slip—a third-generation legacy.
She’s read the rules.
She understands the masters’ and mistresses’s expectations.
What she hasn’t learned—yet—is the code the girls keep among themselves.

This isn’t a redemption arc.
Not a story of downfall or triumph.
This is an end-of-term report. Inez’s portfolio. Her folder.

Inside are the essays no one wanted to mark.
The memos no one was meant to read.
And a perfect curtsy, well-timed, and offered not to the Headmaster,
but to the young woman wielding the Head Girl’s hairbrush.

 

Bring your best pen.

Press your shirt.
Straighten your collar.
Check your tie.
And wear your badge properly.

You are seen. Always. Even the silences.

…That, at Saint Clare’s School, is and eternally has been the final word.
Post TitleDate Posted
Teaser – “Inez of the Upper Fourth” – a Saint Clare Summer Saga21 July 2025
Saint Clare School Justifications or A Few Explanations for the Inconsistencies That Are Absolutely Not My Fault)22 July 2025
Waiting for Inez – It’s your own time you’re wasting…23 July 2025
Start HERE: Inez’s Detention Essay24 July 2025
Inez of the Upper IV – Cast of Characters25 July 2025
The Real Motto of Saint Clare’s School for Girls27 July 2025
The Staffroom Files Part 1: Inez of the Upper Fourth29 July 2025
Notations from Matron’s Logbook: Inez of the Upper 4th30 July 2025
Staff Meeting Transcript – Inez of the Upper IV2 August 2025
Inez’s Diary, 19 June 19553 August 2025
Clarissa’s Letters Home or The Jelly Baby Files11 August 2025
The Elwood Files – Inez of the Upper IV17 August 2025

(Belated) Round-up – June 2025

Posted on By Mija

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June 2025 has been [okay, was] a surprisingly full month. It’s usually pretty sleepy. For the past four years, Paul and I have spent a least part of it in Mendocino — a wild and beautiful part of Northern California — decompressing from the academic year and getting ready for the summer. This year, of course, is different. With the exception of a weekend in Dallas for TASSP, I spent June living on my own getting ready for spending July-August in the UK.

Like everything else this year, these preparations weren’t as simple as I’d thought they’d be (and I expected them to be hard), partly because this is really the first time I’ve lived alone outside of being in university residence halls. Partly too because of the wildly complex process of getting Sutti certified (health and recognized as a service dog) to come into the UK and fly in the cabin rather than cargo. Most of all though, it was difficult because the situation in Los Angeles, brought about by the federal government’s sending secret police into the city1Even now, writing this, I can hardly believe what’s happening. , was and is, horrible. Living amidst neighbors who are too scared to go to work or even leave their homes so their kids can go to the park is hard to imagine until it happens. Sitting in this lovely cafe in Mumbles, Wales, I’m afraid of what I may be coming back to.

On the positive side, in addition to spending time with Paul, I’m looking forward to the chance to experience Wales, a part of the UK where I’ve never been, and the Republic of Ireland later this month, another place I’ve never been there either. I’ve gotten back in touch with three “old” (as in long-standing, they’re all younger than me) friends, none of whom I’ve seen in more than a decade. Knowing I’m going to see (well, I’ve already seen two) before I go back to California feels good.

Kink:

  • Found a Saint Clare story, “Red Darn,” written many moons ago for a soc.sexuality.spanking short story contest. It’s “new” in that it was never archived on the web via The Treehouse.
  • Flew to Dallas, Texas and went to my first Texas All-State Spanking Party (TASSP). This was the best, most well-organized spanking party I’ve ever been to. Party report to come. Someday.

  • Got an adorable vintage uniform and was/am shocked to find it fits.2This prompted me to weigh myself. Without trying I’ve lost more than thirty pounds since September 2024. Explains why everything fits wrong — I’ve been wearing size 14-16s (US) – should be in size 8-10. Of course, that’s the one size range between 20 and 4 where I don’t have many clothes — right now everything I wear is baggy and  This gymslip fitting has been a singular bright spot.  Thanks to some excellent detective work on the part of Twitter and Bluesky readers, I was able to announce that it’s from a Welsh girls’ school that closed in the 1970s, just shy of its 100th anniversary.
  • Attended a small but mightly spanko munch in Santa Monica. This was great fun and a wonderful way to fight the drop from my first TASSP! I’d say it was a “local” brunch but more than half the people I met were visiting from somewhere else.

Internet: 

House & Garden: 

  • Was able to get my garden into (better) shape, front and back. Hopefully everything won’t die off while I’m away July and August.
  • The house is also slowly getting into shape. While “Busy Mija” has been cleaning and organizing, her alter ego “Entropy Girl” keeps leaving messes.
  • Moved some very heavy things all by myself thereby managing to get some impressive bruises.
  • Had a bumper tap accident. No one was hurt, but the damage to the other car (new Tesla), while not noticeable, includes some broken sensors so is going to be super expensive. Enough so I’ve reported it to my insurance rather than paying for the other driver’s damages. So next year’s insurance is going to be super expensive too. Upside?

Reading:

  • I’ve been celebrating the end of the semester/start of summer vacation AND hiding from reality (as said above, things are weird in Los Angeles/California/USA just now) by reading “cosy mysteries” by the armful. Some of the authors I’ve liked best are:
    • Alan Bradley
    • Rhys Brown
    • Laura Childs
    • Karen Baugh Menuhin
    • P.J. Nelson
    • Lydia Travers
    • Charlotte MacLeod (re-reading after almost 35 years)
  • Currently reading:
    • Cherished Belonging by Gregory Boyle  (audio)
    • Heartbreaker by Mike Campbell (audio)
    • Princess of the Savoy by Ron Base and Prudence Emery

 

….and I’m also reading everything I can get my hands on on girls boarding schools.

Related to that, I’ve got more to say and a larger project going up here soon, but will leave this post here as is and save everything else for later. I’ve got enough internet to post this now and may not in another hour.

So, wela di wedyn my friends. 

 

  • 1
    Even now, writing this, I can hardly believe what’s happening.
  • 2
    This prompted me to weigh myself. Without trying I’ve lost more than thirty pounds since September 2024. Explains why everything fits wrong — I’ve been wearing size 14-16s (US) – should be in size 8-10. Of course, that’s the one size range between 20 and 4 where I don’t have many clothes — right now everything I wear is baggy and  This gymslip fitting has been a singular bright spot.
blog

Spanking Stories – My Fictional Origins

Posted on By Mija

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This post got super long. There’s some good content (not by me) after the jump though. Plus, I manage to write about my childhood without being grim, so there’s that.

And, I’m also posting it at 2:15 AM so it’s very likely there are a lot of grammar, spelling and other errors. Sorry?  

I can’t remember a time I wasn’t interested in spanking. There was never a time I wasn’t looking for and noticing spanking references in popular culture.

I mean, interested, in a way that, even when I was 5 or younger, I knew no one could ever know, that I could never tell anyone about. My fascination has always seemed strange, even1Or maybe especially. to me. I was “spanked” too frequently and too hard throughout my childhood in ways that, even for the 1970s and 1980s, were abusive. I hated and feared being punished — even now I  remember how terrified I felt. The horrible anticipation; all these things that, when chosen as an adult, when I know I’m safe and loved, are scary in a good and exciting way, were frightening and shameful beyond belief when I was a child.2I knew I had to be truly bad to need to be punished so severely and so often, you see. In retrospect, my sister and I actually were unnaturally well-behaved children; the “trouble” we got into was mostly for dishonesty while trying to cover up mistakes and accidents (so many from ADHD as it turns out) so as not to get punished.

But even so, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel a shameful rush of excitement when I saw a spanking on television, or when another child mentioned they were afraid they might get spanked (my child-self’s lack of sympathy for my classmates appalls me), I could feel my heart pound harder, my face flush.3I don’t think I ever spoke about being spanked with anyone other than my sister. Maybe because by the time I was 7 or 8 I knew that the severity and frequency of my “getting it” was a lot more than my classmates. So I just listened. A lot. Best of all though was coming across accounts of spankings in books. Those stories I returned to over and over.  I’ve joked that I learned to read and became such a great researcher, if I do say so myself, looking for anything about spankings across literature, history, and social science.

A number of people (mostly female) over the years have written about reading the strapping scene in Laura Wilder‘s Little House in the Big Woods. A friend commented once that her book eventually opened to those pages on its own, much to her embarrassment. Likewise. I received the whole set of the Little House books for my First Communion when I was seven, meaning I no longer needed to wait my turn to check then out from the library.

The passage we all remember is:

“Aunt Lotty had gone, and Laura and Mary were tired and cross. They were at the woodpile, gathering a pan of chips to kindle the fire in the morning. They always hated to pick up chips, but every day they had to do it. Tonight they hated it more than ever.

Laura grabbed the biggest chip, and Mary said:

“I don’t care. Aunt Lotty likes my hair best, anyway. Golden hair is lots prettier than brown.”
Laura’s throat swelled tight, and she could not speak. She knew golden hair was prettier than brown. She couldn’t speak, so she reached out quickly and slapped Mary’s face.

Then she heard Pa say, “Come here, Laura.”

She went slowly, dragging her feet. Pa was sitting just inside the door. He had seen her slap Mary.

“You remember,” Pa said, “I told you girls you must never strike each other.”

Laura began, “But Mary said–”

“That makes no difference,” said Pa. “It is what I say that you must mind.”

Then he took down a strap from the wall, and he whipped Laura with the strap.

Laura sat on a chair in the corner and sobbed. When she stopped sobbing, she sulked. The only thing in the whole world to be glad about was that Mary had to fill the chip pan all by herself.

Is it any wonder I’m kinked? I mean, there’s a strapping and corner time. Followed by aftercare — something that was not a feature of the spankings/beatings of my childhood:

At last, when it was getting dark, Pa said again, “Come here, Laura.” His voice was kind, and when Laura came he took her on his knee and hugged her close. She sat in the crook of his arm, her head against his shoulder and his long brown whiskers partly covering her eyes, and everything was all right again.

She told Pa all about it, and she asked him, “You don’t like golden hair better than brown, do you?”

Pa’s blue eyes shone down at her, and he said, “Well, Laura, my hair is brown.”

She had not thought of that. Pa’s hair was brown, and his whiskers were brown, and she thought brown was a lovely color. But she was glad that Mary had had to gather all the chips.”

That passage was easy to type. While I copied the text, I could have written it from memory.4Except in my memory that last line is “But she was *still* glad that Mary had to gather all the chips.”

Read on, this is a long post, but if you liked the above it’s (probably) worth it.

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  • 1
    Or maybe especially.
  • 2
    I knew I had to be truly bad to need to be punished so severely and so often, you see. In retrospect, my sister and I actually were unnaturally well-behaved children; the “trouble” we got into was mostly for dishonesty while trying to cover up mistakes and accidents (so many from ADHD as it turns out) so as not to get punished.
  • 3
    I don’t think I ever spoke about being spanked with anyone other than my sister. Maybe because by the time I was 7 or 8 I knew that the severity and frequency of my “getting it” was a lot more than my classmates. So I just listened. A lot.
  • 4
    Except in my memory that last line is “But she was *still* glad that Mary had to gather all the chips.”

Red Darn – A Saint Clare Story (2010)

Posted on By Mija

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Copyright 2010. Please respect this copyright. Don’t distribute or archive this story in any way except for personal use without explicit permission. No, it’s not in the public domain. Ask first, okay? Thanks.

This is a very short short story. Until very recently, I’d forgotten about it. I wrote this for the 2010 soc.sexuality.spanking short story contest (and it won)!

The category was “A Picture is Worth 500 Words,” the prompt to write a story based on an image of a WW2 ration book. The image below is not the one used for the contest. Though I can’t remember it, I’m sure this wasn’t it for reasons that become clear at the story’s end.

For more St. Clare Stories, see the stories’ page.

Red Darn – A Saint Clare Story 
by Mija
F/f

A shout startled the daydreaming girl, yanking her from her afternoon novel-reading.

“Fairfield, what are you about?”

Fiona (aka Fairfield) looked up, annoyed. A pair of navy wool knickers were being shaken in her face.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Miss,” said the girl resentfully.

“These knickers, *your* knickers, are shredded. Clearly you took a shortcut on your run.”

“Only once. I–I got lost. I’ll write to my mother — she’ll send me a new pair by return post.”

The matron drew herself up as her annoyance visibly increased.

“No you won’t. Bad enough cheating, but as our headmistress made it quite clear at the start of the term, we are *all* were expected to conserve and ration as part of the war effort.”

“But I can’t do gym without knickers,” replied Fiona, sounding hopeful. Perhaps she would be excused gym.

“Right. And so,” said the older woman, thrusting a school sewing basket into Fiona’s unwilling arms “you will give up your free time until each of the tears is properly darned. You better work quickly, young lady. Remember you have gym class Monday morning.”

As the older woman sailed from the room, the sixteen-year-old curled her lip and eyed the wretched basket with disdain. Fiona hated sewing and darning. Further, it was Friday evening and she’d looked forward all week to finishing her book. With a sigh she examined the long tears in her tattered knickers before finally opening the basket.

Inside were slim darning needles threaded with several rows of wool stitching, someone else’s example of a perfect darn. Perfect, that is, save the color.

“Miss Fairfield! What on earth are you wearing?”

(more…)

Story – Hard Wax

Posted on By Mija

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For Marie who wanted it finished. 

 

[Recently I started sorting through files and folders stashed on an old hard drive. In a folder called “In Progress” I found this, a story I’d started roughly twenty years ago and, at first, could barely remember writing. I’ve got a hazy memory of starting it partly to explain on the newsgroup what a “Brazil wax” is (yes, it was that long ago) and the post somehow morphing into a fantasy/story.]

Every month I go see Laura, The Brazilian Princess (trust me, that nickname fits, being both her nationality and part of her profession) to get my “bits” waxed.

I don’t wax for Pablo; as far as I know he neither wants nor requires me to give my nether bits the Full Monty. I’m not sure he even cares. That might make it easier, but no, monthly waxing is my own choice, my own agony of tender embarrassment, done for my own vanity.

Brazilian bikini waxing done “Hollywood style” (the waxer that takes off *everything* –all the pubic hair, front, back, and (eek!) in between) hurts, not too much to bear, but plenty. First, the wax is hot, not too hot, not hot enough to burn, but *almost*. Hot enough to feel it might. I have to lie completely still while she’s spreading the sticky, honey-colored mix or it might go somewhere too painful to think about. Plus, my Catholic school-girl-self never gets used to spreading myself on the waxing table, exposing everything in every possible sense for the 10 to 15 minutes it takes Laura to rip my hair off. A gyno exam is a modest little *nothing* compared to a Brazilian.

Brazil waxing is also interactive, requiring active participation. Laura even pulls my bottom cheeks apart and waxes between them. Once the hair’s gone she gently, oh so gently, rubs sweet almond oil everywhere she’s defoliated, finally sprinkling my defoliated bits with baby powder.

Mmmm. Admittedly, that part’s pretty nice.

Since she charges $50 –$60 with the tip– cash only I figure she takes in at least $800 a day, easily. No wonder she only works three days a week. Laura’s the best Brazil waxer in Los Angeles and that matters. Getting a Brazilian is like open heart surgery. This is not a part of your body where you’d want to be a novice waxer’s “learning” or “practice” client. Not even in their first one hundred.

Dressing after, I *hate* pulling my panties back on. No matter how soft or light they are, the woven cotton feels rough against my newly-smooth, freshly-oiled skin. Sometimes I don’t, and stay freshly bare under my full cotton skirt. Wiggling against the pink fabric as I drive through the Santa Monica Mountains, I can feel how clean and bare I am. It feels completely delicious– “Too nice for boys,” a friend says.

When “down there” is so freshly smooth I long to be touched and admired, at the same time embarrassed, imagining my bits being inspected. [What would that even look like?] My embarrassment doesn’t decrease my desire. *Wanting* such a thing while knowing Pablo *knows* what I want adds to the embarrassment. I try holding still, but my body trembles like something deep inside my bones is vibrating out to my skin. My thoughts are dreamy, and unfocused.

Yes, they’re naughty girl thoughts even as I try to focus on driving. Somehow this is your fault. Or mine. Or something.

Enter my “hard wax” fantasy…

(more…)

Nice Inner Life You Got Going There

Posted on By Mija

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…shame if you were to lose it.

I’ve been on a somewhat bumpy mental health journey these past 15 years — one that Paul, unfortunately, has had to go on with me. It’s been and continues to be… well, something less than ideal. Short version – I’ve gone from being diagnosed as having bipolar disorder (complete with 7 years of super heavy meds that probably left me calmer, but stripped much of my kink away) and anxiety to not being bipolar — my diagnosis is now having ADHD and anxiety, plus, most recently, adding autism spectrum disorder to mix. Hopefully I’ll have the understanding and focus to write about this someday, but suffice to say I’ve been telling two therapists (couples and individual) versions of this for the past several months. Those versions have less spanking, but extra angst.

Over on her Blog That Is Not a Spanking Blog (tho of course it is!), Marie recently wrote a post about spanking stories, drawing a distinction between fantasy and its importance to her and a number of us in the scene. I like the distinction she draws between erotica that’s kind of “wank fodder” vs stories with full-blown (stop it!) narrative, but for me, the backstory, at least for the types of vignettes I like, is always there.

I’ve got a thing for stories. Text is my jam.

Books were and are incredibly important to me. I can’t remember a time I wasn’t reading stories — novels — pretty much from as far back as I could remember. I read (present and past tense ) fast and hard, devouring books like they’re going to be taken away, which, when I was a child, they all too frequently were. Some though, I read to the ending then flipped back to the first page, beginning the book again. They were my escape from abuse at home and my awkwardness that provoked bullying at school.

The Favorites1You’ll note that many (all) of these are about children who are orphaned, creating a home and family for themselves as part of the plot. Wonder what that could mean Dr. Freud?

Those special books were always there comforting me, even, no especially when I was most isolated.

Until they weren’t.

When I was 12 I received an “F” as my midterm math grade. In addition to strapping me insanely hard with a belt (fuck), my parents stripped the books from my bedroom, sent a note restricting me from the school library, and basically didn’t let me read anything apart from assigned school books for two months until my semester grades came out. I also couldn’t watch TV and was confined to my room much of the time. We’re talking the early 1980 here, so of course there was no computer or internet in the house. The record player (yes, I’m that old) and radio were in the living room and kitchen.

Alone in my room for those weeks, or months, I had nothing to do other than school work and staring at the walls until bedtime. I did a lot of staring, In bed, where in the past I would sneakily read to my younger sister, I began to whisper remembered and re-imagined versions of these favorite books, eventually combining plots, mashing up characters, and occasionally working in my sister and me.

Like Marie, I also started to write stories down and then hid my notebooks, finally throwing them away. The stories have always held space in my head. The most lingering of them became parts of the Saint Clare school stories.

Something I wrote back in October, 2011 for my currently-off-line el tercer ojo blog:

Firsts Fridays: Fantasies

[I’ve plucked this Friday Firsts from the Shadow Lane members’ chat. Tony Elka asked this question about first fantasies.]

What’s one of the first fantasies you can remember having, before you ever were consensually spanked (or before you spanked someone)?

I’ve had spanking fantasies as far back as I can remember. I know, because I remember what house we were living in then, by the time I was 4. They always centered around a father / guardian figure (not my father) who would have to take time out what they were doing to fix some mess I’d gotten into (rescue me I suppose) and then would deal with me by spanking me.

I had these fantasies for years and years. In the first clear memory I have of one, my guardian was Johnny Cash (who, by my parents’ accounts, at age three I used to tell people I was going to marry). Later it would become heros from books — everyone from James Bond (who of course would have sent me away to a boarding school most of the time — I’d be in trouble for running away — the boarding schools represent a whole other long strain of fantasies) to Nancy Drew’s father. What they generally had in common was they weren’t, generally, fatherly. They were distant, exciting and had, for a series of reasons usually due to some bizarre bit of orphaning, been saddled with responsibility for me.

As I’m writing this I’m aware that there were two fantasies going on. First was the spanking one but second was somehow losing my parents and having them replaced. Or rather having both my parents taken away but only having my father replaced. I know exactly what to make of that one.

Later, when I got to my teen years, I discovered both thrillers and romance novels. This was an odd collision as both appealed to me. I had fantasies for years about being kidnapped by cruel sadistic killers who, for some reason, would keep me alive to abuse physically and sexually, impressed on some level by my obedience (HA) and bravery (HAHAHA). At the same time I had fantasies based on Joanna Lindsey (she did include some lovely spankings and threats) – style brooding semi-violent heros who would beat and tame me.

These fantasies didn’t evolve much. There were variations — if a friend showed me the paddle her dad used on her and her siblings, I’d imagine getting in trouble at her house and it being used on me. I always had fantasies about teachers — sometimes if I liked them they’d have to adopt me (again note the theme of getting rid of my parents) and, of course they’d have to spank me.

Somehow in my head, spanking and love became equated at a young age. My desire to be spanked by someone reflected my desire to be loved by him or her. The serial killer fantasies aside, that’s still where my fantasies go — a desire to be special enough to someone that they want to punish me, want to make me better somehow.

Reading that over, it’s still pretty true.

My fantasy self is someone who is constantly striving to do better, to be better. Spanking, discipline, scenes, fantasies — those narratives are always about someone who sees me, sees my struggle and possibilities and is helping me help myself. It’s about not being alone, but also being believed in. This is where fantasy, scene and reality start coming together in ways that may not always be good.

My real self thinks everyone works harder than she does, and mistakes exhaustion for laziness. I struggle with the sense of not being good enough, not being deserving, having to prove myself. If I succeed I don’t often take time to enjoy it, but quickly decide the bar isn’t high enough. In my fantasies, the bar is always a reasonable height and there’s a sort of external force making sure I keep it in focus and don’t get distracted by playing volleyball on my run up to it.

There’s another fantasy narrative that spanking fulfills – guilt and a yearning to be forgiven, for the slate to be clean. It’s that I can do something wrong, maybe even something terrible, apologize, atone, and be forgiven. A lot of my fantasies center around that theme. The idea of forgiveness, that I can somehow prove how sorry I am by accepting punishment. I see the connection of that to my childhood. There the cycle was my doing wrong, being punished, apologizing, and things settling down only to have whatever it was thrown up at me, along with every other terrible thing I’ve ever done the next time my parents were angry at me. Nothing was ever past.

Reading this over, there’s no ending I can find. So what’s your inner fantasy world? Where did it come from?

 

  • 1
    You’ll note that many (all) of these are about children who are orphaned, creating a home and family for themselves as part of the plot. Wonder what that could mean Dr. Freud?

Story: “Cap’s Tricks and Perils: The A Missing Scene from _The Hidden Hand_” by E.D.E.N. Southworth and Me

Posted on By Mija

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[Originally posted to the Usenet group soc.sexuality.spanking.]

The new text is Copyright 1998 to Mija. Please respect this copyright. Don’t distribute or archive this story in any way except for personal use without explicit permission. No, it’s not in the public domain. Thanks.

o0o

A few summers ago (“few” as in like 1996 – my first year of graduate school), I was in a reading group for 19c American fiction. One week, I had to read a novel first published as a serial in the New York Ledger in 1858. The book is The Hidden Hand, by Emma Nevitte, published under the pen name E.D.E.N. Southworth. It’s a potboiler and great fun.

The Hidden Hand book cover
Since the book is out of copyright, there are a jillion different editions.

The main character is Capitola (nicknamed Cap), an irrepressible brat. She is an unrepentant tomboy from the beginning of the book, where we meet her dressed as a boy selling newspapers on the streets of New York, to the end, when she releases a criminal from prison on the eve of her wedding. This is a character, indeed a book, that cries out for a spanking scene. Here is my attempt to supply this obvious want. I had a hard time cutting this, so it runs pretty long.

First a bit of plot summary. . . .

When the following scene picks up, Capitola has already been found by her guardian (whom she calls ‘Uncle’ despite a lack of biological tie) in New York and rescued from the streets to live in (boring) luxury on his estate in rural Virginia. She is being pursued by an arch-villain who wishes her dead, and thus, must both learn to live like a lady, though she has been used to the freedom of being a boy and being watched over most of the time. Thus, she begins to take pleasure in bratty tricks on her guardian, Major Ira Warfield (nickname Old Hurricane). He cannot figure out how to discipline the young woman (aged about 15), is used to dealing with boys, so in despair consults his minister, Pastor Goodwin. All of the following text before and after the break is edited original. The text between the breaks is mine. We open mid-chapter, the major having told about Capitola’s history to the Rev. Goodwin…

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