Missives

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

Martin

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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!)