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A Sealed Book

by Jazz

235 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #00-0258; ISBN 1-55212-589-0; US$21.50, C$32.95, EUR21.50, £14.90

Set in a girl's boarding school in England between 1914 and 1938, a humorous, erotic story of the spinster head mistress.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpt      catalogue info

About the Book First, there was 'The Story of O' -- now there is A Sealed Book which follows the erotic - and often hilarious - adventures of Beatrice Hardwicke - spinster headmistress and corporal punishment connoisser - and her outrageous friend Lady Marjorie Napps.

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About the Author Jazz, a U.K.-based ad agency Creative Director and copywriter, writes from a cramped seat over the Atlantic, commuting between family who live in Canada and narrow-minded clients who stubbornly insist on staying put in the U.K. Jazz is best-known for the famous advertisement 'Special! Heinz Baked Beans 27 cents' claiming, "it's an ad that really moved my clients' product and is still widely copied on Madison Avenue." When not surfing naughty web-sites, Jazz enjoys spamming his agency clients with e-mails about erectile dysfunction.

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Sample Excerpt - The Visit

I began a friendly correspondence with Mrs. Persephone Wellington of Pelham College whom I had met at a conference earlier in the summer and in early October I received her formal written invitation to visit Pelham. As I typewrite this, her letter sits at my right elbow in my journal for that year. It is frayed and torn at the centre crease and the paper is yellowing now but her precise copperplate is clear and recalls the autumn weekend which it engendered more vividly than any photograph would ever do.

3rd October 1915
My dear Miss Hardwicke

It was so lovely to receive your letter a few days ago, I am so glad that all is going so well at Fulsmore, you must be very proud of your little school. We have had a wonderful start to the year with the news that one of our old girls is leading a contingent of nurses over to France. Remember I told you about my cousin Eddie who is with one of our artillery divisions over there? Well, he got 'wounded,' apparently his horse slipped in some mud and he fell off and hurt his knee, and I gather he is now doing a clerical job in the rear lines. In his letter home he seemed to be more concerned about his poor horse than his poor leg and he moaned that he would not be able to play socker for several weeks. Aunt Edith is so delighted that he is out of the firing line (although I doubt he ever was in much danger) and she is able to sleep again without anxiety. I sometimes believe that the mothers and wives of our soldiers and sailors pay a far greater price in wartime than is generally recognised, don't you?

My staff are settling in very well at Pelham this year and we are looking forward to a terribly busy but constructive year. Have you given any further consideration to a hockey play-off between Fulsmore and Pelham? I think it might be a bit of a hoot and you never know, perhaps your girls might win! Finally, I have a favour to beg of you. We have our prize day on Friday, 29th October and I would be thrilled if you would attend as one of our guests of honour to present a few prizes. If you brought along your 1st XI we could have a game that afternoon. I am so sorry for the short notice but please do try to visit, I promise you only the best hospitality although I am afraid the meals these days can be a little mediocre.

Yours

Mrs. P. M. Wellington Pelham College

I was delighted to write back accepting the invitation both for myself and for our 1st XI who were thrilled with this opportunity for an away game. A few weeks later on an overcast, but dry Friday morning we all left early to catch the train up to Pelham. It was a short journey so the pupils were going to make it a day's excursion and come back on the evening train with Miss Miller their coach, but I planned to overnight at Pelham and do a little early Christmas shopping on the Saturday morning.

We arrived at Pelham station soon after ten o'clock and a lovely old brake took us the short distance to the school. Pelham College was a large red-brick building sitting in spacious grounds almost in the centre of the town. During its long history it had been a small cloister, a private home (supposedly visited on one furtive occasion by King George III's son and his French mistress) and finally a public school. To be perfectly honest it was a bit of a mish-mash of styles, but like all mongrels it had a wonderfully affable air about it. Mrs. Wellington met us at the front of the school as the big wagon rolled to a stop. She struck a very handsome figure as, in deference to her prize day, she wore a formal black woollen outfit under her academic black gown. The frock had the most gorgeous silken embroidery of black intertwined ropes looping up and down the front of the material from her ankles to her waist. She had her dark hair rolled up in a tight bun and I noticed a few silver hairs at her temples but her brown eyes danced with genuine pleasure as she took my hands in hers to help me descend and she squeezed them in hearty greeting.

"How are you Miss Hardwicke? Welcome to Pelham, I must say you're looking very well. These must be your first's?" with a broad grin she admired my team as they climbed down from the wagon, "my, they look a tough lot, I think we'll have quite the game this afternoon."

The girls and I beamed, "how are you Mrs. Wellington, it's lovely to see you again," I wrapped her hands in my own, "have you heard from any of the others from our conference?"

As we walked together to the front door of the school I handed her a wooden box. I had spoken to Marjorie and she had arranged with her father to have ten pounds of the best quality tea delivered to me. Mrs. Wellington was thrilled to get this luxury which was already rationed by high prices at that time and she took my arm and led me through the school's entrance archway into a small sheltered quadrangle laid with a perfectly flat lawn interspersed with rose beds. Although the roses were all cut back and prepared early for winter by piles of straw I imagined that in the summer it must have been a lovely place to sit and study. It made me think of the atrium of a Roman villa or perhaps the Spanish cloister where Hopkins' malicious little monk once soliloquised.

My girls were ever so impressed at the surroundings as Mrs. Wellington showed us around the school. Now and again Pelham pupils passed by wearing their elegant light grey uniform of spencer and knee length skirt, white blouse with double-tailed burgundy cravate all topped off with a pretty straw hat. They eyed us curiously and Mrs. Wellington whispered to me with a halfamused shrug, they call me 'Welly Boot' but they don't know that I know. Have you acquired a monicker yet?" . . .

. . . Afterwards Mrs. Wellington invited all on the stage to the staff room for ham sandwiches and some of the tea I had brought, after which we all paraded out to the playing fields to watch the hockey match. It was a hard fought game but Pelham were just too good for our side and we lost by a trouncing 11 goals to 3, much to the raucous delight of the home team's supporters.

That evening I sat with Mrs. Wellington in her apartments and we enjoyed a glass or two of excellent Madeira together. Mr. Wellington and their three young children had joined us for supper and the evening began to get quite, quite lively. We masticated dure et forte on another roast beef meal and indeed the thought of Mr. Todd the barber of Fleet St. crossed my mind and I ventured to enquire of Mrs. Wellington if she had counted her pupils lately. This made her hoot merrily and the conversation suddenly began to canter along quite nicely despite the noisy interruptions of her children. Her husband came to the culinary rescue by opening a bottle of claret and after an odd custard dessert we shared a bottle of port and bawled at each other through the clamour of her young impedimentia.

She gave me some wonderful pointers on school administration (especially on dealing with difficult bankers) and we laughed and tutted at one another's anecdotes about the members of our respective staff-rooms. Despite the food and the lively company it was a pleasant evening and, as the port was topped up, our conversation wandered ever more loudly and widely over many diverse topics.

Mrs. Wellington was a very perspicacious woman indeed and so alarmingly well read that I felt myself a total illiterate in comparison. She put on a gramophone record of Wagner's Ring and gave me a fascinating precis on its background. Although I had listened to Wagner before, that night was my introduction to the great epic myth of Wotan, the father of the Gods and his doomed attempt to gather all the Gods into Walhalla together, to live under his rule and protect themselves against the rising, encircling power of mankind. Mrs. Wellington thrilled me with the haunting myth of the Ring, the Ring of power with its curse upon its owner of envy, care and ultimately death.

"Walhalla was just like a staffroom Miss Hardwicke," she grinned, "you have authority over all but you command none. Wotan had his spear, you have your rod," she waved a knitting needle, "listen to that counterpoint, is that not the most wonderful thing you have ever heard? Listen," she conducted several bars.

Like Mrs. Wellington, I believe that counterpointing is one of the unsung achievements of our western civilisation and it is quite woefully ignored by historical commentators. Indeed along with perspective drawing which is its visual counterpart, polyphonic music is evidence to me of the uniquely intricate layering of the Anglo-Saxon mind which can only be (imperfectly) emulated by perhaps one or two other European races, and maybe some Arabs. We taught counterpoint to the girls at Fulsmore and I often wished that there had been a way to capture Mrs. Wellington's recital and talk that evening on a gramophone disc for it would have been a wonderful teaching aid in music classes.

After the recital Mr. Wellington very generously offered to put his children to sleep, not of course in extremis, although they were debilitatingly lively and by now I felt that they possibly deserved it. I obligingly gave each of them a peck on the cheek and earnestly recommended to each of them that they eat everything the cook made for them so that they would grow big and strong. David, the younger boy, survived the cook and has become one of Sir Oswald Mosley's more violent black shirters but in his instance it was nurture not nature to blame, for that constant assault on the digestive system would have embittered a saint. In fact, David is just one of quite a number of people I know who have become black shirters, including Mrs. Pankhurst's daughter and Marjorie's eldest boy, Jerome.

In the sudden tranquility after the children's departure there was a break in the conversation and while I contemplated the tinittus in my ears I realised uncomfortably that the room was swirling. I finished my glass of port and I made a weak remark about my present of Ceylonese tea not having quite the same effect as the products from the bodegas of Jerez and Oporto.

Mrs. Wellington suddenly stood up, swaying slightly and grinned broadly, "that reminds me, I have a present for you too," she carefully stumbled over to a cupboard behind me. I heard rustling and the scrape of coat hangers before she returned with a two and a half foot long birch cane bound with a red leather handle and a wrist strap. It had been carefully constructed and was a most intimidating sight.

"You told me during the summer that you did not have a cane so I am going to give you one of mine, it's my spare, I've hardly ever used it," she said slightly slushily and handed the cane to me.

Hesitating, I took it from her, "my..." I blushed and put my hand to my chest.

"I had our groom run it up last summer," she leaned on the table, "he's quite talented don't you think? He does our harnesses and looks after various odd jobs. It's a good one you know. Here, give it a swing."

"I'm not sure that I, er, will ever need it," I protested faintly, I felt the supple cane lithely flexing with a light swish as I flicked my wrist.

"Of course you'll need it," Mrs. Wellington insisted, filled with the bleary fortified conviction that port gives one, "the little darlings will run all over you if you don't have one of these to fall back on. You'll be amazed at the respect this'll get. If I didn't use mine now and then, I'd be running a school here instead of a monkey's tea party. Did you not see how well behaved my girls are?"

"Er, yes," I answered. I was about to correct her tea party reference but as I had grasped the gist of her sentiment I simply agreed, "they certainly are most polite." I had to acknowledge that her pupils, if not her own children, were the models of decorum.

"That's because they know what I keep in my cupboard and few of them risk a taste of it. I use it once or twice a year and that's quite enough to keep order in the school," Mrs. Wellington swayed again then plopped heavily down on her chair, "I have a couple of wretches in to see me tomorrow morning. You are welcome to attend and see how I keep discipline in Pelham."

"Well," I hesitated, "I don't know if it would be appropriate. I had planned to go shopping."

"Nonsense, of course it's appropriate. And this is more important than shopping, you need some guidance you know," her eyelids were heavy, "how else will you learn the art of correction? In fact, I'll do better. You can assist me! You can use your new cane."

"Oh, I don't know about that Mrs. Wellington. I mean, I've never," I began to protest.

"Never used a cane eh?" she smirked at me, "well no better time than the present to learn, I shall show you, you just have to follow what I do. Now let me tell you about Wheeler and Bradshaw." She leaned forward with her elbows most ungraciously planted on the table, "they are two of the laziest wretches I have ever had in the sixth form, they never get their work completed on time, they avoid cleaning duty and games."

"But those are rather insignificant problems," I protested, "they could easily be solved with rigorous supervision."

"Believe me Miss Hardwicke, these two are well beyond that stage of correction," she then expanded upon a list of recent disobediences committed by the two culprits which, in her book, amounted well nigh to a bloody insurrection.

"Very well," I sighed, I desperately needed to get to bed because of the mixture of drinks I had consumed. We retired a little after ten o'clock and I went to the small guest bedroom which Mrs. Wellington had set aside near her apartments and gratefully fell into bed.

Not wanting to appear a poor guest I rose early next morning, bathed myself in the cold water in the dish, tied back my hair and dressed in the outfit I had worn the day previously, my lovely navy blue, light woollen Sunday frock which I had bought just before the war. It had a wonderful, extravagantlypleated flaring skirt and a double breasted jacket with large brass buttons running from my neck to my waist so that it was a perfect balance of style, formality and comfort.

Breakfast was served in the dining hall at half past seven and I took a seat beside a waxen faced Mrs. Wellington. Temperance and moderation are my watchwords so I was not used to the morning-after effects of alcohol and I felt quite rocky as we stood while one of the seniors began, ' Benedict Dominum nobilis...'

As I had expected, the breakfast was awful and I ate very little apart from some toast, but I drank copious quantities of Marjorie's tea. The noise of two hundred chattering girls plus the clash of cutlery on plates and scraping chairs reverberated in my head and with shaking hands I took out a paper pouch of powders I always carried in my bag, unfolded it and emptied them into my water. As I stirred them, Mrs. Wellington lightly tapped my forearm, "there are the two we are dealing with this morning, the red haired one is Wheeler," she said and pointed her fork at two girls leaving their metal trays on a nearby trolley to my right. I had quite forgotten about our discussion the previous evening and now that it came back I Iooked with interest at the two pupils passing by our table as they left the hall.

The taller one, Sarah Wheeler had a mass of curly ginger hair, a large freckled face with a small mouth and round nose. She was rather plain with the cut of a strong farmer's daughter about her broad shoulders, hips and stocky limbs. She was about an inch taller than my own five feet four inches and avoided looking at our table as she passed. Her companion, Nicola Bradshaw was slender, about two inches shorter than I and was the prettier of the two. She had a square face with a broad jaw cleft with dimples all overset with dark hair braided in two pigtails tied with burgundy ribbons and, as she passed by, she looked warily at Mrs. Wellington with large dark eyes under her thick eyebrows.

"That Wheeler is a real troublemaker," Mrs. Wellington huffed in a low voice, "she's had this coming to her for a long time. I shall deal with her. I shall ask you to deal with Bradshaw."

I shook my head, "I don't think I'll be very good at this. Maybe you should do it and, perhaps, you know, just let me watch?"

"Nonsense," she said, "you'll get the hang of it in no time." I looked at the retreating figures of the two girls, Bradshaw's hips slightly swaying while Wheeler leaned forward with a strong purposeful stride. I tried to imagine a cane being brought down upon on my own bare bottom and winced at the thought. I finished my powders, shuddering at their tart chalkiness.

We finished, left the hall and I went up to my room to pack my overnight carpetbag then, in some embarrassment (and, yes Dr. Pinch, a little anticipation) I picked up the cane Mrs. Wellington had given me the evening before and went down to her study where I found her sorting some books and tidying her shelves. She was wearing the same outfit that she had worn the previous day, except she had put on her older black gown which was more threadbare and torn than the formal one she had worn for prize giving. Her study was smaller than mine and was much more of a working office with its brown and yellow linoleum flooring on which sat some unmatching bookshelves, a filing cabinet and a simple wooden desk with a hard chair. It was dimly lit by several gas sconces covered with green painted metal shades and I found it all slightly depressing compared to my own study, the only item I envied her was the telephone on her desk.

We talked for a short while and Mrs. Wellington lectured me about my duty, "please do not feel that you should be lenient with Bradshaw, Miss Hardwicke, if she does not learn a lesson this morning it may have to be repeated. You may feel some sympathy or compassion for a girl before the event or after it, but you must realise that it is misplaced during it. It is more merciful to chastise once. If you are nervous then proceed quickly and firmly..." she stopped as we heard a light tap on the door, "ah, that will be them now."

I would like to say that I felt very stern but I confess that my heart gave a lurch and I took a deep breath to calm the flutters in my stomach. Mrs. Wellington must have noticed my start because she snorted, "no need for nerves, it's Wheeler and Bradshaw who should be nervous."

Although I would not, or could not, have admitted as such even to myself and I do so now only from the safe distance of time and thoughtful reflection on my emotions that morning, I can say that my agitation stemmed as much from anticipation as apprehensiveness. I was intrigued, (as Marjorie would have it) by the approaching drama in which I was to play an unrehearsed part.

Mrs. Wellington tucked her birch cane under her left arm, went over to the door and opened it, "come in" she said, looking into the dimness beyond, then she stood back and held the door open. The two girls edged in, nervously glancing at Mrs. Wellington and the cane under her arm as she closed the door behind them. They looked uncertainly at me as Mrs. Wellington led them over to her desk.

"Stand there!" she said to them pointing at the floor in front of her desk and walking behind it, she sat in her chair. I stood to her left, facing the girls. "No doubt you saw Miss Hardwicke at the prize day presentation yesterday. She is visiting Pelham College to see how we run things here, the good," Mrs. Wellington glowered, "and the bad. Miss Hardwicke this is Sarah Wheeler and this is Nicola Bradshaw. I have already told you a little about them and you know why they are here this morning."

The girls both whispered, "good morning ma'am" and gave me a slight curtsy which surprised but pleased me. One rarely sees ladies curtsy these days except when meeting dignitaries and even by 1915 it was a little old fashioned but it seems to me that a curtsy is much more feminine than a pumping handshake which is, after all, to let a man show that he is unarmed.

Mrs. Wellington continued to glower at the two, "I have invited Miss Hardwicke to attend your punishments this morning."

They glanced up at me out of the corners of their eyes and whispered, "yes ma'am," but from their unhappy blushes it was clear that they were not at all comfortable with this news. Mrs. Wellington took a wide black book out of her drawer, placed it in front of her and used its golden silk bookmark to open it at a fresh page. The page had some faint light blue and red lines but otherwise it was free of any print. As the two girls bleakly watched her, she dipped her pen in the inkwell and began to write in dark navy ink, "October 30th, Sarah Wheeler, Form VI, Miss Jameson's class, persistent disobedience & impertinence," she looked up at Wheeler with narrow eyes, paused then wrote, "six strokes, bared buttocks."

Pink faced, Wheeler looked at me out of the corner of her eye and chewed on her lower lip as Mrs. Wellington continued to scratch in her book. "Nicola Bradshaw, Form VI. Miss Jameson." Bradshaw wrung her fingers while Mrs. Wellington dipped her pen once again, and she looked stricken as, without looking up, Mrs. Wellington announced her sentence, "six strokes. Bared buttocks."

Mrs. Wellington rolled the wet ink with her blotter then stood up and walked from behind her desk, nodded to me and indicated that I should pick up my birch cane which lay on her desk. As I took it in my hand the two girls sucked deeply, glancing nervously at one other and I could sense their growing trepidation. Indeed there was an almost electrical tension in the room which reminded me of the intense closeness one feels before a thunderstorm, that craving for the first distant rolls of thunder which signal coming relief. Even the sconces seemed to have dimmed, the air grown thick and dull. I began to feel giddy and I had to put my hand on the side of the desk to steady myself.

Mrs. Wellington walked back and forth in front of the two pupils, tapping her cane in the palm of her left hand and scolding angrily, "you each know that this punishment is well deserved and probably long overdue. You have been given repeated warnings and opportunities to change your behaviour. These six strokes will pay your debt to the school but there had better not be a repeat offence. Do I make myself clear? Both of you?"

The two muttered, "yes Mrs. Wellington."

"Good! I hope I have," Mrs. Wellington began to unbutton the cuffs of her jacket and looked over at me, "Miss Hardwicke, I would be grateful if you would assist me this morning. If you would be so kind as to administer Miss Bradshaw's punishment, I will take care of Miss Wheeler."

Bradshaw started to look up at me but jumped with a start as her Headmistress snapped, "take off your jackets and your shoes!"

"Yes ma'am," they both answered quietly and began nervously to unbutton their spencers and slipped them off, placing them on Mrs. Wellington's desk.

I moved from the desk and stood behind the two. As Wheeler knelt on her right knee to undo her left shoelace, I noticed her bosom resting on her left thigh was very full for a girl of her age and I remembered the girl I had seen in the changing rooms in Fulsmore after she had been caned by Mrs. Roly. Her breasts had swung heavily as she leaned over to dry her feet and, as she briskly rubbed her toes, her poor shuddering bottom with its three angry purple stripes on each buttock seemed to reproach the world for having to take all the punishment. I wondered why young women would risk punishment like this for the sake of avoiding a few essays or skiving off Saturday morning mop duty in the halls.

Red faced and close to tears Bradshaw stooped to undo her shoelaces, looking back over her right shoulder at me she glanced at the birch in my hand and searched my face anxiously. Her hands were shaking so much that she began to make a terrific hash of the job and she looked up at me forlornly as the knot in her right shoelace tightened while she tugged at it. Meanwhile Wheeler had taken off her shoes and stood watching her friend's fumbling efforts while Mrs. Wellington tapped her cane impatiently on her left palm. Finally, with a little sob Bradshaw simply jerked off the shoe and stood up, patting her skirt back into place. Mrs. Wellington walked behind Wheeler and indicated that I should stand at her left behind Bradshaw.

"Bradshaw stand there," she said pointing at the floor with her cane and she pushed the girls about six feet apart. "Miss Wheeler stay where you are." I moved over behind Bradshaw as Mrs. Wellington continued, "bend, hands on your knees."

Wheeler began to bend over, Bradshaw looked at her friend and followed her lead, her pigtails falling forward over her shoulders. Mrs. Wellington stooped down, took the hem of Wheeler's skirt in both hands and abruptly pulled it up over the girl's waist and gave me a quick nod over her left shoulder to direct me to do the same with Bradshaw's skirt.

I bent down, took the hem of grey wool and lifted up the skirt laying the folds on the small of the girl's back. Both girls wore black knee stockings and loose, white stockinette drawers which reached to mid thigh, held up by a drawstring tied at the waist. Mrs. Wellington quickly untied the strings holding up Wheeler's drawers, loosened the strings and pulled the drawers swiftly down, getting Wheeler to step out of them. I reached for the bow at Bradshaw's back, pulled it and slid her drawers down and she stepped out of them as I reached her ankles. Her black stockings climbed to just below her knees and above them, at my eye level, were her broad thighs and white bottom. The two girls had been laid bare in a matter of seconds.

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Catalogue Information

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