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Message-ID: <44311asstr$1063631403@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: David Nunes da Silva <WEQGRIQIHSOT@spammotel.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Red Nude.
Date: Mon, 15 Sep 2003 09:10:03 -0400
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The Red Nude.

by David Nunes da Silva / June 2003


Ponta Delgada, São 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.
A refugee.  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 do command myself to do it.  Peter imagined she
would say "Dance with you?  You're just a baby, 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;' he would be ashamed if he had to
admit that he was spanked by hand like a baby.   "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 beef in a red sauce, 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 in escudos 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 a 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 in 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 layers, to
keep the straps in place.  The tip of each strap was bound 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, Sr. 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.   He dropped to one knee.  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
indend 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 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 Camões, held matches in honor of
Camões' sword-fights.   Manoel, a weak fencer, had repeatedly challenged
stronger swordsmen.   The challenger played the part of Camões,
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 seed 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.  She imagined Peter's body
jerking 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, the whip across his lap.


"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, standing again 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.  "Dr.
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?"


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 little 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 said in public, at the consulate, that she thought her
husband had run off with a woman.   That was a very serious thing.
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.


Manoel thought, I have had a very serious whipping today.  Can't I say
I've been punished enough for what I did to Liliana Biscaino, and stop
feeling so miserable about it?   But Manoel remembered Peter saying,
"However much it hurts, it's not punishment, and doesn't make me deserve
punishment any less." He was right, Manoel thought: being whipped by
Lucas, for an unrelated reason, doesn't make me deserve misery any
less.   I wonder, if I let Biscaino whip me, would that make me feel
less miserable?


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 Manoel worked on ended up more muddled
than when he started.   He 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 Biscaino whip
me for wrecking the his marriage.   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 José
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
ereção 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
ereção.  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 José
and three other boys captured him on the way home from school and took
off his clothes 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 make water in his
face.   She took off her dress so she could see of his face, and she got
José to whip his fanny every time he closed his mouth.   She made water
into his open mouth.   He spit it back all over her, so José 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 ereção.
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 José and the
other boys washed the esporra off Chourico's face with water from their
cacetes.


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 make water in his mouth so easily.    Chourico asked José and the
other boys to whip him some more so he could prove he wasn't a
paneleiro, but they wouldn't.   Then Chourico did something at home so
his father would have to whip him.   José 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.   José
embraced him and kissed him on the cheeks.   A paneleiro is a man que é
foder by another man, I don't know the words 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 São Sebastião.
Peter often came to pray after school, and today was the feast of São
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.  "São José,
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 of God's own arm.   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 São José 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 São Tiago, and all your husband's children."


  *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *
*   *   *   *   *   *


Peter said cheerfully, "I have been very bad today, Dad.   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 go
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 José and Isabel."   Manoel said, "tell José 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
José 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.  José 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 José had been sent on his way, Manoel said: "If Maria asked Peter
to whip her, I don't see that he 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 José 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.  José 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."
José knelt and bowed his head.


"Since you have confessed, José, 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."   José 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 José 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 José 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."


"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?"   She answered:
"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, 1964, 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."



by David Nunes da Silva.   June 2003


  *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *
*   *   *   *   *   *


Some fictional characters, not all of whom appear in the story:


Dona Maria Teresa Ramalho Correa da Sousa, born 1892, Ribeira da Areia,
São 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:

Capt. 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, 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.   Whereabouts unknown.

Capt. Sebastian Damiri Tenriffe, Peter's father, born 1895, at sea near
Celebes, missing and presumed drowned in the South China Sea, 1953.

Admiral José Vitor Sanchez Dorta, born Goa.  Dona Penelope d'Avaliado is
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, São 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 Belém Diaz, born São Paulo, Brasil.
------

Dona Gabriela Fereira de Vascoguoncellos Rodrigues, born 1922, São
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, São Miguel,
Azores.

Mrs. Maria Ana Pazos Nunez da Silva, Nuna's daughter, born 1928, Ponta
Delgada, wife and political advisor of:

The Honorable Rep. Frank da Silva, knight of the Order of Christ, born
1927.  Of San Leandro, California, and Washington, D.C.

Their children, Rebecca, David (b. 1950), and Maria Ana da Silva.

Isabel Amalia and José Fábio 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. Fernão Napoleon Escudero Diaz, Reitor of the Liceu de Museo Carlos
Machado.   Born 1899, Porto, Portugal.
------

Father António Tavares Creivello of São Sebastião church, Ponta Delgada.

------

Ernesto Canto da Maia, sculptor, born 5 June 1890, São 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.
------

Carlos Maria Gomes Machado, founder of the Museo Carlos Machado.  An
actual person and place.    The museum has no school.
------

Luis Vaz de Camões, poet. B.A. Coimbra, 1542.  Born Coimbra? 1524? Died
Lisboa, 10? June 1580.  Noted for the duels he fought while a student at
Coimbra.  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 Capitão,

                       Que a tamanhas empresas se oferece,

                       De soberbo e de altivo coração,

                       A quem Fortuna sempre favorece,

                       Pera se aqui deter não vê razão,

                       Que inabitada a terra lhe parece.


http://www.apol.net/dightonrock/camoes_seen__from_goa.htm

Manoel d'Avaliado also attended the University of Coimbra, founded in
1290 by King Diniz.

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

The quotation: "Joseph also carrying his rod . . ." is from the
Protevangelium of James.

  *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *
*   *   *   *   *   *

Dates in 1962.

22 Abril, Easter.

1 Maio (Tuesday), Feast day of São José Operário. Chourico bullied by
Isabel and José Alonso, João Carvalho, Manoel Oliveira da Sousa, and
Tiago da Cruz.    Also HockTide Tuesday, a day on which, in Medieval
times, young women would "trip up and bind" young men, demanding a small
coin as ransom, which they reward with a kiss.   The money went to
charity.

3 Maio, Feast day of São Tiago o Menor, the son of São José.   Chourico
beaten by his father, with a rod.

4 Maio, new moon.

5 Maio (Saturday), night of the party at which Lucas got drunk.  Feast
day of São Ângelo, killed in 1220 by Count Berenger, after persuading
the Count's sister to stop commiting incest.

6 Maio, Lucas whipped by his father.

13 Maio (Sunday),  Feast day of Nossa Senhora de Fátima.    Dinner at
Brazilian consulate.

14 Maio, dinner at the Coutinho mansion.  Feast day of São Matias
Apóstolo, patron saint of carpenters, who preached the need for
mortification of the flesh with regard to all its sensual and irregular
desires.

 ------- -- ---- - --- -- --------- -----
David Nunes da Silva
WEQGRIQIHSOT [AT] spammotel [DOT] com

-- 
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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