Author: David Nunes da Silva
Title: The Red Nude
Summary:The Dictator's government, rumors say, is whipping political prisoners in secret rooms of the Governor's palace. Meanwhile, a young woodcarver is learning to use one of his tools.
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Keywords: mf sm 1st hist
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Date: 2004-06-20 00:10:12 PST
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Subject: {ASSM} {ASS} REV The Red Nude {Davo da Silva} {mf sm 1st hist}
The Red Nude
by David Nunes da Silva
1962. Ponta Delgada, Ilha de São Miguel, Açores.
The Dictator's government, rumors say, is whipping political prisoners in
secret rooms of the Governor's palace. Meanwhile, a young woodcarver is
learning to use one of his tools. .
* * * * * * * * * *
I. Peter Tenriffe
Peter dropped his ash-streaked shorts and flopped down on the clean sheet of
his bed. His bottom hurt only a little. He wiggled it and tried to
pretend it was really sore. "Spanked and sent to bed without his supper"
he said aloud. It sounded OK. Then he said: "I'll tan your hide till you
can't sit down." Peter tried to imagined his hide being tanned till he
couldn't sit down. How did you tan a hide, anyway? He said aloud: "Ten
strokes with the cane! No please sir, twelve!" He flopped over so he
could imagine a cane hitting his bottom, stroke after stroke, but got bored
and flipped back over. He liked to masturbate while thinking about being
caned. He stroked his penis, and slapped it around, but his penis was just
not in the mood.
He thought about the spanking. He remembered his step-dad's warm sweaty
smell as he scooped up Peter and carried him inside. "Peter, you are the
greatest kid in the world. I know I can rely on you. But sometimes ..."
Peter said, "I know, Dad. I'm really, really sorry." "I think you
should have a spanking for what you did, but after that I plan to forget
that this whole thing ever happened. I'll trust you just as much as
before. OK?" "Dad, I'm so sorry". "Peter, it's forgotten. Nothing
happened. Now, are you going pull down your pants?" Peter stepped out
of his shorts and bent over his step-dad's knee. His step-dad's legs were
large and very warm, and Peter liked the feel of his penis pressing against
his step-dad's warm hairy leg, and feel of his torso gripped between the
other leg and his step-dad's strong left hand. He was holding his shorts in
his hands and he gripped them tightly as he waited for it to begin. After a
few spanks Peter was crying loudly. When it was over his step-dad gave
him a hug and a kiss, carried him, carefully not touching his bottom, to his
bedroom. He set him down and tousled his dirty hair. "I'll be OK, Dad,"
Peter said.
Even though he had cried in the spanking, Peter thought spankings were for
babies. All his friends got whippings when they were bad, and they showed
off their bruised bottoms. It wasn't fair. Even disgusting Tomas "Waggle
Weinie" Biscaino showed off his whipped bottom. Last Saturday Peter had
been at a party with his friend Lucas, and Lucas said, "If I don't go home
now, but stay and go home drunk, I'll get a whipping, but I don't care." On
Sunday Lucas came over. "It was awesome, Pedro. Dad bought a new whip
just for me, it's eleven leather straps tied together. You can't imagine
how much it hurts." Peter asked "How many strokes?" "Too many to count.
After a few strokes I was so sore I was gasping for pain even between the
strokes, and he went slow so I didn't miss a thing. Then he told me to take
a shower, and then he started all over again. It went on for hours, and it
hurt like boiling oil. I don't think I'll touch wine again as long as I
live." Lucas stripped. His bottom was dark red and sort of striped, but
not black and blue like Tommy Biscaino's bottom. Peter said, "maybe it'll
get darker later on. Do you really mean you are going to stop drinking?"
Laying on his bed after his spanking, Peter wished his step-dad would be,
just once, as cruel and unfair as Lucas's dad. Peter had been awestruck by
Lucas's whipping; his heart had pounded with the excitement of it. It was
thrilling and terrifying at once; an adventure story come to life in the
house next door. "Torture me all you want, Colonel" he said aloud, "I'll
never talk." I'm just a cry-baby in comparison to Lucas, Peter thought: I'm
so sheltered. I've never felt a whip hit my skin, never even once. Peter
wanted a whipping. But he knew his step-dad didn't like to hurt him. He
was lucky he even got spankings. They sure hurt, though. He hadn't
counted strokes either, but there had been a lot, three dozen maybe, and his
step-dad's fingers were as hard as any whip. It was nice of Dad to give me
such a long hard one, Peter thought, I really deserved it. Peter examined
his bottom in the dresser mirror, by climbing up on the bottom drawer.
The red rosy glow of his cheeks made him feel a little better. But it will
fade by morning, he thought. Peter found his belt, and tried to use the
end to whip his own bottom. This was not a success. Then he tried the belt
folded in half, with the two ends in his hand, and struck the folded loop
across his bottom; this worked better. It took some practice, though.
When he tried to strike with all his strength, his hand seemed to fight him.
An instinct to flinch kicked in, just as the blow landed.
"I'm such a coward," he said aloud. He stood up and put his pillow at the
middle of his bed, forming two hills like buttocks. Spinning his body like
a discus thrower, he sent the belt around his head and brought it crashing
down on the pillow with outrageous violence. That's what it should be, he
thought. Acting quickly, before he could regret the impulse, he swung
the belt over his head and down, while at the same time leaping in the air
and twisting his bottom around to meet the path of the descending belt. The
pain and force of the blow made his body spasm, and he fell down in a tangle
of arms and legs. He was elated. "Ten strokes" he said aloud, and
raised the belt. But he stopped. His bottom could take ten such blows,
but his arm could not; and at any cost Peter must protect his wrist. He
tried four very hard simple blows; the pain was stunning. There was no
flinching. But the test would be a long whipping. "Twenty lashes," he
said aloud, "well laid on." He began to strike with a very slow steady
rhythm: "one, ..., two, ..., three, ..."
Peter found he had lost count. He could remember saying "ten" for certain.
He couldn't remember why he had stopped counting, though. Or why he
seemed to be on the floor. The belt was not in his hand. As he stood up
he realized his bottom was a mass of bruises; far more than twenty strokes,
for certain. Now he could remember striking blow after blow for a long time
without counting. The pain was throbbing. He went to his bed and buried
his face into the pillow, sobbing. There was only Peter and pain in the
world; it would not let him alone. There was nothing to do but to endure
it.
Peter woke up to find his room was lit by the late afternoon sun. The pain
was there, but he didn't have to think about it all the time. He felt a
kind of pleasure in the throbbing soreness. He wondered if his marks were
turning dark yet, and he climbed up the dresser to look at his bottom again.
"Wow" he said, "wow." A track of bleeding cuts ran diagonally across
his body, showing the path of many lashes. The entire area was a dark red,
with ugly blackish patches. "Wow." And suddenly his left hand was
drawn involuntarily to his penis, which had shot into a full tight erection;
he had barely touched the tip when a white flood cascaded over his fingers.
He stood there for a bit, enjoying the after-glow. There was a knock
on the door.
It was his step-dad. "Don't you want a bath, Peter? Were having dinner
at the Brazilian consulate, remember? I'd like to get there early.
There's a surprise."
Peter wanted to hide. His bed had no blanket. Where were his shorts?
Looking around, he forgot to say, "Just a minute," and his step-dad, who
usually had impeccable manners, looked into the room. Peter had left the
door wide open. Peter was standing there, with a fading erection, holding
a lake of semen in the palm of his left hand. His step-dad handed him a
handkerchief. "Good man," he said. "How's your bottom? Holy Maria
mother of God! Did I do that?" But then he noticed the belt, the open
dresser drawer, and the dirty smudges and footprints. "You needed bruises
from a whipping to show your friends, of course!" I can remember showing
my bruises after a visit to Brother Bartolomeo. Even the older boys said I
was brave."
But Peter realized he didn't want to show anyone. "I wouldn't show these
bruises and say you made them, Dad. I made them. And I guess I don't want
to show bruises I made myself." Peter found he couldn't remember exactly
why he had given himself such a beating. "It was curiosity, mostly. I
needed to know what a whipping felt like."
"I understand," his step-dad said. "If all your friends get whippings, and
you get only a spanking, then of course you feel that you haven't paid in a
fair way. You are right. I should have whipped you. If I had punished
you fairly you wouldn't have had to do this."
Peter still longed for a whipping from his step-dad. The beating he'd
given himself didn't change that. But he could tell his step-dad didn't
want to give him one. "It's OK, Dad," he said, "the spanking was fine. It
hurt a lot. The other thing was just something I needed to do for myself."
His step-dad said, "You've been punished enough this time. You don't need
any more." Peter tried not to show his disappointment, but his step-dad
could see it. "Very well, when you have healed, you shall have a whipping."
Peter said, "You don't have to do that, Dad. I don't even want a
whipping." But his face was a big smile.
* * * * * * * * * *
II. Manoel d'Avaliado
Manoel Coutinho d'Avaliado, Peter's step-dad, also wanted a bath before
dinner. Since Peter was little, bathing together had calmed him, when
nothing else would. Peter seemed normal for the moment, his demons at
rest. But was this self-punishment a sign of danger? Manoel picked up
his boy with one arm behind the knees and and another behind the shoulders,
hugging him tightly and giving him a kiss. Without loosening his hug, he
carried Peter to the bathroom, set him in the tub, and ran the water hot.
Manoel took off his own clothes and stepped into the tub, soaping Peter
well, except his bottom, and rinsing him off with a large sponge. He lay
down with Peter on his chest, and washed his filthy hair, with many hugs and
kisses. Peter relaxed and laughed, and squeezed spongefuls of soapy water
over Manoel's face. Then Manoel, very tenderly, washed the cuts and
scrapes on Peter's well whipped bottom.
Manoel said," I'd like you to sit at the dinner table tonight, Peter, if you
can manage it. If you can sit down at all, that is. I've arranged with
the consulate for a place at the table, but no plate or silverware. Do you
think you will be able to manage?" Peter had great difficulty keeping on
weight. The sight of a plate heaped with food would make him gag, and
sometimes vomit. But Manoel had worked hard. Each meal tiny portions were
served in many courses; Manoel and Dona Helena eating small portions as
well. Pots of food were kept out of sight. The courses were always served
in the same order, and Peter was required to use perfect table manners. The
portions were increased a little every day. When Peter ate more than the day
before, or looked at a larger plate of food, Manoel said how proud he was.
When Peter made a mistake, however small, Manoel still said how proud he was
- and gave Peter a spanking. Peter needed exact rules. And now it seemed
he needed to be whipped the same as other boys. The trouble was, other
boys were whipped once in a great while; Peter was spanked almost every day.
Peter had worked very hard, once he had rules to follow, and he had come
a long way. They were now eating almost normally. But a consulate dinner
with thirty strangers was another matter.
"Since you won't be eating at the consulate, I told Nuna to bring food to
the verandah," Manoel said, and they walked over in their bathrobes.
"Don't sit down, Peter. I want to put iodine on those cuts. Are you sure
you are well enough to go tonight? You've taken quite a beating today."
In answer, Peter dropped his robe and did a cartwheel across the verandah.
It was a treat to be naked outdoors. Nuna brought out stew in a
half-filled bowl. Peter went to the kitchen and carried out the great stew
pot, and filled his bowl to the brim. "I love caldeirada," he said,
shoveling it into his mouth; "Isn't this octopus?" Manoel was astonished.
Peter never talked about food. "Taste the buzios, Dad" he said, reaching
into the big pot and handing over his spoon. And then he remembered that
people didn't eat with each others' spoons.
Peter would try fiercely to meet the challenges Manoel gave him, but when he
failed he couldn't forgive himself. Manoel tried his best. "It's
wonderful that you can eat so much at once. And you filled your bowl
yourself. I'm so glad you like octopus." But Peter just looked
miserable. "I'm sorry Dad, of course you don't want to eat with a spoon
I've been putting in my mouth." Manoel changed the subject: "Well, let's
get dressed. It has to be long pants, I'm afraid, and shoes. And a shirt."
Peter said, "All right. I'm really sorry about the spoon." Manoel
knew that Peter could not let it go. He reached over and snapped a finger
against Peter's wrist, hard, twice. "What spoon?" he said, "I don't
remember anything about a spoon."
It took all the iodine left in the bottle. Manoel felt a great lump in his
throat. "Peter, I can't whip you like this, not ever." Peter said,
"Dad, it's all right, I don't need you to whip me. Your spankings hurt a
lot." Manoel said, "You don't want to be punished less than your friends.
I understand that. If I had been singled out at school, and punished
less than the other boys, I would have hated that. You were right to ask
me, and from now on I will whip you. But I can't do it like this, I can't
whip you till the blood flows from a hundred cuts."
Peter said, "Lucas McCallister's father has a whip you could borrow. It
doesn't make cuts, but Lucas says it hurts like fire. But you can't borrow
it now because Lucas is getting twenty lashes every morning for a month."
They walked over to the consulate at 7:30. Peter had wanted to wear a
jacket and tie, but had to be satisfied with a sweater. That Peter wanted
a tie was as astonishing as the bowl of octopus soup; he hated tight
clothing, hated to be confined, couldn't be in a small room with the door
closed. The tie was much too long and the shirt required safety-pins.
Peter joked and laughed with everyone they passed, welcoming tourists in
English, and even saying "Guten Abend" to a party of Germans. They
responded, naturally, in German, of which Peter knew exactly two words.
Peter thought this was funny. The Germans thought they hadn't got the
joke. "Bitte?" Peter said laughing when they were out of earshot. "Bitte?
Bitte?" Manoel was thinking about Lucas getting twenty lashes every
morning, but for now he decided to say nothing.
Just before climbing the steps, Manoel touched the boy's arm. "There will
be a girl at the consulate, Peter. Maria Gonsalvez. From Cuba. Her
mother was Brazilian, so she may speak Portuguese."
"Do you want me to flirt with her, Dad?"
"She may need a friend. She has no family here. And she must be worried
about her parents."
* * * * * * * * * *
III. Peter
At the consulate was Manoel's surprise. Four of Peter's large carvings,
including the red nude, had been placed in the lobby as a small exhibition,
with a few smaller pieces on the walls. Peter looked at the notice. Just
"Peter Chong Tenriffe, local artist. Wood with natural stains." Nothing
about his age. At his only previous exhibition, people had come to see the
freak, the little boy who carved naked women. No one had looked at his
work, and no one had bought anything. But here there were little red dots,
and the notation "Sold," on two cards.
The red nude had not sold. Peter ran his hand over the curves of the
abstract back of the sculpture. He grinned. There was in fact nothing
abstract about it. It was just that he had copied the hollows on the body
rather than the lumps. The breasts on the front were recognized by
everyone as breasts, but on the back he had carved, just as accurately, the
hollows beneath the breasts, and no one had seen it. They were easier to
recognize by feel. Perhaps a sign should say, "Please feel the carvings."
Then many people would touch the red nude, and the breasts and crotch would
get a polish and a darkening from many hands. Hands would recognize the
hollow spaces of a woman's body, even if the eye could not.
There was dancing, with a band and a fado singer, and Peter saw a young
woman he thought must be Maria Gonsalvez. She is much older than I am, he
thought, she won't want to dance with me. "You must get her to dance with
you, or it's the strap," Peter imagined his step-dad commanding. He liked
to imagine his step-dad being very stern, although he never was. It was
easier though, Peter thought, when Dad was teaching me good manners. Then
I just did what he said. Now he just says "she may need a friend," and
trusts me to do the right thing. So if I'm going to cross that floor, I'm
going to have to command myself to do it. "Dance with you? You're just a
baby," Peter imagined her saying, "I could take you across my knee." And
then he started walking. Straight across the floor to her, dodging between
the dancers. In a rush, to get it over, he bowed and asked for the next
dance. She said yes.
Peter said he hoped she had heard good news of her parents. "Please.
Thank you." she said. Clearly her Portuguese was limited. He asked again
in Spanish. "No news yet," she said, "but if they have escaped or are
still in hiding, we would have heard nothing yet. So in this case no news
is good news." She spoke fast, and Peter's Madrileno Spanish was not good
enough. They began to dance; she was over twice his weight, and more than
a head taller, and not a particularly good dancer. He asked if she spoke
English. "I grew up in New York City" she laughed. Peter asked, "Did you
get to meet Elvis Presley?" Maria laughed. "The nuns said he was the
devil. If we even said his name we got a paddling. But we didn't mind
getting a paddling for Elvis." Peter did not understand. "What's
'paddling'?" "You know," she said, "spanked with a paddle, on your
behind. On your panties. Panties if you're a girl. On your bare fanny
if you're a boy." Maria's American English had as many new words as her
Cuban Spanish. He was afraid she would ask how he was punished, since he
had never heard of 'paddling,' and then he would have to admit that his
step-dad used only his hand. "Did you like New York City?" he asked.
That was the last dance before dinner. Peter found his place card. Maria
had been seated across from him, one down. A huge plate of food was put
down in front of him. The determination that had somehow allowed him to
eat that huge bowl of caldeirada, deserted him entirely. "I am going to
vomit," he thought. Closing his eyes he could still see that massive
mountain of food, blazing with the colors of farofa, kale, and feijoada.
He bit his lip. He clenched his buttocks, trying to focus on the soreness,
trying to make it hurt more. He relaxed and breathed in, then out, then
bit and clenched again. In and out. Tighten and release. Think of the
sea. Try to ignore the clinking tinking of knives on plates. His stomach
relaxed, but he knew the danger was not over. He stood up and walked
quickly to the bathroom.
Afterwards, he went to the lobby again, and ran his hands over his carvings.
He wanted to be calm before facing the noises, smells, and sights of the
dining room. He ran his fingers across the back of the red nude, back and
forth along the deep groove he had cut. The groove was the crack between
the buttocks, although he had not carved buttocks on either side of it. He
remembered running his hand between the model's buttocks as she lay on her
side. He had made her try one twisting pose after another. Back and
forth in the groove, cut deep into the grain, back and forth between the
warm yielding grabbing soft buttocks. Back and forth. I wonder if
Maria's bottom is firm or soft? he thought. When she was paddled, even if
it was only on her panties, did her bottom clench with fear? Back and
forth. The model's bottom had been too soft. Peter wanted to give Maria a
paddling on her panties, so he could watch and feel her bottom tighten.
Suddenly his hands were drawing shapes in the air. He took his knife out
of his pocket, and looked around for a bit of scrap wood.
Peter remembered that the dining room had a fireplace. Perhaps there is a
basket of firewood, he thought. There was no hesitation now about going
into the noisy smell-filled room. Someone had lit a fire, although surely
the room was warm enough. Sra. Dona Teresa da Sousa, Dona Helena's friend,
sat at the table nearby; perhaps she had wanted the fire. There was no
basket of wood, but there was a half-burned small log at the back of the
fire. There was no poker. Peter asked Sra. da Sousa for water, and poured
it over his handkerchief. Then he rolled back his sleeve, and drenched his
hand and arm. He reached through the fire and snatched the log, dropped it
and cooled his arm with the wet handkerchief. The snatch was not quite as
quick as he'd hoped, but he did not think there would be any blistering.
Taking care not to make a mess, he knocked off as much charcoal as he could,
and poured water on the remaining embers. He thanked Sra. da Sousa for the
use of her glass, and made his way back to his place at the table.
The sound of chattering dropped to a murmur, but Peter was oblivious as he
studied his prize. He spread his wet handkerchief to keep from getting
charcoal on the tablecloth, and carved away some more charcoal, dropping the
shavings on the food. The food didn't bother him now. He could even have
eaten it. But he was doing something else. Turning the wood, he could see
it would be thighs, buttocks, and a bit of back, bent over. The wood
wanted to be a strong tight body. As he looked, he could see it would be a
boy, not a girl. Lucas. Lucas getting a whipping that burned like fire.
Peter quickly removed excess wood, and then began cuts to get a rough shape.
One leg a bit in front of the other. The leg in front was bearing
weight. Lucas was being whipped bent over, with his hands on the back of a
chair. The pain made him dance. One foot a bit off the floor, then the
other. You could see it in the muscles of his thighs. Getting the final
shape, Peter tried to put the burning pain from his arm into the wood.
Before staining, Peter used the table knife to scratch the wood, so it would
show welts when it took the stain, and then burnished the wood with the end
of the knife handle, pressing hard, working with the grain. Then he tried
a little meat sauce, spotting it carefully; the wood soaked up the grease.
Then red wine, charcoal, and kale; dark angry mean browns. Stain it all
over, not just the buttocks. Rub with some salad for oil. Then warm it
over a candle. His belt would work for polishing. As he ran the carving
up and down the belt, he noticed the dark spots of blood on the belt. Then
more warming, even to a little charring. More meat sauce. Scrape it
down with the edge of the knife blade, and polish again. It was very
crude, very rough, but you could see the pain in it. Turning it over,
Peter made a few cuts to suggest, faintly, knees, thighs, and penis.
Lucas's is so much bigger than mine, Peter thought. More staining. Then
whittle the penis down a bit, so it shows lighter against the stained wood.
More olive oil, and burnish the penis so it shines. Lucas hadn't said
if he got an erection, but he must at least have felt a glow in his penis.
More polish on the buttocks, for that warmth after a spanking. It was
finished. Too bad it smelled of salad.
Peter warmed the carving over the candle again, and stuck it into his
crotch, so it would pick up a different smell. He tried to piss on it just
a little, but he couldn't. He rubbed it on his chest, the soft skin
polishing it differently than the stiff belt. The scratches he had cut
across the bottom had taken a deep stain from the hot peppery sauce, it was
agony even to look at them. They felt like raised weals, from a jagged
switch. He ran his fingers over the carving with his eyes closed. It was
warm, and seemed almost to feel his touch, to feel it on the sore tender
bottom, to feel it on the trembling, stiffening penis. The carving was
crude, and far from realistic, but fine sanded polished wood would not have
worked so well. Peter was satisfied. He realized that everyone had
stopped talking.
Peter opened his eyes and looked around. The tinkle of spoons on china had
stopped. Ice cream was melting in bowls. No one was moving. And every
single person at the table was looking at him. The woman on his right,
Dra. Lopez, asked to see the carving. "Please," said Peter, passing it to
her. Dra. Lopez passed it to her right, and it went from hand to hand,
some just looking, but others using their hands as well as their eyes.
Peter was miserable. I wanted so much to be good at this dinner, he
thought. Why do I always embarrass Dad? I deserve to be whipped every
day for a month. Maybe I've been so bad that Dad really will whip me, and
he'll hate doing it, and it will all be my fault. Peter felt like crying,
but that would just be another embarrassment for his step-dad. He bit his
lip and focused on the pain in his arm and bottom. Clench. Then relax.
Breath in. Breath out.
Someone tapped his shoulder: a waiter. "Mr. John Gaskins, Consul of the
United States, wishes you will do him the honor to accept five hundred
dollars for your sculpture." Peter was confused. Was the American
offering to buy the red nude? But the waiter had the carving in his hand,
the little sketch he had just done. A joke, obviously. Peter did the
math. Five hundred American dollars would be ... ridiculous. More than
all the carvings in the lobby put together. Peter did not find the joke
funny, but he supposed he deserved it. Carving a pair of whipped buttocks
at a formal dinner. No doubt all my carvings are worthless and deserve to
be mocked, Peter thought, but what have I done to this American? If he's
going to make fun of me, at least I should show some spirit. Peter stood
and bowed to the American consul, and then spoke in a loud voice to the
waiter. "Please tell his excellency, Mr. John Gaskins, Consul of the
United States, that the carving is not for sale." Peter repeated in
English, "The carving is not for sale."
Peter handed the carving to Maria. Speaking loud so the American would
hear, he said to her, in English, "Miss Gonsalvez, will you do me the honor
to accept this trinket I have just made, as a memento of our pleasant
evening? Some may think it has some value, but less to me than one of your
smiles." And he sat down. That will show him. Peter really was quite
angry. He thought of something else. He asked Maria for the carving.
"Since some would call this a valuable work of art," he said loudly, "it
should be signed." Peter cut -| _/\ into the base, rather than his usual
/\_ \/ |-. He passed it back to Maria with a bow, and it was passed
around again, as some had not seen it. The American had tried to buy it as
soon as it reached him.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
IV. Pisspants
James McCallister didn't pay much attention to the commotion at the other
end of the table. He wasn't one to let ice cream melt and go to waste.
Dr. Manoel d'Avaliado, an important government man, came over to talk.
"Let's just step into the corridor, I'd like a word with you about coming in
to the Palace tomorrow," the government man said. James had been summoned
to the Governor's Palace before, but never by so august an individual as the
Head of the Office of Legal Affairs. So he felt some fear as they walked
out of the room. In the corridor, Dr. d'Avaliado said, "I would appreciate
it if you could drop by. I understand that you have recently acquired a
whip. Please bring it along if you would be so kind." There was something
chilling about this formal, polite request. Bring your own whip. There
were rumors of secret cells in the Governor's palace; secret investigations.
James thought: This can't be happening to me. It's just a tactic to
scare me. He wants me scared so I will make a mistake. He doesn't have
any evidence. He can't know about the Caledonian. But if it was a tactic
to scare him, it was working. James felt a shoulder-wrenching fear, a fear
that gripped his guts and twisted his testicles. Fear like when the
dominie slapped his desk with the tawse, and said, "Drap your trews, young
Jamie McCallister!" Jamie had been paralyzed, so scared another boy had to
help him with his buttons. And then the worst shame of all, the liquid
trickling down his legs. Lucas never showed fear. He could make Lucas
cry, and beg for mercy, but the next day Lucas would walk in for a whipping
with a spring in his step and a sparkle in his eyes. "Here you go," Lucas
would say as he handed over the whip. He would undress nonchalantly, and
make a casual remark about his day's plans.
"Peter has been telling me about this wonderful whip," Dr. d'Avaliado said.
"He says it is like many whips bound into one. Lucas has been boasting
about it. Peter would like to try it, I think."
James answered. "The whip is what we in Scotland would call a tawse, a
strap with many tails. This one is a very broad strap, divided into a
large number of tails. In the right hands it does not cut the skin, but
the pain is more than with other whips. If young Peter thinks he will be
getting a light punishment with this whip, he is mistaken."
"That is why I hope you will bring the whip and explain its use," Sr.
d'Avaliado said. "Lucas is due for a punishment tomorrow morning, Peter
tells me. Why not bring Lucas and come over to my house in the morning.
That will save you a trip to the Palace. And with Lucas there you can show
me how the tawse is used. I should like to borrow it for some time, if I
may."
"Lucas's punishment will not be complete tomorrow," James answered. "When
it is, I may be able to lend you the whip for a short time."
Dr. d'Avaliado said, "After you have shown me how to use the tawse, leave
Lucas with me for a while. I don't think you will find he needs any
punishment after that. Indeed I don't think you will be needing the tawse
again. If you do, you may send Lucas to me for it. He will not be happy
about that."
James agreed, as he was too terrified to refuse. He hated being whipped
and above all hated the fear of waiting for it to start. But every
boyfriend he had ever had, had beaten him - this whip hadn't been designed
for Lucas's bottom. If he didn't get the whip back before his next trip to
London, Ratty would kill him. They said prisoners at the Palace were fucked
in the ass as well as whipped. He wondered if d'Avaliado did that himself.
Ratty Campbell didn't have half the balls d'Avaliado had. He thought:
This fucking lawyer doesn't like Lucas around his boy. Probably thinks
we're not good enough for him.
James hurried to the bathroom; piss was starting to leak down his legs.
But he looked forward to telling Lucas about the whipping he would get
tomorrow from the government man. Perhaps Lucas would be afraid at last.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
V. Manoel
Manoel thought: that man was scared. Pisspants McCallister has a guilty
secret. Not just taxes, everyone cheats on taxes in Portugal. Not murder,
he knows I wouldn't be involved in that. Perhaps something to do with the
shipping company. Drugs? Guns? The Caledonian sailed on friday, but I
don't recall anything due in. So perhaps something on the Caledonian
being smuggled into Britain. I can't see Pisspants as part of an
international drug ring. But something small-scale. Wine or cheese into
Britain without paying duty, that would be more his league.
A young lawyer from Manoel's office was at the party, so Manoel went to look
for him. "Please go down to the office, Dr. Biscaino, and send a telegram
to the customs office in Liverpool." Manoel wrote the telegram on an
envelope. "Recommend thorough search M.S. Caledonian arriving Liverpool.
Verify manifest and confirm all documents with issuing authorities, possible
forgery." "What, tonight?" Dr. Biscaino asked. Manoel said, "This
minute. Do you think ships don't unload at night? Take a taxi. Run if
you have to. I will make your excuses to Senhora Rodrigues. And look up
what we have on the Caledonian. Have it on my desk by ten. Now go, go!
I will tell your wife."
Now for a call to the Chief of Police, Manoel thought. A watch on the
Matson Line offices, and when Pisspants comes in to burn records, we have
him. But then the conversation they had just had, would have to be
described in court. "He must have known I suspected him," Manoel would have
to say, "because I asked to borrow a whip to beat my son." In any case,
did Manoel really want to send Peter's friend's dad to jail? Let him burn
the records if he can, Manoel decided. If there is anything on the
Caledonian, the English will find it, and McCallister will piss his pants
again.
Manoel went to look for Sra. Biscaino to tell her that he had just sent her
husband to the office. Only a few older men, smoking cigars, were still
around the dining table. He went to the drawing room. There, in front of
the fireplace, sat Maria Gonsalvez. Peter, shirtless, beltless, pants
undone, and sobbing great loud sobs, was curled up in her lap, resting his
head on her shoulder, while she planted kiss after tender kiss on his
flaming red left arm. Everyone in the room was watching them. Except for
the sobs and the kisses, the room was silent.
Manoel thought: well, for once he is still wearing his pants.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
VI. Dona Teresa
After seventy years, Dona Maria Teresa Correa da Sousa usually knew what to
do. "Senhora Rodrigues," she said, "perhaps you have a room? I think we
should put the boy to bed. Senhorita Gonsalvez, if you would put the boy
down." But Peter clung tightly and began to howl when Maria tried to put
him down, so Maria was obliged to carry him. Sra. Rodrigues led the way to
a large bedroom. Dona Teresa said, "Obviously, Maria and Peter must not
remain in an embrace. We must close the door, and let him make as much
noise as he likes, but Maria must return to the drawing room at once. Sr.
d'Avaliado, please step outside and close the door. You may come in when
Maria has gone out."
Peter had no more fight in him, and it was easy for Maria to deposit him on
the bed, where he lay curled up, sobbing. Dona Teresa said, in Spanish,
"Now, Maria, run along to the drawing room. Tell Senora Rodrigues that you
and I have put the invalid to bed. Make sure people hear you." "Can you
give him a message from me?" Maria asked. Dona Teresa said, "If it is
quick." Maria said, "When he began to cry, he said crazy things. He said
he wanted to do a carving of my bottom. He said he wanted to pull down my
panties and spank me so he could see how it looked. He said he would carve
a paddle to spank me with. Could you please tell him I would be happy to
pose for him? Would let him do anything he wanted?"
"Dear Maria," the old woman said, "I endured my husband's beatings for the
love of God, they were no pleasure to me. But I have a friend who took
great pleasure to be whipped by her husband, God give him rest, before they
fulfilled the duty of marriage. I think it can be no sin, for married
people to enjoy all the pleasures sent by God. My friend still speaks of
her memories, and I like to listen to her stories, though I am glad they did
not happen to me. You want to be kissed by this boy, I think, as well as
spanked." Maria nodded. Dona Teresa continued, "I shall be your
chaperone, and will tell everyone that nothing occurred that I did not
witness. But that is for the future. For tonight, think what has
happened. Peter gave you a carving worth a fortune, and said it was for a
smile and an evening of pleasure. He has been sitting shirtless on your
lap, crying on your shoulder. Someone may have heard him say he wanted to
spank you. Every minute you stay in this room is a danger to your
reputation. And the fact that he is half Chinese will make it worse. You
must go to the drawing room at once, and make sure you are seen. And you
must not spend the night under this roof, since he will be here. Ask Sra.
Rodrigues to find someone to take you in." Dona Teresa embraced Maria.
"Go along now, and send in Dr. d'Avaliado."
When Manoel came in, Dona Teresa said, "So this is one of Peter Tenriffe's
famous spells. It looks like no more than a temper tantrum to me. If this
were my boy I should just give him a good whipping."
Manoel answered, "It is a tantrum, in a way, and he will be beaten. But
whether he will be well tomorrow, or slide into madness again, remains to be
seen. I plan to start by getting some food into him. I think he may have
vomited the only food he has eaten today. Dona Teresa, could you have some
food brought here? I will stay with the boy. Bring many napkins."
Teresa returned with food to find Dr. d'Avaliado sitting on the bed, wearing
only his drawers, holding Peter on his lap, hugging him and tousling his
hair. Peter was naked. d'Avaliado said, "I am so fond of you, Peter. Now
Peter, here is some food. Eat it with the spoon." Peter did nothing.
d'Avaliado gave three very hard spanks to the inside of Peter's thigh, one
of the few places on the boy that was not skin and bones. Peter whimpered
like a hurt animal. Teresa found this hard to watch. "Here is some food,
Peter," d'Avaliado repeated, "eat it with the spoon." Peter picked up the
spoon in his fist the way a baby does, stuck it into the bowl of feijoada,
and put it in his mouth. He continued to eat one spoonful after another,
while his step-father showered him with praise and kisses, hugs and
caresses. Peter seemed to neither see nor hear, only woodenly putting
spoon after spoon of food into his mouth. One spoonful went astray, which
earned him another hard spank. And so it continued for two bowls, and many
spanks. Dona Teresa cut the meat off the bones and into spoon-size pieces.
"And now I think a bath," d'Avaliado said. "He is already much calmer. He
always is, when he is naked. It will not be possible to put his clothes on,
I'm afraid. Then he really would throw a tantrum. I shall dress. If you
could have a bath drawn, Dona Teresa."
When they reached the bathroom, d'Avaliado passed the naked boy to Teresa,
who sat down on a chair. No one closed the bathroom door. Without any
prompting from d'Avaliado, Dona Teresa hugged and kissed Peter, caressed him
and praised him and tickled him, and he relaxed and snuggled into her, no
longer wooden. He buried his face into her corseted chest, and breathed in
her heavy perfume. d'Avaliado ran more hot water, and without a word, or a
glance at the wide open door, undressed, stepped into the bath, and reached
out his arms for his boy. With Peter lying on his chest, d'Avaliado washed
him thoroughly with spongefuls of soapy, very hot water. Peter began to
giggle, then to laugh, then to play with the water. And then, suddenly,
Peter was well again. "Oh Dad, I am so sorry," Peter said, "I've been
terrible tonight."
Peter got out of the bath, blushed, and put his hands in front of his penis.
"Dona Teresa, how kind of you to help." He wrapped himself in a towel.
"I've been so bad, I think my Dad will have to whip me. He doesn't want to.
I am sorry I've made him." d'Avaliado said, "Peter, no one will whip you
until your bottom heals. Dona Teresa has seen the damage already, but
perhaps you can show her again and tell her who gave you that beating, and
why."
Peter blushed an even deeper shade, dropped the towel and turned around.
The bruises were spectacular, bright as a flag against the milk-white skin
of his back. "I made these bruises myself," Peter said, still facing away
from her, "I whipped my own bottom. I don't know why. I am always doing
stupid things." Peter picked up the towel again. He gave his step-dad a
squeeze on the hand. "Thanks, Dad," he said.
Dona Teresa said, "Perhaps you thought you deserved to be punished." "I
did deserve to be punished, Dona Teresa," Peter said, "and now I deserve it
even more. But I will not whip myself again. However much it hurts, it's
not really punishment, and doesn't make me deserve punishment any less."
"When your bottom heals, Peter, we can talk about what punishment you
deserve, if you deserve any," Manoel said. I know you think I can't or
won't or don't want to whip you, but I will whip you if you have deserved
it. But I don't want to talk about it tonight. Sra. Rodrigues offered
you a room for the night, but I think we should go home, if you are feeling
well. Sra. da Sousa has brought your pants. Do you remember where you
took off your shirt? Sra. da Sousa, you have been so very kind."
"Manoel Maria Coutinho d'Avaliado, you will NOT pack me off with a nod!"
Dona Teresa thundered. "'Dona Teresa,' you called me, when Peter was ill.
Now he is better and it's 'Sra. da Sousa,' and 'thank you very much.' I
am seventy years old, Dr. d'Avaliado, I grew up with your mother. But I am
a woman. You are standing naked in front of me without so much as a
thought. As if I were a block of wood!" Manoel blushed and grabbed a
towel. "I shall go with you, tonight," Dona Teresa said. It is time I
had a long visit with Dona Helena."
Manoel asked Dona Teresa to look the other way while he dressed. She said,
"Humph!" but she smiled and looked away. Then they had only to collect
Peter's shoes and socks, shirt and tie, sweater and belt from various rooms
of the consulate, and they were ready to go.
Manoel had to offer his most abject apologies to his hostess, for he had
neglected to tell Sra. Biscaino about sending her husband to the office.
"She was most upset, Dr. d'Avaliado," Sra. Rodrigues said, "she asked me if
I had seen which woman her husband left with." Manoel thought: it's
dreadful that I forgot to tell her. I deserve to be whipped for it. I
would rather be whipped, than to have to apologize to Tomas Biscaino
tomorrow. There was one thing, Manoel thought, that he could do. He
phoned the Biscaino house, but there was no answer. He wrote a letter, and
paid a servant five escudos to deliver it by hand, with instructions to wake
the household if he could.
As they walked the mile back to the Coutinho mansion, Peter and Dona Teresa
walked together, Peter's arm around her waist, chatting with great
animation. Manoel walked behind, very tired, thinking only of sleep.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
VII. Dona Helena
Dona Juana Helena Mendes Coutinho Carvalho lay in her bed, before daybreak.
She did not sleep through the nights any more. It would be an hour
before Nuna brought her breakfast, and she had nothing to pass the time but
her memories. She thought of the time Pero had chased her out into the
road, and lifted her skirts and smacked her bottom where anyone could have
seen them. He had loved it when she teased him, made him so angry that he
grabbed her and spanked her, long long wonderful spankings. Here was Nuna
come already. "Nuna! Is that you?", Helena shouted. "I'm awake. Have you
brought tea? St. Joseph's Ruler! It's Dona Teresa, how lovely! Teresa,
what are you doing here this early in the morning?"
"I've been here all night, but I couldn't sleep," Teresa answered. "I
thought I'd come and see if you were awake. I should like to stay for a
week, if I may." "Dear Teresa, of course you must stay a week," Helena
said, "Nuna shall bring tea soon, and we will share a cup as we used to do
in school. Now, tell me all the news."
Teresa said, "Nothing as interesting as is happening here. You must have
been very interested in Peter's whipping." "Peter got a whipping?" Helena
said, "No one told me." "Oh no, he whipped himself," Teresa answered, "A
very severe whipping, his bottom is all cuts and bruises. We will have to
make sure he shows it to you before the bruises heal. Perhaps he is like
you. Perhaps he will need a whipping before he can release his seed." "If
he is like me, he is truly blessed;" Helena answered, "if he can take
pleasure from the whip he will have more pleasure, than those who want
nothing stronger than a touch. We do not need the whip - it is a gift.
Peter has been releasing his seed with his hand for a year, almost. Like
my sons he thinks I am deaf to this one thing, but I hear him. Boys must
think their handkerchiefs wash themselves."
Teresa said, "And what of your little Jorge, dear Helena? Did he think we
were blind, when he would go behind the house with my Maria Caterina? My
Caterina was so happy. I was sure they would be married. But God called
him, and he became a Priest. And Caterina is in America. Do you suppose
they kissed?"
Helena said, "I hope you will forgive me, dear Teresa, but I think they did
many things. I think they were only careful that Caterina did not have a
child. Did you never find man's seed on her underclothes?" Teresa
answered, "Yes I did, but in a strange place. On the inside, as if the seed
had been in the crack of her bottom." "That is not strange," Helena
answered. "He must have rubbed his manhood against the crack of her bottom.
Of all my sons, Jorge never pleasured himself with his hand. Night
after night he would lay there, his long rod stiff to bursting, and never
give himself release. But many evenings he would sneak out with Caterina,
and on those nights he was not stiff. If he was not using the crack of her
bottom, he was using his hand, and spilling his seed across her bottom."
Nuna came in with the tea, and found Dona Teresa. Nuna helped Dona Helena
to stand, and brought a shawl. "I shall bring another cup for Sra. da
Sousa," she said. "That will not be necessary, Nuna," Helena said, "but
Dona Teresa will be staying a week, at least. I wish a bed for her in
this room. Ask the gardener to help you, or Peter. And tell Peter I
would like to see him before he goes to school."
Helena asked Teresa to bring her the locked box from her wardrobe, and
Helena unlocked it and took out a braided leather, three tailed whip, and a
little tin of leather grease. She applied it carefully, with a rag,
working around each little jagged edge and point of the braiding. She
closed her eyes and whipped the palm of her left hand, shivering with
remembered pleasure. Teresa continued with her gossip. "Last night at
the consulate there was a young woman, a Cuban refugee, and she has fallen
in love with Peter."
Helena asked, "Dear Teresa, I don't suppose, if I lay on the bed, even one
stroke?" "No Helena, I think you are much to ill to be whipped," Teresa
answered, "and in any case you know I do not whip you. But I was telling
you about this young woman. She wants a spanking from Peter! Suppose I
bring her here, and he can spank her while you watch?"
Helena asked, "Has she been spanked by a man for pleasure before? I would
like to talk to her." Teresa said, "Dear Helena, I do not know. But I
consider the girl under my protection. He may kiss her, spank her, whip
her; that I will permit. But he must do it here while we watch. They
mustn't be naked alone together. And no rubbing his manhood between her
breasts. And she will not have his seed on the crack of her bottom." There
was a slight choking noise. Teresa looked up to see that Peter was standing
by the door, wearing only his undershorts. An erection poked out of them.
"Good morning, Dona Teresa, Mama Helena," he said, "I hope you slept well.
Dona Helena, Nuna said you wanted to see me before school."
"That was my doing, I fear," said Teresa, "I told Dona Helena about your
whipping. I hope you will forgive me, if you had meant to keep it private."
Peter said, "I have no secrets from my Mama Helena. Of course she will
want to see the marks." And Peter dropped his shorts and slowly turned
around. In spite of the iodine, the cuts were now red and inflamed, and
very tender. It was now painful to wear clothing, painful to sit. As he
completed his turn, he found himself looking into the eyes of Maria
Gonsalvez. She was standing in the open doorway, holding the carving of
Lucas's bottom, and was still wearing her evening clothes from the night
before. Her eyes were very wide.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
VIII. the nine-tail tawse
At about that time, James McCallister took his son Lucas next door to the
Coutinho mansion. "He thinks you're a bad influence on his precious boy,
that's clear enough," James said. Lucas had the whip in a guitar case.
"He told me to bring the whip and to bring you to use it on," his father
continued. "I've been too kindhearted to do more than tickle you with it;
when he lets fly your flesh will be cut to ribbons and your blood will run
in sheets. He is furious; he said he's going to give you a whipping so bad
that you won't need another one for a year. I don't know what you did to
his boy, but it's out of my hands now."
Lucas was scared of Dr. d'Avaliado. Everyone knew he'd been a spy in
Macao, and that he'd been transferred to Ponta Delgada because he killed a
man with his bare hands. But Lucas didn't feel so scared that he needed to
let it show. When they were shown into Dr. d'Avaliado's study, his father
and Dr. d'Avaliado embraced, but Lucas merely bowed and began, not too
slowly and not too quickly, to remove his school uniform. As he undressed
he asked, "Dr. d'Avaliado, I hope you are well? And how is Peter?" When
naked, he took the whip from the case, and presented it to Dr. d'Avaliado
with another bow. "Please," he said. He did not rise from the bow but
simply lowered himself to the desktop, and pushed his legs back.
With Lucas spread naked across his desk, Manoel could see the mass of
bruises and contusions on his buttocks. Peter's bruises had been bad, but
they had looked like normal bruises. Lucas had strange lumps and dents,
purple streaks and gray blotches. The whip was a terrifying sight. It
was huge, and heavy. There was a broad sheet of leather, curved to fit the
bottom; it was divided into five straight straps, each of which was divided
into two at the end. Behind this was another sheet also cut into straps;
these were curved and branched, like seaweed, and ran diagonally across and
down, to hit the tops of the legs. Behind this was another sheet; these
straps ran diagonally up, to strike the areas on both sides of the spine.
The straps were punched with countless holes, threaded with thin leather
laces, making little bumps to dig into the skin. The lacings loosely
joined the straps, to keep the straps from twisting and hitting edge-on.
The tip of each strap was wrapped with soft woolen thread, to prevent cuts.
The handle was long, and had the grip wrapped in leather, with a strap to go
around the forearm.
Manoel took the whip in his hand. James McCallister began to fuss. "This
whip requires practice and instruction. It is very dangerous." But
Manoel, after years of practice with the cajado, was confident he could land
the whip where he wanted it. He took one practice swing through the air,
and then swung the whip up and down, hard, straight and true across Lucas's
buttocks. "Ha!" he said, "very good. I seem to have it. And again!"
and he swung the whip up, around, and down. The sound was thunderous,
T-T-TA, as the three layers of straps hit. The force of the blow made the
desk shake. Manoel said, in English, "Thank you, Mr. McCallister. If you
should need the whip, send Lucas for it. Or send Lucas to me and I'll take
care of the matter. But I do not expect that you will have much trouble
with him." And he embraced James again and showed him out the door.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
IX. Maria
Maria had spent the night at the house of Dra. Lopez, the oculist, who lived
next door to the consulate. But Maria had left her baggage at the
consulate. When she rang the consulate bell, early in the morning, the
maid, who spoke only Portuguese, would not let her in. Questions about
Peter Tenriffe were met with pointings down the street. Walking the
streets at dawn in a low-cut evening dress was not calculated to enhance her
reputation, but there were few people about as she made her way to the
Coutinho mansion. She saw Peter sprinting across the courtyard. He ran,
Maria thought, even more beautifully than he danced.
When she arrived at the room, Peter was turning around, showing off the
marks of a terrible beating. Naked, he looked like a skeleton, hardly any
meat on him. "Senorita Gonsalvez, a pleasure to see you again so soon,"
Peter said in Spanish, politely embracing her and kissing her cheeks. He
showed no embarrassment, not even about the erection that pushed her skirt
between her legs. "I think you met Dona Maria Teresa da Sousa last night.
And this is my dear Mama Helena, Dona Helena Coutinho Carvalho." Peter
continued in Portuguese, "Mama Helena, this is Senhorita Maria Gonsalvez."
Most in the Azores could understand Spanish perfectly well, but his Mama
Helena claimed not to understand young people even when they spoke
Portuguese, so Peter spoke slowly and avoided any sort of slang. Perhaps
she was becoming somewhat deaf.
Dona Teresa asked, in Spanish, "Peter, would you like to do a carving of
Maria?" Peter looked reluctant. Maria felt shy. She said, "Dona Teresa,
Sr. Tenriffe has given me this wonderful carving. Such an artist must have
his choice of models. It was vain of me to ask for a carving of myself."
Peter said, "I think you may have misunderstood, I do not do portraits,
..."
But he was interrupted by Dona Helena, speaking Portuguese. Then Dona
Teresa said, in Spanish, "Maria, I know you want Peter to give you a
spanking on your bare bottom, so he can do a carving. Peter, I think you
want this also. Do you?" Peter said, "I would never ask ..." "Peter,
Stop!" Dona Teresa said. "This is something she wants, but you are the man
and you must ask. Now ask her! Or tell her that you will not do it."
Peter hesitated, but then bowed, and said, in English, "Miss Gonsalvez, may
I paddle your bare fanny? I want to pull your panties down." Maria
grinned. "Super," she said, "A-OK."
Mama Helena poked Peter in the ribs with her cane. "Fool!" she said, "Kiss
her!" But Peter did not want to kiss her. He was trying to decide on a
scale. If it was to be life-like, he did not think it should be life-size.
Wood was too ponderous, humans were lighter because they were alive.
Three-quarter life size? Seven-eighths? How to give the shape of the wood
the life, the lightness of a woman? "Walk!" he shouted. "No, with your
dress off!" "Panties too?" "No! Yes! Doesn't matter!" Peter grabbed
her buttock, put his other hand on the front of her thigh. "Don't stop
walking!" Peter followed her around the room. "More bounce!" he ordered.
"Jump!" he said, and smacked her bottom. "Don't stop walking! Look,
spank me when I walk past you. Look what my legs do." Maria objected,
"But Peter, your bottom." Peter said, "Saint Joseph's ruler, Maria, just
spank me as I walk past you! See! see how the spank is not just the
bottom, but the whole body?" Peter smacked Maria's bottom again. "Don't
stop walking!" he said, "walk, not waddle. Now Jump!" he smacked. "Jump!"
Somehow the process of being spanked by an artist was not in the least as
Maria had expected it to be. The smacks he was giving with his hand did not
hurt in the least. In her imagination, Peter began by kissing her hand,
then her lips. "Maria, he whispered in a low throaty voice, I am so
grateful for this. But the pain will be intense. Are you sure you want to
do it." And she would say, "I will bear it if I can, for you, Peter. If
the pain becomes too much, kiss me and ask me if I can stand just one more
stroke. I think I will be able to bear anything." And she would bend
over and lift up her bottom for the stinging but loving strokes. "Holy
Mother of God! Maria, what are you doing?" Peter said, the real Peter and
not her imaginary one. "Why are you bending over? Twitch!" he ordered, and
smacked her bottom. Peter picked up Helena's three-tailed braided leather
whip. "Jump!" he ordered, and brought the whip down across Maria's lifted
bottom as hard as he could.
The effect on Maria was just as Peter wanted. The sudden, stinging pain
made all the muscles in Maria's body jerk. The effect on himself was not
expected. His erection swelled into tight, painful hardness. The
strength of the desire which filled him was like nothing he had experienced,
driving him, forcing him to plunge into Maria's offered body. He could
resist, but not pull away. He was racked by waves of desire, and he
groaned, rhythmic gasping groans that Maria joined and repeated, that grew
louder and louder. We are going to do this, Peter thought. The waves of
desire jerked him back and forth. His penis touched the entrance to her
body. The next jerk would plunge in deep; and he could feel the semen
building inside of him; lakes of semen, oceans of semen. He did the only
thing he could, he grabbed his penis in his hand and with a few, quick
strokes brought a climax, and a gusher of semen spilled out.
As it happened, most of it ended up on the crack in Maria's bottom.
"Holy Maria, I am late for school." Peter shouted, "Dr. Diaz will flog me
for sure." And he ran for his school uniform, undershorts in his hand.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
X. Manoel, whipped
After Manoel had shown James McCallister to the door, he drew Lucas to his
feet, embraced him and kissed both cheeks. "Dear Lucas, I apologize for
those two strokes. But I have the whip now and I don't think your father
will be in a hurry to send for it. I've been hoping to talk with you.
You must come to dinner tonight. Peter tells me you have decided to stop
drinking. I know how difficult that can be; I hope you will let Peter help
you. And if you want to see me at any time. . ."
"I know you mean to be kind, Dr. d'Avaliado," Lucas interrupted, "but I
indend to go through with my punishment. Peter tells me you never punish
him except with your hand. He wishes that when he disappoints you, you
would punish him more harshly. He says he needs the punishment to do
better, but I think that no whipping will ever hurt Peter as much as it
hurts him to disappoint you. But I'm not Peter, I need real punishment,
real pain. And I want to do better as much as Peter does."
"Lucas, Peter has never disappointed me. Do you really deserve twenty
lashes a day for a month, with this?" Manoel asked. "What did you do?"
Lucas said, "I got drunk."
"Holy mother of God! Six hundred lashes! For getting drunk?"
"I do not wish to become a drunk, Dr. d'Avaliado. I have other plans.
Knowing Peter has given me other plans. But in me the urge to drink is very
strong, as it was in my mother. I do not want to drink again. Not ever.
But how can I hope to resist next time, if I lack the will to endure my
punishment this time?"
"Peter and I can help."
"You are proposing that I escape punishment, punishment I deserve, by
telling my Dad you have whipped me, when you haven't. Would Peter do that?"
Lucas asked. If you will not use the whip, I must take it to my father.
I respect your kindness, Dr. d'Avaliado, but have you thought about what my
Dad will do? He will think it a funny story, how the great and powerful
government man does not have the balls to whip a boy. He will tell that
story many times."
Manoel looked at the whip in Lucas's hand. "Peter wants me to whip him.
Now you try to force me to whip you. But so many strokes, with this whip
which is like many lashes with each stroke. Would not five strokes be
enough? You don't need to tell your Dad the exact number. And I do not
think you will become a drunk."
"Perhaps you think this whip is worse than it is," said Lucas. "It never
draws blood. When it strikes the pain is very great, but it is over in an
instant. There is no lasting soreness, as there is when you are beaten
with a rod. It is invigorating, like a swim in the sea in winter. I almost
look forward to it. Afterwards, I sit on a bench at school without any
pain, just a pleasant warmth. You think twenty lashes are very terrible.
How can I prove they are not? I understand, Dr. d'Avaliado, that you wish
to know how painful such a whipping is, before you whip Peter. You cannot
fully know unless you feel the whip yourself. But you may give Peter twenty
lashes. He will bear them without flinching, and thank you for them
afterwards."
"I should feel this whip myself, before I whip you or Peter." Manoel said.
"Very brave, Dr. d'Avaliado." Lucas said, taking charge as if he whipped
heads of government departments daily. "Take your pants off, not just down.
It is better that way. Believe me, I have experience. And your shirt
is long, better have it off as well. You need not lay on the desk, that
is for schoolboys. Gentlemen are whipped standing. Just bend slightly and
rest your hands on the desk. If you are ready? Oh, you did want all
twenty strokes, didn't you? It will be an honor to be whipped each day by
such a brave man."
Manoel was not quite sure why he had agreed to be whipped at all. He had
hated his visits to Brother Bartolomeo at school, but afterwards he could
show his whipped bottom and say, "I did not cry." At pauladas or Jogo do
Pau, Manoel had never minded the cajado blows that landed on his body. At
Coimbra, it had been forbidden to fence without a mask, but a secret
society, the Fellowship of Camões, held matches in honor of Camões'
sword-fights. Manoel, a weak fencer, had repeatedly challenged stronger
swordsmen. The challenger played the part of Camões, discovered naked in
bed with a woman. In every match, Manoel got stinging blows from the foil
that left red welts and cuts all over his body. He had found the matches
exhilarating. So Manoel thought he could bear pain as well as another.
Since he would be giving Lucas twenty strokes every day, it seemed cowardly
to ask for less. He needed Lucas's discretion. So Manoel agreed to twenty
strokes.
"Any movement, any sort of flinching," said Lucas, "not that you would ever
flinch, Dr. d'Avaliado, of course. As I was saying, any movement runs the
risk of the whip landing on some part of the body other than intended. We
begin."
The blows were shocking. The many tails produced a stinging pain over the
entire area of his bottom. But as Lucas had said, the pain was over in an
instant. The pain was even, in a way, invigorating. But after three or
four blows he was very sore, and the blows landing on sore flesh were
agonizing. By seven or eight strokes there was burning pain even between
the strokes. Lucas started to whip very slowly. Between strokes he would
trickle the whip tails back and forth across the tender flesh. He would
draw back for the next stroke with a loud intake of breath, and hold it for
a few seconds, sometimes more and sometimes less. The waiting was
horrible, so awful it was almost a relief to hear the swish of the blow.
Manoel realized that it was fear, stark terror, that roiled his mind; fear
that he didn't feel when fighting with the cajado. Fear made the pain
worse. As he swung the whip Lucas gave a low groan, "hwuah," like a man
swinging a tool with all his might. The blows felt as if they cut deep
furrows in the flesh. Manoel thought he was about to cry, that a shout of
"Stop!" would be forced out of him. This pain was too much. But Lucas
endures it day after day, he thought. He is choosing to endure it for
three more weeks. What a coward I'll feel, giving Lucas twenty strokes,
day after day, when I could not bear them, myself. Will he even agree to
be whipped by such a coward? Perhaps he'll take the whip home.
"Hwuah," Lucas groaned, and the whip sliced, or seemed to slice, deep into
Manoel's flesh. But Manoel realized he had been thinking of other things.
The pain no longer so consumed him that he could think of nothing else.
He had also lost track of the number of strokes. Had that been thirteen or
fourteen? Manoel felt a hope that it had actually been seventeen or
eighteen. That's impossible, he thought. But in the long pause after the
next stroke he thought, perhaps it's over, perhaps I could get up now.
Manoel hoped that it was the last stroke, up to the moment the next stroke
hit, and then he hoped that that was the last stroke. For some reason, he
thought about Dona Teresa, when she shouted, "Manoel Maria Coutinho
d'Avaliado, you will NOT pack me off with a nod!" Somehow he endured all
the remaining strokes until it really was over.
Lucas put the whip down on the desk, and Manoel stood up. Lucas's eyes
were on him. Manoel had planned to run to the bathroom to run cold water
over his bottom. And to call Lucas a liar for saying that the whip was
merely invigorating. At the very least to say how much it hurt and get
some sympathy. But Lucas gazed sternly. All Manoel could do was to say,
"Thank you, Lucas, now I can apply the whip with an understanding of the
pain it produces." Manoel didn't even rub his bottom with his hands.
Lucas stared directly at him, looking straight at his eyes, looking
intensely, as if he was furiously angry. "Dr. d'Avaliado, you have just had
twenty strokes. As you calculated, twenty strokes a day for a month is six
hundred strokes. But you left out the long whipping on the first day.
In total, over a thousand strokes. A thousand strokes, Dr. d'Avaliado,
and you've had twenty. And the twenty strokes a day for a month? My Dad
did not say I should have those, I asked for them. I asked for them
because Peter asked me if I really meant to stop drinking. A thousand
strokes, Dr. d'Avaliado, six hundred of which I demanded myself. That's
how important it is to me that I never take another drink. You've just had
twenty strokes. I'm glad you now know what they feel like. You will now
give me the twenty strokes that are my punishment, this day, for being drunk
eight nights ago. Do not dare strike less hard than I did. And please
hurry. I don't want to be late for school, Reitor Diaz might beat me."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
XI. Peter, imagined
Maria had felt intense desire as she felt Peter, already thrusting back and
forth, drop down toward her, and she was angry that he had spilled out his
milk instead. But the warm sticky juice was wonderful. She smeared it
with her hand. She wanted Peter to turn her bottom into flaming quivering
pain; she wanted him to stand between her legs as she spread them wide, so
the whip bit deep into her crack. The sight of her red bottom would cause
more passion in his artist's eye than he could control. He would grab her
bottom, fuck her crack, and the pain as he pounded up and down along her
sore bruised crack would be intense, and he would spill his juice into it.
She smashed his carving into her crotch, hard, but it was too big and she
used her fingers instead. Then Dona Teresa picked up the whip and lifted
it to bring it down across Maria's bottom. Maria felt no desire to be
whipped by anyone else, but she didn't care. The stroke fell, it hurt.
Maria could bear the pain but it raised no passion in her. And Dona Teresa
whipped across - the whip didn't reach her crack. Only to be whipped by
Peter, to cause such passion in him, was what she wanted. His passion so
strong, so obvious. She remembered him saying, "See! see how the spank is
not the bottom, but the whole body?" Peter's erection was not just his
penis but his whole body. Showing his bruises, naked, he had seemed so
tiny, so skinny, so weak, so young. But when intense passion gripped him
he was like a tightly stretched wire. If only this was Peter about to whip
her, instead of Dona Teresa. The pain, the spasm, would pass through her
and back to him, through his eyes, and his body would be wracked with
passion.
When the next stroke fell Maria imagined that it was Peter whipping, and
Peter watching as she jerked from the pain. Peter's body jerked in an
answering spasm, and then Maria's passion came, wave after wave, her body
twisting and flailing with the intensity of it.
Peter would have been most interested to see this, if he had really been
there.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
XII. Lucas, whipped
Lucas leaned over and rested his hands on the desk. Manoel realized it was
more difficult to whip someone standing. He tried a few practice strokes,
whipping the back of a padded armchair. "Very well, Lucas," he said, "I
shall whip you as you oblige me to do, today and every day until your thirty
days are complete. Don't forget you are invited to dinner. You asked
about Peter. I am sorry to say he has had one of his spells; last night at
the Brazilian consulate he entertained us all by crying like a baby, curled
up in the lap of a Cuban refugee. But I hope he will be well tonight."
Manoel swung the whip and brought it up smartly onto Lucas's bottom, but
with less force than he intended. This was indeed much more difficult than
whipping downward, without the wrist strap it would be impossible. The whip
was heavy and awkward, it was hard to keep it from turning in the hand.
After a few tries, Manoel found a long swinging stroke that combined force
and accuracy. He realized he had lost track of the strokes. Four for
certain, or had it been five? He counted the next stroke, to himself, as
"six." He hoped Lucas wasn't counting.
Manoel remembered how the pain had increased with each stroke, but Lucas
made no sound, no movement, as stroke after stroke smashed into his bottom.
Manoel thought, I thought I bore my whipping well, but I groaned. At one
point I sobbed a bit. The pain raced down my legs and out to my fingertips
with every stroke, and I know I clenched my fists and my whole body jerked
from the pain. Look at this boy, he is not moving a hair. He is not making
the slightest sound. It's as if he doesn't even feel it. Well, no, he is
crying. Tears are streaming down his face. Manoel stopped. He couldn't
continue. He sat down and buried his face in his hands, dropping the whip
to the floor.
"Como esta, Dr. d'Avaliado? Are you ill?" Lucas inquired politely.
Manoel was too choked to speak, but after a bit he managed to croak out: "I
shall be all right, in a moment." Then he said: "I shall just get a glass
of water," and he ran out of the room, still quite naked. Fortunately, no
one saw him or his blazing red bottom between his study and the bathroom.
He drank a glass of water and washed his face, and cooled his bottom with a
washcloth. He tried to look at his bottom in the mirror, but, as Lucas had
found in the same bathroom a week before, it was impossible. His bottom
was still very sore, but Manoel realized he did not mind it. It was
painful but pleasant, like a Turkish steam bath. His own whipping no
longer seemed so terrible. But he could never use this whip on Peter.
Manoel returned to his study, this time in his bathrobe.
"I hope you are refreshed, Dr. d'Avaliado," Lucas said, sitting at the desk
and flipping idly through a magazine. "How many strokes had we completed?"
"Fifteen," Manoel answered, but then, more honestly, "I think it was
fifteen. Perhaps only fourteen."
"We shall do eight more, I think," Lucas said, handing Manoel the whip and
bending over the desk. "I congratulate you on your stroke, Dr. d'Avaliado,
most excellent. But one or two were light. Please resume."
Manoel delivered eight solid strokes quickly, and no further tears ran down
Lucas's face. With the last stroke Lucas went to his clothes and began
dressing quickly. "I shall be late for school," he said. "Reitor Diaz
will ask me to take my trousers down. I hate being flogged more than
anything." And with that he was out the door, running to school.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
XIII. Reitor Diaz
You had to flog the dunces, Dr. Diaz reasoned, because they hated studying
and hated even coming to school. He liked to line the boys up, so he could
walk down the row landing the whip across three or four buttocks at once.
The stripes looked prettier that way. But good students liked coming to
school, so if they are tardy, they must have a good reason. But that
Tenriffe is a strange one. Brilliant at geometry, but strange. Once
Tenriffe, who had never been flogged, asked for a flogging: "I didn't study
for the test," he had said. "But you got a score of 90, Tenriffe, is only
100 good enough for you?" "I should have done better," Tenriffe had said,
"don't you care whether I do my very best, and not just good enough?"
"Tenriffe, the second highest score on that test was 79."
But after that Tenriffe's scores had gone down. But then Tenriffe had come
in with a calculus book, with a question about the proof of the limit
theorem. It was not an easy question. "Where did you get this book?" Dr.
Diaz had asked. "My Dad gave it to me. He wants me to do my best. I
asked for a long spanking because I haven't been studying. Instead he gave
me this, and said he'd give me the spanking the next day unless I could pass
the test at the end of the book." Dr. Diaz had said, "He wanted you to
master the calculus in a day? That's impossible." "I failed the test,
of course," Tenriffe had said, "but he only gave me a few spanks, and said
he would let me have one more day. Actually it's taken me five days, he
gave me a few spanks every day. Today I passed. I haven't gotten a lot
of sleep. But it's simple once you see the main ideas. I like the
curves. Parabolas are like breasts. And hyperbolas are like the way a
man's bottom joins his back when he is bending backward. I'd like to do a
carving of that. Would you be willing to model?"
So when Tenriffe, and the hard-working McCallister, reported to his study
for tardiness, Dr. Diaz was inclined to be lenient. He said, "You must have
some reason for being late, don't you." McCallister answered: "No reason,
I'm just late." "You shall each write an essay on the dismissal of Viceroy
Afonzo de Albuquerque," Dr. Diaz ordered. Tenriffe said, "Unless every
tardy boy is given the option to write an essay instead of being flogged,
Dr. Diaz, I will not write one." "I shall be the one to decide what
punishments to impose, Tenriffe." "Then decide what punishment to impose
for refusing to write an essay." "And what about you, McCallister, will
you write the essay?" McCallister answered only with a look.
Dr. Diaz said, "Very well, drop your trousers and bend over the desk." But
when he saw the condition of the four buttocks presented to his view, he
ordered the boys from his office with no punishment at all. It was some
weeks before he could look at another school-boy's pretty bottom; floggings
had to be administered by the Reitor Assistente.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
XIV. Manoel, redux
"SEARCHED CALEDONIAN LAST NIGHT NOTHING. STOP. HOPE DO SAME FAVOUR YOU SOME
NIGHT. STOP. WHAT WERE WE LOOKING FOR. END" read the telegram from Liverpool
on Manoel's desk. "Humph," Manoel said to Tomas Biscaino, "very English.
When a Portuguese wants to say 'fuck you' in a telegram, he only has to
pay for two words." Biscaino answered, a little too loudly, "'Asshole' is
only one word in Portuguese."
"Dr. Biscaino, I must apologize," Manoel said. "Last night Peter had one
of his spells, and by the time I had dealt with that and went to tell
Senhora Biscaino that I had sent you to the office, she had left. I sent a
note to your house. I hope that it relieved her anxiety." "Your concern
for your step-son is well known, Dr. d'Avaliado," Biscaino answered, "and as
for your note, I am sure it was a great relief to my wife to be woken in the
middle of the night to be told that I hadn't run off with some woman. But
she is very upset all the same."
So that was it. He had apologized and Biscaino was still angry, and had
every right to be. Nothing had prevented Manoel from getting a message to
Sra. Biscaino at the same time he dealt with Peter. He had just been
thoughtless. He hadn't cared enough about Sra. Biscaino's anxiety to think
of it. He was in the wrong, and he had done harm. Dona Liliana Biscaino
had accused her husband in public, at the consulate, of running off with a
woman, and that was a very serious thing. Perhaps their marriage was in
trouble, to judge by how upset Biscaino seemed to be. Manoel gave Biscaino
the rest of the day off. I am very sorry, he thought, miserably sorry, but
there is nothing more I can do.
Lucas had told the truth, there was no actual pain sitting in his chair.
But he wouldn't call the warmth pleasant. It was more a constant reminder.
I was stupid to have asked Lucas for the whipping, Manoel thought, but I
have had a very severe whipping today. Can't I say I've been punished
enough for what I did to Liliana Biscaino, and stop feeling so guilty? But
Manoel remembered Peter saying, "However much it hurts, it's not punishment,
and doesn't make me deserve punishment any less." Peter was right, Manoel
thought. Being whipped by Lucas, for an unrelated reason, doesn't make me
deserve my guilty misery any less. I wonder, if I let Biscaino whip me,
would that make me feel less miserable? But that's no way to run an
office.
Around noon, a telegram came from London, addressed to Manoel: "TELL
PISSPANTS RATTAIL SAYS DRAP YOUR TREWS. STOP. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS TO
FOLLOW. END." It was from an "Insp. Charles M.. Campbell," but not from
Scotland Yard officially. It was a personal, private telegram. Mysterious.
Manoel went to the department library. There was indeed an Inspector
Charles Muir Campbell in the London CID. What was "drap your trews?" Some
sort of code? If there was nothing on the Caledonian, why was a Scotland
Yard inspector involved? Unless they had found something after all.
I've probably landed Lucas's dad in jail, Manoel thought. I'm involved in a
mutual whipping arrangement, and I've just sent his dad to jail. The rest
of the day, every matter he worked on ended up more muddled than when he
started. Manoel quit early.
I need to fuck a woman, get drunk, or throw myself into the sea, Manoel
thought. Or fuck, then drink, and then drown. Or have Lucas whip me
again, for wrecking the Biscaino's marriage. I'll just tell him, "By the
way, Lucas, I've landed your Dad in jail." Manoel called Isabel Lopez, the
oculist. She had been his mistress for two years, but she had ended their
affair. She declined, not too politely. Manoel suddenly remembered Dona
Teresa saying "I am a woman, Dr. d'Avaliado, and you stand naked in front of
me without a thought." How perfect, Manoel thought. Fuck a woman older
than my mother. Then get drunk, get whipped, and then drown. Or why even
bother with whipping and drowning after that?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
XV. Peter
To Anne da Silva,
c/o The Hon. Rep. Frank da Silva (California),
The Capitol, Washington, D.C. USA
Dear Ana,
Nuna says that she is well and hopes that you are well and Senhor da Silva
is well also, and also that Rebecca and David and Maria Ana are well. Tell
them their Grandmother in the Azores sends her love and hopes David is
happier now in his new school in Washington. Here is a picture I drew of
Nuna cutting pepinos; I don't remember what they are called in English.
Nuna asks that I write David and tell him about my school in the Azores.
This page is for David N. da Silva. PRIVATE.
Dear Davo,
My school is called the School of the Museum of Carlos Machado, and there
are only boys. The Reitor, that is the Headmaster, is Dr. Diaz, who is
very good of mathematics. When we are tardy at my school, we are flogged.
That is, most boys are flogged but Dr. Diaz makes me to do writing
instead. The other boys do not think it is fair that a few students have
only writing, instead of flogging. I do not think it is fair either.
Today I was very tardy, but so far I have not been punished. I hope I will
be flogged so it is fair.
I met a young woman who was at school in America. She was spanked at her
school with a paddle. Are you spanked with a paddle? Is it like the
paddle of a canoe? Do you get a spanking when you are tardy? The whip
used for floggings at my school is made of stiff leather and has four
strands, they are round and about as thick as your little finger. When a
boy gets one stroke, the whip makes four red stripes across his bottom, and
these last for more than a day. When you get a spanking of the paddle, how
long do the marks last? How long does it hurt? She told me boys in
America, he is paddled on his bare fannee. This is a new English word for
me. When you do not study hard for a test, do you get a spanking of the
paddle on your fannee? Or are you let off if your score is good enough?
I am sure you try to do your best.
I want to tell you about something that happened with your cousins José and
Isabel. I have not told Nuna about this. There is a boy in school we call
"Chouriço." That is sausage. I think in English you would call him
"Waggle Weinie." We call him this because he likes to take his cacete out,
that is penis in Latin, and he tries to kiss the girls and shove his cacete
up under their skirts. This is no real danger as his ereção is very
floppy. I think in English this is erecting but it is not in my
dictionary. In Portuguese there are many slang words for ereção. What do
you call it in America when you make an erecting? What is the English word
for what is vagina in Latin? I need to know this. I would like to know
all the American words.
Your cousin Isabel decided to teach Chouriço a lesson. She and José and
three other boys captured him on the way home from school and took his
clothes off and hung him upside down from a tree branch, with his head and
shoulders on the ground. I was not there, but I talked with them
afterwards. Then Isabel took a switch she had made from twigs and whipped
him on his hands, his lips, and his cacete, to teach him not to force those
things on girls. Then she decided to pee in his face. She took off her
dress so she could see of his face, and she got José to whip his fannee
every time he closed his mouth. She peed into his open mouth. He spit it
back all over her, so José whipped Chouriço's cacete some more, and his
esporra shot out. There are even more slang words for esporra shooting out
than there are for ereção. How many do you have in America? If you write
me about the slang they have in America, I won't tell your grandma Nuna.
Then José and the other boys washed the esporra off Chouriço's face with
their pee.
The next day some other boys pulled down Chouriço's pants so they could look
at his fannee and his cacete, but there were hardly any marks. The boys
called him a paneleiro for letting a woman pee in his mouth so easily.
Chouriço said he wasn't, and he told José and the other boys they had to
whip him some more on his fannee and his cacete so he could prove it. But
he couldn't get any boy to whip him. So Chouriço did something at home so
his father would have to whip him. José thinks he made merda on the
kitchen table. And then he called his father a paneliero for not beating
him hard enough. When he showed the marks from that beating, everyone said
that no boy in school had ever been beaten that much. No one called him a
paneleiro any more. I think he was very brave. I said that Tomas would
not take his cacete out any more, and we shouldn't call him Chouriço any
more. José embraced him and kissed him on the cheeks. A paneleiro is a
man que é foder by another man, I don't know the word in English.
Your loving friend Pero /\_ \/ |- in the Azores,
Peter C. Tenriffe.
Ponto Delgada, 14 May 1962
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
XVI. São Tiago o Menor
Manoel went to the small chapel of the holy family at São Sebastião. He
had hoped for confession and penance, but Fr. Creivello was not in the
church. Peter often came to pray after school, and today was the feast of
São Matias, the patron of carpenters. But the little chapel was empty.
When Peter had one of his spells, when he was younger, Manoel had often
found him here, curled up naked on Maria's lap. There was only a José and
a Maria. Maria looked old, and São José was gaunt and haggard. Peter
thought that the Jesus had been a young man, not a baby. But the carving of
Jesus, if there had ever been one, was gone.
Manoel knelt before the ancient wooden carvings and prayed. "São José, as
you were afraid of death and were comforted by Maria, be my friend, for I
have great fear of death. Lend me your staff to support me." São José
was leaning on his staff, and Manoel looked at the notches Peter had
noticed. "Of course he had notches on his staff, Dad. What carpenter would
have a staff without notches? A large notch for every cubit, and the small
ones for a sixth of a cubit. And here, below his hand, there are three
scratches to divide a sixth into quarters. The others are worn away. And
look here, Hebrew letters. That must be his name. This was an old worn
staff, and the carving of São José was made to fit it."
Father Creivello had shown them in an ancient text, how the unmarried men of
the House of David had drawn lots to choose who should have Maria for a
wife.
Joseph also carrying his rod hurried to the Synagogue. So having come
together, they went to the Priest, who, gathering all their rods, went into
the Temple and prayed. Having finished the prayer, he came forth, and gave
to each man his rod, but upon none of them was there any mark. Joseph's rod
came to him last of all. And lo! a dove came out of the rod, and sat upon
Joseph's head.
Another text said that São José's staff had blossomed. Father said this was
a symbol of wisdom. "What has a carpenter to do with a staff that has
lilies on it?" Peter asked. "I think the mark was notches; with the cubit
the length of God's own forearm. There could be no better symbol of wisdom
than that, for a carpenter. Perhaps the marks on this staff are a copy of
that one." Peter asked Father if he knew anything more about São José's
staff. "In the mystery plays I used to see in Compostela, when I was a
boy," the old Priest answered, "São José got very angry when he found that
Maria was with child, and he hit her over the head with his staff. See, in
the carving, she has a bump." "Did he ever hit Jesus?", Peter asked.
"Jesus committed no sin," Father said sternly. "But São José could have
thought he did, Father," Peter said. "That could happen very easily. Jesus
had wisdom to astound the scholars of the temple. I think he must have
been a very good carpenter, too. Think of how his brothers must have felt.
Their father takes a very young wife, and her son never does anything
wrong, and is never punished. And he is a better carpenter than any of
them."
Fr. Creivello recited the prophecy of Isaiah.
There shall come forth a rod out of the stem of Jesse, and a branch shall
grow out of his roots: And the spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him, the
spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the
spirit of knowledge and of the fear of the Lord.
Peter made a careful copy of São José's staff, using calipers, and he used
the staff for measuring whenever he made a cut with a saw. And before he
cut he prayed to São José for the spirit of the fear of the Lord, and for
the knowledge to do his work well.
"Forgive me, Maria, for your husband sake," Manoel prayed. "Comfort this
sinner as you did São Tiago, and all your husband's children." He said the
payers that he had hoped the Father would tell him to say.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
XVII. the Coutinho mansion
"I have been very bad today, Dad," Peter said cheerfully, "This cheese is
very good, is it from the Azores?"
Manoel said "We can discuss good cheese and bad boys over cigars. Lucas, I
hope you never decide to give up smoking as well." Lucas said, "I
appreciate what you are doing, Dr. d'Avaliado, but it is not necessary. It
will not distress me if you take a glass of port." "We are drinking water
tonight, Lucas," Manoel said, "and if you ever take a drink, and make this a
waste, we will hound you to the ends of the earth."
When they had settled in the great hall, Manoel lit his cigar, and asked,
"Now Peter, how have you been bad?" But Peter busied himself with his
cigar and said nothing. He normally had only one a month, but had been
permitted an extra in honor of Dona Teresa's visit. "Look, he is blushing,"
Dona Helena said. "How sweet." Teresa choked on her cigar. "I think he
wants to tell you what he did this morning," Dona Helena continued, "As you
know, last night Peter did a carving, a little nude." "No I didn't hear
about that," Manoel answered. They had been speaking Portuguese, so Lucas
whispered into Maria's ear in English. What a beautiful girl she is, he
thought. Peter always has all the luck with girls. "The carving is at the
consulate, I'm afraid," Maria said, in Spanish. "I should like to see it
as well," Lucas whispered, "perhaps we could get together?"
Dona Helena continued, "Maria wanted him to do a carving of her. But she
would not jump as he wanted. He whipped her bottom to make her jump."
Lucas translated. Maria protested, "But I wanted him to, I asked him to."
Lucas thought: when Peter meets a beautiful woman, naturally she asks him
for a whipping. "A quem Fortuna sempre favorece."
Nuna came in, "You rang, Dom Manoel?" "Yes, Nuna," Manoel said, "is there
anyone about we could send on an errand?" "Yes, Dom Manoel, my
grandchildren José and Isabel." Manoel said, "tell José we would like him
to fetch something from the Brazilian Consulate." "Maria," he continued in
Spanish, "write a note asking them to give the carving to José Alonso."
"If you are to send any notes to the consulate," Dona Teresa said, "you
should write an apology to Senhora Rodrigues. My cousin Liliana was very
upset that her husband left without a word." Manoel and Maria began to
write. José came in. Dona Teresa continued, "She and Dr. Biscaino have
been quarreling. There has been trouble with their son. I believe he is
being bullied at school. He will not say by whom, but I intend to put a
stop to it."
After José had been sent on his way, Manoel said "Peter, if Maria asked you
to whip her, I don't see that you should be punished." "It wasn't just
that, Dad," Peter said, "when I whipped her I, that is I, well, I, I spilled
semen all over her bottom." "I see," said Manoel, "and does this mean you
can't do the carving you promised?" Peter said, "I'm not sure I can, Dad,
she wanted a carving of her whipped bottom. What if I, er, spill semen
again."
Lucas translated into Maria's ear. She started to get rather excited.
Lucas was having trouble sitting still himself. He thought: I wonder if
they will live in the Azores when they are married.
Manoel said, "I think you will have to try and see, Peter. Perhaps you can
control yourself. Where is the whip you used?" "I have it here, Dr.
d'Avaliado," Dona Teresa said, taking it out of a suitcase behind her chair,
"I thought I might be using it for another purpose." She handed it to
Manoel. Maria whispered, "What are they saying? Why does Dona Teresa
have the whip?" She put her arm around him as she bent over to whisper in
his ear, and Lucas's heart skipped. He thought: we look like two lovers on
this couch, whispering in each other's ears, but she is thinking only of
Peter.
Manoel handed the whip to Peter, and said, in Spanish, "We can can see if
this carving will be possible. Maria, if you will undress and get into
position as Peter directs." Maria protested, "What? Here?" Manoel said,
"models can't be modest, Maria, whether you are here or in Peter's studio.
He never closes the door. If you want a carving done from the nude,
undress." Maria undressed, and Peter did as well. He placed her bending
over, her bottom reaching up for a whip or a lover. He did not want to
make this test easy on himself. Before he started whipping, he took his
stiffening penis in his hand and rubbed the tip across her fanny, and rubbed
it on the opening whose name he did not know, in any language Maria could
speak. He grew quite stiff. Maria's breathing begame ragged and gasping.
She was well positioned. If he lost control this time, his "dick" - he
did know some American - would go in. But he was not going to lose
control.
Peter raised the whip. He seems relaxed enough, thought Lucas, who was
dancing back and forth. Peter swung the whip down on Maria's bottom.
Lucas ran out of the room.
When Lucas came back, Peter was making Maria jump up and down. Her bottom
was a mess of red stripes. Peter was staring intensely at her, but his
penis did not seem very interested.
When José Alonso returned with the carving, he found Peter Tenriffe had been
stripped naked, Lucas McCallister was looking very unhappy, and the young
woman, whom he didn't know, was naked and had already been given a severe
whipping. Senhora da Sousa was holding a leather whip. José decided to
confess. "Please Dona Teresa, I was the one who bullied Tomas Biscaino.
Don't whip Peter or Lucas. They had nothing to do with it. They are just
protecting me. Punish me as I deserve." José knelt and bowed his head.
"Since you have confessed, José, I will be lenient," Dona Teresa said. "But
your sister has not confessed; she will be punished severely. She may be
rather angry with you. So I will give you a chance: persuade her that both
of you should confess, and she need never know we spoke tonight." José
gulped, and fled the room.
"How did you know that Isabel was involved?" asked Peter. "I didn't,
Peter," Dona Teresa answered, "but now I do. And José thought you knew
about it as well." Peter said, "I do know, Dona Teresa. But you won't
learn anything from me. I hope you will not punish José and Isabel too
strictly." "I'm not going to punish them at all," Dona Teresa answered, "I
only want the bullying to stop." "It has stopped," Peter said.
Maria showed the carving to Lucas. "Isn't it wonderful? I slept with it
last night. I didn't know if I would ever see Peter again. And it was so
romantic when he gave it to me instead of selling it to that American for
five hundred dollars." Manoel said "What's that? Dollars?" Peter
translated to Portuguese for Helena: "She says that an American wanted to
buy the carving. But that was just a joke. Not even Ernesto da Maia gets
five hundred dollars." "Peter, you blockhead!" Dona Teresa said, "he was
quite serious." Lucas whispered into Maria's ear; "He says he thought it
was a joke. He didn't know the American was serious." Weeping, Maria
handed the carving to Peter. Peter did not take the carving, but stood
there for some time looking at her and the carving. Then, on tip-toes as
she was more than a head taller, he took her in his arms and kissed her.
They sat down on the couch so they could kiss more easily. "My head is a
block," Peter said, in English. "Can you forgive me?" Oh well, Lucas
thought, perhaps they will name a son "Lucas."
Peter said, "Dad, if I'm not to be punished for spilling semen on Maria's
bottom, I made a spectacle of myself last night." "Yes Peter, you were
very bad indeed," Manoel said, "you whipped out a carving worth five hundred
American dollars between the soup and the dessert. What father could
endure such a dreadful son?"
"If we are talking of misconduct, perhaps you should tell Peter what you did
last night, Dr. d'Avaliado," Dona Teresa said, coiling the whip and putting
it back in her suitcase. "Or I shall tell him. Peter, last night your Dad
undressed in front of me as if I was not even there." Manoel said "Dear
Dona Teresa, how can I apologize?" Dona Teresa said, "Later tonight, Dr.
d'Avaliado, I will show you how to undress in front of a lady with proper
respect."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
XVIII. Manoel, forgiven
Dona Teresa came to Manoel's room, with the suitcase, and closed the door
behind her. He undressed in as respectful a manner as he could. He said,
"Dona Teresa, besides my insult to you, you know I was thoughtless last
night, and may have caused the Biscainos considerable harm. Please punish
me as I deserve. Do not be lenient. I want to be punished." "I think
the pain of a whipping is over too quickly," Dona Teresa said, undressing.
"You may wish for whip-strokes before this is over."
Dona Teresa knew what she was doing. Manoel had never spent even five
minutes at the agonizing edge of release, and she kept him there for more
than an hour. Plunging into her, once, twice, but then she would pull
away, and he would frantically kiss and caress her, bite and slap her. She
used the whip only once, across his arm and chest, when he put his hand on
his penis. And then she was on top of him, taking him into her, her body
shuddering. In and out, and then she was off again, scratching him, hitting
him, keeping him always on the edge, never to the point. Then he grabbed
her and thrust into her, holding her as she flailed and twisted, thrusting
and thrusting to the breaking point, and the release that filled his whole
body with pleasure. Feeling exhausted, warm, and wonderful, he looked
about the room. Peter was peeking through the door, naked but not in the
least aroused, looking intently at Dona Teresa.
"Peter Tenriffe," Manoel said, "I am disappointed in you."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
XIX. John Gaskins
Late in September, 1963, Congressman Frank da Silva visited the State
Department, and dropped in on his old ally, John Gaskins, who had just been
appointed Undersecretary for South-East Asia. A new sculpture was being
installed in the Undersecretary's office, a nude. "By the same Azores
artist," Gaskins said, "as those pen-and-ink sketches you liked, the ones
you said seemed curiously familiar." The sculpture was of a wrinkled old
woman, carved in Brazilian mahogany, her body wracked and twisted by some
agony or passion. "The sculptor has put a lot of feeling into it," the
Congressman said. "You could say that," answered the Undersecretary.
"Every day, before he began to carve, the sculptor was whipped by both of
his models. And then the models put a lot of feeling into posing. Quite a
lot. I often watched; the sculptor never closed his studio door." "Both
models?" the Congressman asked. "Well, there is another part to the work,"
the Undersecretary answered. "Another figure. A male. There is a great
deal of feeling, quite obvious really, in that figure as well. I'd like to
show it to you. But I can't very well keep it in my office. Even in
Foggy Bottom, we do have some standards."
David Nunes da Silva July 2003
* * * * * * * * * *
Some characters, not all of whom appear in the story:
Dona Maria Teresa Ramalho Correa da Sousa, born 1892, Ribeira da Areia,
Ilha de São Jorge, Açores. Widow of:
Tiago Oliveira da Sousa, born 1890, Açores, killed by the volcanic eruption
at Capalinhos, Ilha de Faial, Açores, 1957. Parents of:
Mrs. Maria Caterina Correa da Sousa Gaskins, of Chicago, born 1925, Faial,
Açores. Wife of:
Captain Lawrence Harkman Gaskins, born 1926, Atlanta. Chicago Police
Department. Brother of:
Mr. John Butler Gaskins, born 1924, Atlanta. Appointed United States Consul
at Punta Delgada, Açores, August 1961.
Dona Juana Helena Mendes Coutinho Carvalho, born 1890, Ponta Delgada,
Açores. Widow of:
Dom Pedro "Pero" Phillipe Almeida Carvalho, born 1885, Horta, Faial, Açores,
Died 1955. Their son:
Monsignor Jorge Manoel Coutinho Carvalho, born 1925, Horta.
Manoel Maria Coutinho d'Avaliado, great-nephew of Dona Helena, born 1922,
Lisboa. B.A. Coimbra 1949.
Peter Chong Tenriffe, Manoel's step-son, born 1948, Macao, 3rd day of the
5th month. Rhymes with knife.
Chong Ling, born 1927, Singapore, Peter's mother, wife of Manoel d'Avaliado.
In Portugal goes by: Penelope Ling Wu Chong d'Avaliado.
General Chong Ma, Chong Ling's father, born 1901, Li Guo village, Guangdong.
At the time of the story, somewhere in the mountains of Burma.
Capt. Sebastian Damiri Tenriffe, Peter's father, born 1895, at sea near
Celebes, missing and presumed drowned in the South China Sea, 1953.
Admiral José Vitor Sanchez Dorta, born Goa, 1921. Peter's mother is living
with him in Lisboa.
Lucas James de Bragança Fernandez Johnson McCallister, born 1946, Glasgow.
Son of:
James "Pisspants" Stephen McCallister. Born 1929, Glasgow, and of:
Dona Maria Sofia Micaela "Mickey" Almeida Lopez de Bragança Fernandez
McCallister, born 1927, Glasgow, last known alive 1958, cousin of:
Infanta Dona Maria Isabel "Bella" Micaela Rafaela de Jesus e Menezes de
Bragança, born 1921, London.
Tomas "Chouriços" ("Waggle Weinie") Jorge Pereira Biscaino Neto, born 1948,
Lisboa. Son of:
Tomas Jorge Ramalho Biscaino, a lawyer in Manoel d'Avaliado's office, born
1927, Lisboa, and of:
Dona Liliana Correa Pereira Biscaino, born 1928, São Jorge, Açores. Cousin
of Teresa da Sousa.
Senorita Maria Tonore Gonsalvez y Diaz, Cuban refugee, born 1945, Havana.
Dau. of:
Abraham "Brahma" Lincoln Tonore Gonsalvez y Martinez, born 1918, Havana, and
of
Dona Maria Belém Diaz, born 1924, São Paulo, Brasil.
Dona Gabriela Maria Fereira de Vascoguoncellos Rodrigues, born 1922, São
Paulo, wife of the Brazilian Consul in Ponta Delgada, Açores. Cousin of
Maria Diaz.
Senhora Maria Ana "Nuna" Fernandez Pazos Nunes, cook at the Coutinho
mansion, born 1900, on a ranch near Sete Cidades, Ilha de S. Miguel, Açores.
Carlos Tiago Gomes Nunes, fisherman, Nuna's husband, born 1896, Ponta
Delgada, drowned near Newfoundland, 1931.
Maria Ana "Anne" Pazos Nunes da Silva, Nuna's daughter, born 1928, Ponta
Delgada. Wife and chief political advisor of:
The Honorable Rep. Frank da Silva, knight of the Order of Christ, born 1927,
USA. Of San Leandro, California, and Washington, D.C.
Their children, Rebecca, David "Davo" (11 Jun 1950), and Maria Ana "Anne"
da Silva.
Isabel Amalia and José Fábio Nunes Alonso, born 1947 and 1948, Ponta
Delgada. Grandchildren of Nuna.
Mara Andreia Machado da Cruz, José Alonso's sweetheart, born 1948.
Dra. Dona Maria de Fatima Isabel Guomez Lopez, oculist. Born 1919,
Salamanca, Spain (raised in Lisbon). Neighbor of the Brazilian consulate.
Former mistress of Manoel d'Avaliado.
Dr. Fernão Napoleon Escudero Diaz, Reitor of the Liceu de Museu Carlos
Machado. Born 1899, Porto, Portugal.
Father António Tavares Creivello of São Sebastião church, Ponta Delgada.
Born 1893, Santiago de Compostela, Spain.
Ernesto Canto da Maia, sculptor, born 5 June 1890, São Miguel, Açores. An
actual person.
Prince John Miguel Guilherme Aloisio Maria José Rafael Gabriel Francisco de
Assis Carlos Henrique Antonio Sebastião Huberto de Bragança. An actual
person with a long name.
Manoel d'Avaliado attended the University of Coimbra, founded in 1290 by
King Diniz.
Carlos Maria Gomes Machado founded the Museu Carlos Machado.
http://www.museucarlosmachado.pt/
Luis Vaz de Camões, poet. B.A. Coimbra, 1542. Born Coimbra? 1524? Died
Lisboa, 10? June 1580. Noted for the duels he fought while a student. 10
June is commemorated as Portugal's national holiday.
http://www.secrel.com.br/jpoesia/camoes.html
http://www.poetry-archive.com/c/camoes_luis_vaz_de.html
Vasco da Gama, o forte Capitão,
Que a tamanhas empresas se oferece,
De soberbo e de altivo coração,
A quem Fortuna sempre favorece,
Pera se aqui deter não vê razão,
Que inabitada a terra lhe parece.
http://www.apol.net/dightonrock/camoes_seen__from_goa.htm
* * * * * * * * * *
Dates in 1962.
22 Abril, Easter.
1 Maio (Tuesday), Chouriços bullied by Isabel and José Nunes Alonso, João
Tavares Carvalho, Manoel Oliveira da Sousa, and Tiago Guomez da Cruz.
Feast day of São José Operário. The second tuesday after Easter, called
Hocktide Tuesday, a day on which, in medieval times, young woman would "trip
up and bind" young men, demanding a small coin as ransom, which they reward
with a kiss. The money went to charity.
3 Maio, Chouriços beaten by his father, with a rod. Feast day of São Tiago
o Menor, who grew up with an annoying little step-brother.
4 Maio, new moon.
5 Maio (Saturday), night of the party at which Lucas got drunk. Feast day
of São Ângelo, killed in 1220 by Count Berenger, after persuading the
Count's sister to stop commiting incest.
6 Maio, Lucas whipped.
13 Maio (Sunday), dinner at Brazilian consulate. Feast day of Nossa Senhora
de Fátima.
14 Maio, dinner at the Coutinho mansion. Feast day of São Matias Apóstolo,
patron saint of carpenters, who preached the need for mortification of the
flesh with regard to all its sensual and irregular desires.
http://www.timeanddate.com/calendar/custommenu.html
http://www.ecclesia.pt/santos/index_santos.htm (in Portuguese)
* * * * * * * * * *
Jogo do Pau -- a Portuguese stick-fighting discipline ; adapted to a type of
wood known as o varapau or cajado. | pauladas are stick-fencing matches |
http://ejmas.com/jmanly/articles/2003/jmanlyart_wolfcosta_0203.htm
Pokeweed (Phytolacca sp.), has red berries.
http://www.wssa.net/subpages/weed/weedstoday/pokeweed.htm
Some Portuguese slang:
http://www.notam02.no/~hcholm/altlang/ht/Portuguese.html
Protevangelium of James | The Golden Legend
* * * * * * * * * *
There lived in Goa a rich man called Miguel Rodrigues Coutinho,
nicknamed "Fios seccos" ( Dry threads) who was a money lender, and since he
had loaned Camões some money, now he pounced on him and had him jailed until
the debt was paid back.
Miguel Rodrigues Coutinho was one of the richest and well known
citizens of Goa. As a rich man he became an usurer, lending money with high
interests. Likewise several military men who had served their term and
remained in Goa becoming money-lenders were called chatins. They charged up
to 25% interest rates.
However, he had to let Camões go because it was proven that he had
lost all his goods, when the shipwreck occurred, and in fact he had to
enlist as a soldier in order to pay his voyage from Malacca to Goa.
* * * * * * * * * *
_________________________________________________________________
Looking to buy a house? Get informed with the Home Buying Guide from MSN
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--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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