Easy for her to say. She is not wearing child’s clothing while living in a child’s room with a Nanny who treats her as a child and a benefactor who uses her as an adult. I am more and more convinced that Madame Atout knew exactly what was in store for me and decided she’d happily take the duke’s money rather than warning me.
“Very nice. Time for breakfast and then you’ll start your schooling.”
That piques my interest. Breakfast is not in my room, it is in the salon. None of the maids or footmen or other staff that wepass in the halls give me a second glance. Either they’ve been warned or they’re used to such sights.
Or both.
Once again, Nanny is bossy about my table manners, but I do better than the night before. I am more alert, more energized, and not so distracted by a series of shocking emotional and physical events. Enough so to earn a smile from her and a bit of praise by the time we are done eating.
If I am disappointed that the duke does not join us, or even look in, it’s just a thought that goes as quickly as it comes.
After breakfast Nanny takes me back to the wing where my room is, but we go past it to another door. The room inside is set up exactly like a schoolroom – I saw one once, through a window – but with a single desk in the center of it. Learning to read is something I am eager to do and it is not difficult to pay attention as Nanny begins the lesson. Then she has me practice writing the alphabet and my name over and over, which I do not mind either. She seems very pleased with my progress and tells me what a good girl I am.
There is a short break for lunch and then she begins a math lesson.
Now I am not such a good girl.
Perhaps it is because I have been trapped at this desk, in this room. Perhaps it is because my head already feels stuffed from everything she taught me about reading and writing this morning. Perhaps I am just tired. Or perhaps it’s because math is stupid and I do not see a reason to learn it, unlike reading and writing.
Regardless of the reason, the lesson goes horribly.
“You need to focus and apply yourself,” Nanny scolds me. “You are not even trying.”
“I am, there’s just no point.” I throw the chalk away from the board she had me practicing on. It hits the floor and shatters,which gives me a moment of satisfaction at seeing it break apart, before Nanny grabs me by the upper arm and snatches me out of my chair. “Wait!”
She ignores my squeal and she’s much stronger than me as she hauls me over to the teacher’s desk at the front of the room.
“Nanny, please I’m sorry!”
“You certainly will be.”
I wail and kick to no avail as she pins me down over the desk and lifts the short skirt above my hips. She swats me first with her hand, warming my bottom with firm, crisp smacks. When she stops, I think it’s over, but then she picks up a wooden ruler from the desk and I cry out before it even snaps against my skin.
It hurts like the dickens, and my kicking grows even more frantic, but I cannot escape the hand pinning me down any more than I can protect myself from the wooden slat. She brings it down again and again on already chastised cheeks, the wood biting into my sensitive flesh. Tears roll down my face as the flaming heat grows in my bottom.
Gripping the edge of the desk, I barely manage to keep from putting my hands behind me and trying to protect myself, knowing it will earn me greater punishment.
When she finally stops, she tucks my skirts into the sash around my waist so that they remain up in the back, exposing my reddened bottom. She stands over me, watching while I clean up the chalk that I threw and then I’m sent right back to my desk – but she’s made an addition to the seat.
A kind of mat, which does not look so bad at first, but when I sit down the rough surface feels awful against my already throbbing bottom.
“Ow! Nanny, I cannot sit here!” I start to get up, but she puts her hands on my shoulders and pushes me back down, forcing my bottom down onto the prickly surface. Not just my bottomeither, my pussy lips are pressed against it now and I cry out at the discomfort.
“The sooner you finish your lesson, the sooner you can get off the mat,” she says, ruthlessly unsympathetic to the fact that she just made focusing even more difficult than before.
Sniffling, I bend over the math problems, doing my best to work my way through them while my bottom throbs. Every shift causes new stinging prickles to stab the sensitive flesh so I have to try and remain perfectly still, which is impossible.
It seems to take forever before I finish and she lets me get up. But she does not let me lower my skirts.
After math, it is time for what Nanny calls manners and elocution, and having my bottom exposed makes it easier for her to administer smacks to my already burning nates when I get something wrong. If I try to twist or dance out of the way, she bends me back over the desk and gives me an extra five with the ruler, so I learn very quickly to stand still, tears streaming down my face as she has me repeat the same words and sentences over and over, trying to sound posh.
At least this I can see the sense of.
Sounding posh might make me more desirable to future gentlemen.
I’m just not very good at it.
It’s difficult to change up a lifetime of how I’ve spoken.
