The Red Nude.
Ponta Delgada, Sao Miguel, Azores.
It's 1962, and 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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
Peter stepped out of his ash-caked 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 clenched his fists tightly and 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 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 folded 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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
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. And he was proud, Peter had
worked very hard and 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, and a great many bandages. 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 when you deserve it. 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. 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."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
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, 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." Peter was having trouble following Maria's
American English. He was afraid she would ask if he ever got a 'paddling,'
and was ashamed 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. 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 tender
bottom, to feel it on the trembling 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. It was a servant, who said: "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 servant 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 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 servant. "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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
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. Sr.
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, Sr. 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," Sr. 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."
Sr. 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 loved, had whipped him. They said prisoners at the Palace were fucked
in the ass as well as whipped. He wondered if Manoel did that himself. He
thought: Manoel d'Avaliado doesn't like Lucas around his boy. Probably thinks
we're not good enough for him.
James looked forward to telling Lucas about the whipping he would get tomorrow
from the government man. Perhaps Lucas would be afraid at last.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
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 left here some days ago, 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 line.
A young lawyer from Manoel's office was at the party, so Manoel went to look for
him. "Please go down to the office, Sr. 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?" Sr. 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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
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 Sr. 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 meal he has eaten today. Dona Teresa, could you have some food
brought here? I will stay with the boy. Bring many napkins."
Dona Teresa returned with food to find Sr. d'Avaliado sitting on the bed,
wearing only his drawers, holding Peter on his lap, hugging him and tousling his
hair. Peter was naked. Sr. d'Avaliado said, "I am so fond of you, Peter. Now
Peter, here is some food. Eat it with the spoon." Peter did nothing. Sr.
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. Dona Teresa found this hard to watch. "Here is some food,
Peter," Sr. 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 four bowls, and many spanks. Dona Teresa cut the meat
off the bones and into spoon-size pieces.
"And now I think a bath," Sr. d'Avaliado said. "He is already much calmer. 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, Sr. d'Avaliado passed Peter to Dona Teresa, who
sat down on a chair. Without any prompting from Sr. 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. Sr. d'Avaliado ran more hot
water, and without a word undressed, stepped into the bath, and reached out his
arms for his boy. With Peter lying on his chest, Sr. 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." Sr. 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
bottom. "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 assure you that 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, Sr. d'Avaliado, I grew up with your mother. But I am a woman. You
undress 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, Sr. 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 twenty 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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
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 her 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
blessed," Helena answered, "for those who can take pleasure from the whip get
much pleasure. But he 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. Helena began to
grease the whip. 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 if she wants;
that I will permit. But nothing more. 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 shorts. "Good morning, Dona Teresa, Mama Helena," he
said, "I hope you slept well."
"Dona Helena, Nuna said you wanted to see me before school," Peter said.
"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 holding the
carving of Lucas's bottom, and was still wearing her evening clothes from the
night before. Her eyes were very wide.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
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 suitcase. "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 Sr. d'Avaliado. Everyone said he was a spy, and that he'd
been transferred to Ponta Delgada because he killed a man with his bare hands.
But he didn't feel so scared that he needed to let it show. When they were
shown into Sr. d'Avaliado's study, his father and Sr. 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, "Sr. d'Avaliado, I hope you are well?
And how is Peter?" When naked, he took the whip from the suitcase, and presented
it to Sr. 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, "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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
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. 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."
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, Senor
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 of your bottom as it looks during a
spanking. 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.
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 penis swelled to a tight, hot erection. 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. 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 Mary, I am late for school." Peter shouted, "Dr. Diaz will flog me for
sure." And he ran for his school uniform.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
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, Sr. d'Avaliado," Lucas interrupted, "but I indent
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 strictly; he says he needs the punishment to do better. I think no
whipping will ever hurt Peter more than than it hurts him just to disappoint
you. But I'm not Peter, I need real punishment, real pain, if I'm to do
better. 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, Sr. 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.
"You know he wouldn't. If you will not use the whip, I must take it to my
father. I respect your kindness, Sr. 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, Sr. 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, Sr. 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 Br. 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 University, it had been
forbidden to fence without a mask, but a secret society, the Fellowship of
Camoes, held matches in honor of Camoes' sword-fights. Manoel, a weak fencer,
had repeatedly challenged stronger swordsmen. The challenger played the part
of Camoes, discovered naked in bed with a woman, but with his sword in reach.
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, Sr. 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, so Manoel could
enjoy the anticipation. 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 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. "Sr. 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, Sr. 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, Sr. 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 to school, Reitor Diaz might
beat me."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
Maria had felt intense desire as she watched Peter, already thrusting back and
forth, drop down toward her, and she was angry that he had spilled out his semen
instead. She pushed his carving into her crotch, but it was too big and she
used her fingers instead. Her mood was slipping away. 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, but she didn't care. The stroke fell, it hurt.
Maria could bear the pain but it raised no passion in her. 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, had he really been there.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
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 to 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 he had born his own whipping well, but he had groaned and panted and
almost sobbed. His body had jerked from the pain at each stroke. Lucas was
motionless. That he could even feel the pain could be seen by only one thing;
tears were streaming down his face. Manoel stopped. He couldn't continue.
He sat down and buried his face in his hands, sobbing, dropping the whip to the
floor.
"Como esta, Sr. d'Avaliado? Are you ill?" Lucas inquired politely.
"I shall be all right in a moment. I shall just get a glass of water," Manoel
answered, running 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 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. Manoel returned to his study, this time in his bathrobe.
"I hope you are refreshed, Sr. 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, Sr. 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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
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 was a
strange one. Brilliant at geometry, but strange. Once Tenriffe had 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 spanking 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 had 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 had 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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
"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."
"Sr. 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, Sr. 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. Liliana Biscaino had accused her husband
in public, at the consulate, of running off with a woman. 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 serious whipping today. Can't I say I've been punished enough for what I
did to Liliana Biscaino? 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 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," it said. It was from an "Insp. James C.
Campbell," but not from Scotland Yard officially. It was a personal, private
telegram. 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 in the sea, Manoel thought.
Or fuck, then drink, and then drown. Or have Lucas whip me again, this time
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, Sr. d'Avaliado, and you undress 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?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
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 are paddled on their bare fannys.
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 fanny? 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 Jose and
Isabel. I have not told Nuna about this. There is a boy in school we call
"Chourico." 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 erecao 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 erecao. What do you call it in America when you make
an erecting? I would like to know all the American words.
Your cousin Isabel decided to teach Chourico a lesson. She and Jose 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 Jose to whip his fanny every time he closed his mouth. She peed into his
open mouth. He spit it back all over her, so Jose whipped Chourico's cacete
some more, and his esporra shot out. There are even more slang words for
esporra shooting out than there are for erecao. 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 Jose and the other boys washed the esporra off
Chourico's face with their pee.
The next day all the boys wanted to look at Chourico's fanny, but there were
hardly any marks. The boys called him a paneleiro for letting a woman pee in
his mouth so easily. Chourico told Jose and the other boys they could whip
him some more if they wanted to. Then Chourico did something at home so his
father would have to whip him. Jose thinks he made merda on the kitchen table.
When he showed the marks from that whipping, everyone said that no boy in school
had ever been whipped that much. No one called him a paneleiro any more. I
said that Tomas would not take his cacete out any more, and we shouldn't call
him Chourico any more. Jose embraced him and kissed him on the cheeks. A
paneleiro is a man que e 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
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
Manoel went to the small chapel of the holy family at Sao Sebastiao. Peter
often came to pray after school, and today was the feast of Sao 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 Mary's lap. There was only a Joseph and a Mary. Mary looked old,
and St. Joseph gaunt and haggard. Peter thought that the Jesus had been a
young man. But the carving of Jesus, if there had ever been one, was gone.
Manoel knelt before the ancient wooden carvings and prayed. "Sao Jose, 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." St. Joseph 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 Joseph 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 St. Joseph'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 that
God chose. 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 St. Joseph's staff. "In the
mystery plays I used to see in Campostella, when I was a boy," the old Priest
answered, "St. Joseph got very angry when he found that Mary 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 St. Joseph 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 St. Joseph'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 Sao Jose 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 Sao Tiago, and all your husband's children."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
"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, Sr. 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, 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
Jose and Isabel." Manoel said, "tell Jose 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 Jose 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. Jose came
in. Dona Teresa continued, "Especially as she and Sr. 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 Jose 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, Sr.
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?"
Lucas thought: we are like two lovers, 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. Peter prepared to use 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
quite red. Peter did not seem very interested.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
When Jose 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, had already been given a severe whipping. Senhora da Sousa
was holding a leather whip. Jose 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 much as you
like." Jose knelt and bowed his head.
"Since you have confessed, Jose, 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." Jose 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 Jose 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 Jose 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. "I am a blockhead," Peter said, "can you forgive me?" Oh well, Lucas
thought, perhaps they will name a son "Lucas."
Peter said, "Dad, even if I am 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 be proud of that?"
"If we are talking of misconduct, perhaps you should tell Peter what you did
last night, Sr. 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, Sr.
d'Avaliado, I will show you how to undress in front of a lady with proper
respect."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
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. "Dona Teresa, besides
my insult to you, you know I was thoughtless last night, and may have caused the
Biscainos considerable harm. Please choose the punishment I deserve." "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."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
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. "By the same artist," the
Undersecretary said, "as those pen-and-ink sketches you liked, the ones you said
seemed curiously familiar." The sculpture was of a wrinkled old woman, naked,
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."
Sandy Hodges
Some characters, not all of whom appear in the story:
Dona Maria Teresa Ramalho Correa da Sousa, born 1892, Ribeira da Areia, Sao
Jorge, Azores. Widow of:
Tiago Oliveira da Sousa, born 1890, Azores, killed by the volcanic eruption at
Capalinhos, Faial, 1957. Parents of:
Mrs. Maria Caterina Correa da Sousa Gaskins, of Chicago, born 1925, Faial,
Azores. Wide 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, Azores, August 1961.
Dona Juana Helena Mendes Coutinho Carvalho, born 1890, Ponta Delgada, Azores.
Widow of:
Dom Pedro "Pero" Phillipe Almeida Carvalho, born 1885, Horta, Faial, Azores,
Died 1955. Their son:
Monsignor Jorge Manoel Coutinho Carvalho, born 1925, Horta.
Manoel Maria Coutinho d'Avaliado, great-nephew of Dona Helena, born 1917,
Lisboa.
Peter Chong Tenriffe, Manoel's step-son, born 1948, 3rd day of the 5th month,
Macao. 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.
Currently 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 Jose Vitor Sanchez Dorta, born Goa, 1921. Chong Ling is currently
living with him in Lisboa.
Lucas James de Braganca Fernandez Johnson McCallister, born 1946, Glasgow. Son
of:
James "Pisspants" Stephen McCallister, Lucas's father. Born 1929, Glasgow.
Dona Maria Sofia Micaela "Mikey" Almeida Lopez de Braganca Fernandez
McCallister, Lucas's mother, born 1927, Glasgow, last known alive 1958, cousin
of:
Infanta Dona Maria Isabel "Bella" Micaela Rafaela de Jesus e Menezes de
Braganca, born 1921, London.
Tomas "Chouricos" ("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, Sao Jorge, Azores. 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 Havana, and of
Dona Maria Belem Diaz, born Sao Paulo, Brasil.
Dona Gabriela Fereira de Vascoguoncellos Rodrigues, born 1922, Sao Paulo, wife
of the Brazilian Consul in Ponta Delgada, Azores. Cousin of Maria Diaz.
Senhora Maria Ana "Nuna" Fernandez Pazos Nunez, cook at the Coutinho mansion,
born 1900, on an isolated ranch near Sete Cidades, Sao Miguel, Azores.
Maria Ana "Anne" Pazos Nunez 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 (b. 1950), and Maria Ana "Anne" da Silva.
Isabel Amalia and Jose Fabio Nunez Alonso, born 1947 and 1948, Ponta Delgada.
Grandchildren of Nuna.
Dra. Dona Maria de Fatima Isabel Guomez Lopez, oculist. Born 1919, Salamanca,
Spain. Neighbor of the Brazilian consulate. Former mistress of Manoel
d'Avaliado.
Dr. Fernao Napoleon Escudero Diaz, Reitor of the Liceu de Museo Carlos Machado.
Born 1899, Porto, Portugal.
Father Antonio Tavares Creivello of Sao Sebastiao church, Ponta Delgada.
Ernesto Canto da Maia, sculptor, born 5 June 1890, Sao Miguel, Azores. An
actual person.
Prince John Miguel Guilherme Aloisio Maria Jose Rafael Gabriel Francisco de
Assis Carlos Henrique Antonio Sebastiao Huberto de Braganca. 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 Museo Carlos Machado.
http://www.museucarlosmachado.pt/
Luis Vaz de Camoes, 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://web.rccn.net/Camoes/camoes/lusiadas/frame.htm : Os Lusiadas
Vasco da Gama, o forte Capitao,
Que a tamanhas empresas se oferece,
De soberbo e de altivo coracao,
A quem Fortuna sempre favorece,
Pera se aqui deter nao ve razao,
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), Chourico bullied by Isabel and Jose Alonso, Joao Carvalho,
Manoel Oliveira da Sousa, and Tiago da Cruz. Feast day of Sao Jose Operario.
Also 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
rewarded with a kiss. The money went to charity.
3 Maio, Chourico beaten by his father, with a rod. Feast day of Sao Tiago o
Menor.
4 Maio, new moon.
5 Maio (Saturday), night of the party at which Lucas got drunk. Feast day of
Sao Angelo, killed in 1220 by Count Berenger, for 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
Fatima.
14 Maio, dinner at the Coutinho mansion. Feast day of Sao Matias Apostolo,
patron saint of carpenters, who preached the need for mortification of the flesh
with regard to all its sensual and irregular desires.
19 Maio, full moon.
http://www.timeanddate.com/calendar/custommenu.html
http://www.ecclesia.pt/santos/index_santos.htm (in Portuguese)
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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
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