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The MP Visits Saint Clare: Prologue – The Institute and Its Discontents – 11 July 1955

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And we’re back in 1955. Sorry about the time traveling. Context is in Foreword below.

The story of Inez de Vries unfolds through a constellation of documents—some official, drawn from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others more intimate, taken from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. Some will appear typed and orderly; others retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font.

Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages—the tensions, the alliances, the secrets too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained. But Inez is watching. And she remembers.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I like reading them on Twitter and Bluesky, I love getting them here, and promise to respond. Moreover your ideas and reactions also join the archives, where they may quietly shape what comes next..

Foreword
From the Archivist

We open with Miss Gladys Williams at the end of a day that began far too early and went downhill with impressive speed. The St Albans Institute had little patience for her, and she had even less for it. This evening entry preserves the results: indignation, exhaustion, and a level of offence that could be measured with school rulers if one were inclined.

Her morning at the Institute on 11 July 1955 offers our first glimpse—at least in this sequence—of a girl, well, a young woman, whose capacity for trouble is exceeded only by her capacity for surprise. Nothing dramatic occurs, but the atmosphere is unmistakably primed.

Readers joining us midstream may wish to revisit the earlier Saint Clare entries that converge upon this moment:

The Elwood Files — the failed attempt to slip Inez’s letter past the school authorities.
The Lady and the Headmaster — in which Lady de Vries learns just enough to become dangerously perceptive.
The Secret Letters, Part I — where Gladys first involves herself in a correspondence she might have been wiser to avoid.
Melodrama by Post — ending in Clarissa’s own very revealing postscript.
Heard in the Charrington Household — Miss Gladys, hauled home from Scotland, is made to “answer for herself.”
Gladys in Trouble — Gerald’s formal terms, Gladys’s formal compliance, and the informal tears that followed.

The Charrington Papers, of which the present collection forms a small but telling part offer a glimpse into the anxieties of an English household in the mid–twentieth century. The documents gathered here—letters, annotated responses, and private jottings—capture in miniature a struggle over authority and propriety between Gerald H. Charrington, Member of Parliament and self-appointed patriarch, and his sister-in-law, Miss Gladys Williams, a young woman who had the misfortune to combine a lively disposition with a poor instinct for discretion.

These episodes form the quiet prelude to the tensions now gathering just out of sight. What follows in this entry—indignant, tired, and brimming with offence—is merely the overture.

In the meantime, a wee hint. Look closely at the 1938 Honour’s Game posts and consider where Ned and Honour’s little “game” may have carried Lady Gwen by 1955.

Note: If you’re struggling with the font, here is a plain text version. 

Gladys’s Diary  –  11 July 1955

Diary on nightstand, pen, lipstick

11 July 1955

It’s after 11 PM but I can’t sleep and my head and heart are so full I can hardly stand it. No, I can’t stand it. I’m writing this in the hope of making sense of it. Though it may be I’m just talking to myself.

This morning was Gerald’s humiliation exercise number one: the Institute. He marched me there, hand on my arm like a ward in chancery, and handed me over to the Head as though I were a new pupil. Rather than leave me alone to discuss this, he then stood by while Mrs Perris discussed timetables and subjects as though I’m ten years old. Timetables! For me! And what an utterly wretched timetable it is.

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discipline

Honour’s Game, Part 3 – December 1938 – January 1939

Posted on By Mija

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The story of Inez de Vries’s experiences in the summer of 1955 unfolds through a series of documents – some official, pulled from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others are more intimate, drawn from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. Some will appear typed and orderly; others will retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font. Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages—the tensions, the alliances, the secrets too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained.

But Inez watches. And remembers.

This story takes readers back to 1938 and tells the story of Inez’s parents, especially Lady Gwendolyn “Honour” de Vries, a St. Clare Old Girl who notices far more than most people realize.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I like reading them on Twitter and Bluesky, I love getting them here and promise to respond. Moreover your responses and ideas are included in the archives and may shift and change the story’s evolution. Also, the observant reader may notice Honour has a new font. I hope it’s more readable. 

Having trouble with the handwriting? Try the plain text version. 

Greystone Abbey, January 1939

If you’ve followed Honour this far – through her first lesson, her first report, and her first taste of consequence – you’ll know how easily a game of observation can become something else.
The new year finds her far from Belgravia, shut in by rain and flooded fields, testing both her wit and her husband’s patience. The guests have gone; Darlington’s lessons continue.

This story follows:

Honour’s Lesson

Honour’s Game – Prologue

Honour’s Game – Part 1

Honour’s Game – Part 2

You might want to read them first. 

Part Three

From the Archivist

From the Lady de Vries Collection, Blue Room Archives, Saint Clare’s School for Girls

The papers presented here form part of what is now known as the Lady de Vries Collection. Though the correspondence was originally preserved among the private files of her husband, Edmund Alexander de Vries, 9th Earl of Darlington, its preservation and eventual deposit at Saint Clare’s are due to Lady Gwendolyn Randolph de Vries herself.

The exchange of initials — D. and H. — occurs throughout. Their precise origins are unclear; however, internal evidence suggests that these letters were both a private correspondence between husband and wife and, increasingly, a record of informal “exercises” undertaken by Lady de Vries during the late 1930s.

The editors have retained the original orthography and punctuation. A few later pencil notes in Lord Darlington’s hand are reproduced in grey type. Where the line between affection and assignment blurs, readers are invited to remember that the world beyond these pages was also shifting — toward war, secrecy, and a very different kind of education.

Recovered documents: December 1938 – January 1939

The following entries belong to that first winter at Greystone Abbey, when the young Countess was learning that discipline can be an intimacy of its own. The surviving pages are marked in her hand and his — neat pencil corrections threading through her typed reports. Both of them writing in their fountain penned script. What began in London drawing rooms now turns domestic, quieter and more perilous.

In these documents, the young Lady Honour de Vries continues working to master her husband’s “exercises”—tasks meant to discipline her curiosity and temper her impulsiveness. Yet what began as a private game of observation now reaches beyond the drawing room. A tea in Chester Square leads to the American Embassy at Grosvenor Square, and the world of polite conversation begins to tremble with rumours of the coming war.

Through reports, annotations, and private diaries, we see the gradual shaping of a partnership: his precision against her wit, his restraint against her appetite for understanding. Honour still writes to please him—but she is also beginning to see, to listen, and to turn the rules of his game to her own advantage.

The tone remains domestic, almost playful. Yet under its surface, something colder and more intricate begins to form.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I enjoy seeing them on Twitter and Bluesky, I especially love receiving them here and promise to respond. Your observations and ideas are entered into the Saint Clare archives and may subtly shift the story’s evolution.

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fiction

Honour’s Game Part I – November 1938

Posted on By Mija

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The story of Inez de Vries’s experiences in the summer of 1955 unfolds through a series of documents – some official, pulled from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others are more intimate, drawn from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. Some will appear typed and orderly; others will retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font. Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages – the tensions, the alliances, the secrets too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained.

But Inez is watching. And she remembers.

This story goes back to 1938 and tells the story of Inez’s parents, especially Lady Gwendolyn “Honour” deVries, a St. Clare Old Girl who notices far more than most people realize.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I like reading them on Twitter and Bluesky, I love getting them here and promise to respond. Moreover your responses and ideas are included in the archives and may shift and change the story’s evolution.

Having trouble with the handwriting? Try the plain text version.

Introduction

This tale follows Honour’s Lesson, where Lady Gwendolyn Randolph de Vries — Honour — first tested the patience of her new husband, Edmund Alexander de Vries, 9th Earl of Darlington. Like that earlier story, it begins in a more traditional narrative mode, borrowing the cadence of Regency romance. Yet here a new element enters: the reports of a bride still half a schoolgirl, too quick with her laughter, too eager for her husband’s notice, and learning how his sternness might be turned into intimacy. What she believes to be a private game of observation will, in time, shape far more than she imagines.

Though not set at Saint Clare’s, its themes are familiar: discipline, secrecy, defiance — threads that are woven through the school itself.

From The Archivist: 

From the Lady de Vries Collection, Blue Room Archives, Saint Clare’s School for Girls)

The papers presented here form part of what is now known as the Lady de Vries Collection. Though the correspondence was originally preserved among the private files of her husband, Edmund Alexander de Vries, 9th Earl of Darlington, its preservation and eventual deposit at Saint Clare’s are due to Lady Gwendolyn Randolph de Vries herself.

The exchange of initials — D. and H. — occurs throughout. Their precise origins are unclear; however, internal evidence suggests that these letters were both a private correspondence between husband and wife and, increasingly, a record of informal “exercises” undertaken by Lady de Vries during the late 1930s.

The editors have retained the original orthography and punctuation. A few later pencil notes in Lord Darlington’s hand are reproduced in grey type. Where the line between affection and assignment blurs, readers are invited to remember that the world beyond these pages was also shifting — toward war, secrecy, and a very different kind of education.

Part One

If you haven’t read the Prologue yet, you should. 

Note from D. –

11 November 1938

Honour,

You are attending Lady Fenton’s gathering tomorrow. Treat it as exercise.

– Sit where you are seen, not where you are heard.
– One glass of champagne, no more.
– Listen more than you speak. Note what is certain, and what you only suppose.
– Write it after, neatly, as if for school.

Report due upon return, as soon as possible. Marks for observation, not embroidery. Late submissions will not be entertained, .  

 

D.

 

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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.”

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. And then there were the boarding school stories – the best of which are the origin my Saint Clare stories. They are about girls, generations, uniformity, and identity. The idea of belonging, especially F/f kinds of stories. 

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?
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