Dear Miss Cavendish

As instructed, I am writing to
express my deepest gratitude for the beating you were kind enough to bestow on
me last Saturday.  As you know, for some
time now I have been experiencing feelings of rebellion at our ‘little
arrangement’ and petulance at the constraints you so wisely impose on me.

The caning I received at your
hands opened my eyes to the ingratitude of this attitude on my part, compelling
me to re-examine my behaviour and see it for what it is: the result of my
undisciplined childhood, that you are now taking such effective measures to
remedy.  I have been lucky indeed to
have made your acquaintance, even so late in life. 
Had it not been for a chance encounter, I might never have experienced
the cane across my backside.  It is hard to recall how it was not to know the pain of being thrashed with your cane, now that it looms so large in my life: constantly present in my thoughts as I try to follow your precepts in all that I do.

I hope that you were not
disturbed by my snivelling and pleading during the administration of this most
necessary exercise.  I further hope, more
wholeheartedly than I can express in this short missive, that such floggings
will not be necessary in the future. 
However, should the need arise, I am confident your strong right arm
will once again provide the correction I require and will undoubtedly richly deserve.

If (unlike my previous effort)
this thank-you letter meets with your approval, I very much hope that I will be
allowed the educative experience of copying it out a further 99 times.  It has, as you will observe, met and indeed
exceeded the required length of 300 words and I believe there are no spelling
mistakes this time.

Your obedient and thankful pupil



Dear Sarah

You will perhaps not recall me
by name, but if I mention a disastrous dinner at the St George Hotel in 2011, followed
by a particularly cringeworthy experience back at your apartment, perhaps the
occasion we met will be called to mind.

In the years after our
catastrophic ‘date’ I have had the good fortune to meet a woman who knows
exactly how perverts like me should be treated. 
On our wedding night, I made an attempt to be ‘a man’ and – you will be
unsurprised to hear from your own experience – failed utterly.  That was the last time I attempted sexual
intercourse with a woman, as my wife decided that such activities should stop
then and there.  The next morning – the
first of our married life – she purchased a steel tube and you will no doubt be
relieved to hear that my penis has penetrated nothing else since that
date.  I will spare you the gory details,
but some minor piercings have now ensured that no lock or key is required to
keep the device in place, so the women of this world are finally safe.

After six years of tolerating
me, my wife finally decided to divorce me and marry one of her many lovers, so
naturally a divorce settlement needed to be drawn up, which brings me finally
to my purpose in getting in touch again, after all these years.  My wife – soon to be ex-wife – does not need
my earnings, because the man she will be marrying is far richer than I, as well
as being more manly, witty and attractive. 
However, it has been some years since I had any real financial
independence, so new arrangements must be made to ensure I have no spare funds
to abuse.  My wife has therefore decided
that I should write to all the women with whom I ever attempted sexual
relations of any kind: firstly, to apologise and secondly to offer some financial
compensation.  There are, luckily, not
many.  Apart from my wife herself, I have
attempted penetrative sex with just three women, and achieved a sexual climax
in the vicinity of a further five, one of whom is unknown to me as she was
merely a fellow-traveller on the bus one day. 
The former – including yourself – are each to be offered 20% of my
post-tax income in perpetuity, the latter 5%. 
The 5% owed to the untraceable lady will be donated instead to a charity
supporting female participation in politics.

Rest assured that no further
contact with me (even by correspondence) will be required on your part, should
you choose to take up the offer.  My wife
has appointed a firm of (women) solicitors who will make all the arrangements
and will themselves receive a further 5%. 
As my wife has pointed out, I am lucky indeed not to have experienced
more sexual encounters, or I would not retain even the 10% of my post-tax
income that I will keep under this arrangement. 
Fortunately, my needs are very modest. 
If, however, you would regard even receiving a monthly transfer from me
as being too unpleasant a reminder of my physical existence, then I would be
most grateful if you could nominate a charity to receive your 20% (or, if you
prefer, specify that the sum be burnt by me in cash each month, under the
solicitors’ supervision).

Please rest assured as well
that I have passed this letter to the solicitors to address and send. I do not
know your address.  Furthermore, the solicitors can monitor my location using a chip implated under my skin and the geographical range of my movements is very tightly restricted. 

Finally, whatever your decision
regarding restitution, please allow me to extend my deepest, deepest apologies
for my sexual advances towards you that night, and for the pathetic performance
when I attempted to follow through on them. 
I hope that you have gone on to experience a rich and satisfying sex
life, as I now appreciate very well that most other men are vastly more
proficient in these matters, as well of course as being more personally
attractive. I hope you can at least take some comfort from the misery that I
have experienced in being forced to write this letter, and at the prospect I face so deservedly, of a
life of desperate poverty and toil without respite.

I am so very sorry.

Yours sincerely

Alan Harcourt (né Raeburn)


To the pretty nurses at St
Bathory hospital

Dear nurses.  I hope you are all very well.  If you are not, maybe a hospital is the best place to be!  Because if you get sick in
hospital, you will get better quickly.

My Mummy, who is not really my
Mummy but I call her Mummy, has told me to write a thank-you note now I am
back from hospital, so here it is.  You
were all very kind and nice to me after my operation, and the food was lovely
and I liked the way the bed went up and down when the buttons were pressed.

Mummy tells me I was very
grumpy before the operation but I don’t remember that.  She said those straps on the bed were to hold my arms and legs still and stop me running away because I was so cross because I didn’t want the operation.  She said I made a big fuss and shouted about
what an important and rich man I was, and how you couldn’t do this to me.  Fortunately, there were no other patients on
my ward, but she says I was very rude to you nurses and called you rude names
and said lots of rude words.  When I
asked her what words she laughed and would not tell me, so they must have been
very bad.

Mummy says that the reason I
was so cross was there was something wrong with my brain.  There was too much ego and IQ in there.  I asked her what those things are and she laughed
again and said it doesn’t matter, the important thing is that I have a lot less
of both of them now, because the doctors took out some bits of my brain.

I knew I must have done
something naughty, because you all spanked me before I left hospital.  Nurses are strong, probably because you lift
heavy things all day.  Mummy spanks hard
but you spank harder.  The nurse with the
brown skin spanked me hardest of all. 
Mummy says that’s because I said racist things to her before the
operation and I don’t know what that means but I hope it has been spanked out
of me and I am forgiven.

I hope the nurse with blonde
hair reads this.  I liked her very much
but I want to say sorry for how my willy got all stiff whenever she tried to
help me do a wee-wee.  Sorry.  I don’t know why
it did that, but it does it whenever I think of her.  Mummy says I might need another operation to
sort that out, so perhaps I will see you all in hospital again!

Mummy says my name is Sir James
Edmonton but that seems like too much name, so I am just Jimmy now.

Love from Jimmy, age 57

xxxx (and xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx to
the nurse with blonde hair!)

0 thoughts on “Missives”

  1. Thank you. Yes, I like that one too. It was hard to transcibe, because the original was written in a big crayony scrawl.

  2. Don't we all. Fortunately, she is energetic and determined to bring the benefits of her guidance to as many boys as possible, so there is always a chance.

  3. This my first time commenting on your blog, though I've admired, from afar, your blog for years.
    That last missive was … too much, to keep lurking without saying anything.
    You're a master (pun intended?) of your craft, and we're very thankful you share these posts and captions with us.
    That last missive though … you have a Stephen King-esque style — too dark and too beautiful!

  4. I'm very glad you finally took the plunge, Mr Anonymous. So… you're saying I'm a sick, disturbed and depraved individual and my writings the product of a diseased mind, is that right? Aw shucks (embarrassed smile), I'm touched!

    Do comment again some time. It's 2023 up there at the top of the blog, you know, so it's already been five years.

    Best wishes


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