The Red Nude
The Red Nude


      by David Nunes da Silva .

1962.    Ponta Delgada, Ilha de São Miguel, Açores.
The Dictator's government, rumors say, is torturing political prisoners in secret rooms of the Governor's palace.  Meanwhile, a young woodcarver is learning to use one of his tools.

  I.   Peter Tenriffe 

Peter dropped his ash-streaked 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 good, even though he hadn't actually been sent to bed without his supper.  Then he said: "I'll tan your hide till you can't sit down."    Peter tried to imagine 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!" and answered himself "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 not in the mood.

He thought about the spanking.   He remembered his step-dad's warm sweaty smell as he was scooped up and carried like a puppy.   "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 it happened.   I'll trust you just as much as before.  OK?"    "It did happen, Dad, you can't trust me".   "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 a leg and his step-dad's strong left hand.  He wished his shirt was off too - he liked being spanked naked.   He was holding his shorts in his hands and he gripped them tightly as he waited for it to begin.  After a few spanks he 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 of his friends got whippings, and they showed off their striped bottoms.   It wasn't fair.  Even "Waggle Weenie"--Tomas Biscaino--had a whipped bottom to show.   Last Saturday Peter had been at a party with his friend Lucas, and Lucas said, "I have to go home home now, or I'll get a whipping."   But he stayed just one more minute, and the minutes slipped away and turned into hours, until at last, looking half dead with fear, a very drunk Lucas had to be led home by his friends.  Late the next day, he came over.   "It was awesome, Pedro.  Unbelievably bad.  Dad had a new whip he ordered from Scotland - it's nine 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 Dad started to whip really slow.  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 dark red and ridged like corderoy, but not black and blue like Tommy Biscaino's bottom.   Lucas was disappointed.   Peter said, "maybe it'll get darker later on."    Peter stripped too, and in the relaxed time after they masturbated each other, Peter asked: "Do you really mean you are going to stop drinking?"

Laying on his bed after his spanking, Peter wished he could get Lucas's whipping.  He said aloud: "Torture me all you want, Colonel, I'll never talk."   Then he said aloud: "Just once.   That's all I want, just once."    He meant that he wanted his step-dad to be, just once, as cruel and unfair as Lucas's dad.  He said aloud: "I've never felt a whip hit my skin, Dad, never even once!"   But he knew he would never really ask.   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 or four dozen, and his step-dad's fingers were as hard as any whip.  He thought: I really deserved it, didn't I?  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.  It looked good, but nothing like a real whipping.  If Lucas came over, and saw Peter's bottom, with only a rosy glow from a spanking fit for a baby - Peter couldn't bear to think of the shame of it.  He couldn't let Lucas see this, without at least a few dark marks.  He took off his shirt, and tried various positions for a whipping, imagining his step-dad had ordered him to strip and bend over.    Peter found his belt, and tried to use the end to whip his own bottom, but he couldn't get it to land right.  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.   He whipped a dozen strokes.  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.   And when he looked at the result, it was still not dark enough to show Lucas.

"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.   He had overcome the flinching.  But the test would be a long whipping.   "Twenty-five lashes," he said aloud, "well laid on."    He began to strike with a very slow steady rhythm: "one, ..., two, ..., three, ..."    The strokes were hard to bear, but in the long slow pauses between the strokes, he enjoyed the tingling soreness of his bottom - and the excitement of waiting for the next stroke.   When the pleasure faded the next stroke, hard enough to make him gasp and shudder, brought back the warmth.  He wondered if his bottom was dark red yet.

Peter found he had lost count.   He could remember counting "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-five strokes.  Now he could remember striking blow after blow for a long time without counting - he could remember deciding to just keep going, without counting.   But he must have fainted.  The pain in his bottom 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.   And blood.  "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 frame of his door.

It was his step-dad.   "Don't you want a bath, Peter?   We're having dinner at the Brazilian consulate, remember?   I'd like to get there early.   There will be a surprise for you."

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 his 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 belt, the open dresser drawer, and the dirty smudges and footprints.   "You needed bruises from a whipping to show your friends, of course!"   When I was a boy, after a visit to Brother Bartolomeo in school, we would always show each other our bottoms.  Even the older boys said I was brave."

But Peter realized he couldn't 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 spankings, then of course you don't feel  you have 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 next time you are punished."

Peter said, "You don't have to do that, Dad.   I don't even want a whipping."   But his face was a big smile.

  TOP      .II.   Manoel d'Avaliado 

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.   Peter flinched from the pain, and let out a little gasp; then he looked over his shoulder with a shame-faced grin.

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, and they were now eating almost normally.  When Peter ate more than the day before, or looked at a larger plate of food, Manoel said how proud he was.   When Peter decided he had made made a mistake - and it was always Peter who decided - Manoel still said how proud he was, but he gave Peter a spanking.     And now it seemed he needed to be whipped.   His friends his own age were whipped, and so spankings were no longer enough.   The trouble was, his friends were whipped once in a great while; Peter was spanked almost every day. 

"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, "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."   Manoel waited.   If Peter mentioned the spoon again, that would mean the two hard snaps were not enough, and there would have to be a spanking.   If he could find some skin to spank.   Manoel said "I need to put iodine on your bottom.  It's going to sting."    Peter nodded - he accepted the iodine as punishment enough, and he said nothing more about the spoon.

It took all the iodine left in the bottle.  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 spanked liked a baby when the other boys were flogged, I would rather have died.   You were right to ask me, and from now on I will whip you the same as I was whipped at your age, and the same as your friends are.  But I can't do it like this, I can't whip you till the blood flows."

Peter said, "Lucas McCallister's father has a whip you could borrow.  Lucas says it burns like fire, but without drawing blood.   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 was wearing a tie, and he had wanted a jacket, but had to be satisfied with a sweater.   That Peter had wanted a tie, was as astonishing as the bowl of octopus soup; he normally hated tight clothing, hated to be confined, couldn't be in a small room with the door closed.  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 for a month, but for now he decided to say nothing.

Just before climbing the steps, Manoel touched the boy's arm.  "There will be a girl at the consulate, Peter.   Maria Gonsalvez.  From Cuba.   Her mother was Brazilian, so she may speak Portuguese."

"Do you want me to flirt with her, Dad?"

"She may need a friend.   She has no family here.   And she must be worried about her parents."

  TOP      III.   wood, with natural stains  

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, even though they were placed sideways, 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 sideways breasts and the upside-down 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, with a band and a fado singer, and Peter saw a young woman he thought must be Maria Gonsalvez.   She is much older than I am, he thought, she won't want to dance with me.   "You must get her to dance with you, or it's the strap," Peter imagined his step-dad commanding.    He liked to imagine his step-dad being very stern, although he never was.  It was easier though, Peter thought, when Dad was teaching me good manners.   Then I just did what he said.   Now he just says "she may need a friend," and trusts me to do the right thing.  So if I'm going to cross that floor, I'm going to have to command myself to do it.   "You must ask her, Peter," he said to himself, "or it's the strap - even though of course she will say no."  "Dance with you?" he imagined her saying - "You're just a baby; why I could take you across my knee."   But the pain he would feel when she said no would be worse than any spanking.   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 in a heavy Cuban accent, and Peter's Madrileno Spanish was not good enough.  She understood his Spanish, but he had to speak slowly and no doubt made mistakes.   She must think I'm a dunce, he thought.

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 in English, "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 the paddle for Elvis." Peter did not understand.  "What's 'a 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.  You know!"    Maria's American English had as many new words in it as her Cuban Spanish.    He was afraid she would ask how he was punished, since he wasn't 'paddled,' and then he would have to admit that his step-dad spanked him like a baby. He changed the subject.  "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 bowl of caldeirada, deserted him entirely.   "I am going to vomit," he thought.   Closing his eyes he could still see that massive mountain of food, blazing with the colors of farofa, kale, and feijoada.  A bloody slab of meat, with a red sauce.  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.   Clench and relax,  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 of the model.   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?   When a boy was paddled in America, on his bare fanny, did it make a loud sound?  Did a paddling hurt more on clenched buttocks, or would it hurt more on relaxed ones?   Back and forth.  The model's bottom had been too soft, and she had been lazy.  She should have been paddled, hard and often, to make her bottom firm.   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 her water glass, 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 had not been 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.  He wanted to carve Maria's bottom, but the wood wanted to be a boy.   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.  It looked a bit lean - Lucas has a bit more beef than that, really.  He's such an athlete; why does he want a scrawny stick like me for a friend? Then staining: 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 leather.  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.   You could see the fear in the clenching of the buttocks, just as Peter had seen it, seen the fear and pain in the wood, before he had started to carve.  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.   The scratches he had cut across the bottom had taken a deep stain from the hot peppery sauce, it was agony even to look at them.  They felt like raised weals, from a jagged switch.  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 sore tender bottom, to feel it on the trembling, stiffening 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.  He had wanted so much to be good at this dinner.   Why do I always embarrass Dad?   I deserve to be whipped.   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.    He was utterly miserable.  He tried to think of being happy.   He thought of the spanking he'd had today.  He thought of Dad sponging his bottom.   When I gasped from the sting, Dad tried to look as if he didn't notice my shame - why is he so good to me when I'm so bad?   He doesn't owe me anything.  I'm not his real son.  Peter tried to stop his thoughts from following that well-worn path.

Someone tapped his shoulder: a waiter.   "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 waiter 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 whipped 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 waiter.   "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 in English, "it should be signed."    Peter cut -| \/ _/\ into the base, the mirror image of 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.

   .           TOP      .IV.   Pisspants 

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.   Dr. Manoel d'Avaliado, an important government lawyer, came over to speak to him.   "Let's just step into the corridor, Senhor McCallister.   I'd like a word with you about coming in to the Palace tomorrow."  James had been summoned to the Government Palace before, but never by so august an individual as the Director of the Office of Legal Affairs.   So he felt some fear as they walked out of the room.   In the corridor, the government man 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 Government 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, Dad," Lucas would say as he handed over the whip, "twenty again this morning."   Then he would undress nonchalantly, and make a casual remark about his day's plans.

"Peter has been telling me about this wonderful whip," Dr. 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.  He says it does not cut."

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, not less.   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," Dr. 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."

Dr. d'Avaliado said, "After you have shown me how to use the tawse, leave Lucas with me.   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.  They said prisoners at the Palace were fucked in the ass as well as tortured.   He wondered if d'Avaliado did that himself - Ratty Campbell didn't have half the balls d'Avaliado had.  James hated being whipped and above all hated the fear of waiting for it to start, but every boyfriend he had ever had, had whipped him - this whip hadn't been purchased for Lucas's bottom.   And if he didn't get the whip back before his trip to London next month, Ratty would cane him instead.   Ratty was a holy terror with a cane.

James hurried to the bathroom; piss was already starting to leak down his legs.   He thought: This fucking lawyer doesn't like Lucas around his boy.  He probably thinks we're not good enough for him.    But James looked forward to telling Lucas about the whipping he would get tomorrow from the government man; someone else's bottom would be getting it tomorrow, and James would get to watch.   Perhaps Lucas would be afraid at last.   And then James thought about being tied up in a cell under the Government Palace, being fucked in the ass personally by the most powerful lawyer in the Azores, in the intervals between whippings.    He was making quite a puddle on the polished wooden floor.    A ghost of a smile played about his lips.

   .           TOP      .V.   R.M.S. Caledonian  

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.  What sort of crime could a James McCallister commit?   Perhaps something to do with the shipping company.    Drugs?  Guns?    The Caledonian sailed last Friday, 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.   The I.R.A?  Manoel tried to remember if "McAllister" was Irish or Scottish.   But anyway gun-runners wouldn't trust Pisspants.   But something small-scale.   Wine or cheese into Britain without paying duty, that would be McCallister's league.

A young lawyer from Manoel's office was at the party, so Manoel went to look for him.   "Please go down to the office, Dr. Biscaino, and send a telegram to the customs office in Liverpool."   Manoel wrote the telegram on an envelope. "Recommend thorough search R.M.S. Caledonian arriving Liverpool.    Verify manifest and confirm all documents with issuing authorities, possible forgery."   "What, tonight?" Dr. 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 before you leave the office tonight.   Now go, go!  I will tell your wife."

Now for a call to the Security 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."   And in any case, did Manoel really want to send Peter's friend's dad to jail?    For smuggling?   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 have a reason to piss his pants.

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 unbuttoned, and sobbing great loud sobs, was curled up on 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, at least this time he is still wearing his pants.

   .           TOP      .VI.   Dona Teresa 

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.    Dr.  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 Senhora Rodrigues that you and I have put the invalid to bed.  Make sure people hear you." Maria asked: "Can you give him a message from me?"   "If it is quick."   "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 my bare bottom 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 may take your pleasure in moderation, and I will tell everyone that nothing occurred - nothing 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 and kissed Maria.  "Go along now, and send in Dr. 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 food he has eaten today.  Dona Teresa, could you have some food brought here?  I will stay with the boy.   Bring many napkins."

Teresa returned with food to find Dr. d'Avaliado sitting on the bed, wearing only his drawers, holding Peter on his lap, hugging him and tousling his hair.  Peter was naked.  D'Avaliado said, "I am so fond of you, Peter.  Now Peter, here is some food.  Eat it with the spoon."   Peter did nothing.     D'Avaliado gave three very hard spanks to the inside of Peter's thigh, one of the few places on the boy where there was any flesh to spank, that was not already bruised.   Peter whimpered like a hurt animal.   For all her talk of giving the boy a whipping, Teresa found this hard to watch.  "Here is some food, Peter," d'Avaliado repeated, "eat it with the spoon."   Peter picked up the spoon in his fist the way a baby does, stuck it into the bowl of feijoada, and put it in his mouth.   He continued to eat one spoonful after another, while his step-father showered him with praise and kisses, hugs and caresses.   Peter seemed to neither see nor hear, only woodenly putting spoon after spoon of food into his mouth.  One spoonful went astray, which earned him another hard spank.   And so it continued until the bowl was empty.  Dona Teresa cut the meat off the bones and into spoon-size pieces, and after many more spanks, all of the meat went into the boy.

"And now I think a bath," d'Avaliado said.  "He is already much calmer.  He always is, when he is naked.  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, d'Avaliado passed the naked boy to Teresa, who sat down on a chair.   No one closed the bathroom door.   Dona Teresa hugged and kissed Peter the way d'Avaliado had; caressed him and praised him and tickled him, and he relaxed and snuggled into her, no longer wooden.   He buried his face into her corseted chest, and breathed in her heavy perfume.  D'Avaliado ran more hot water, and without a word, or a glance at the wide open door, he undressed, stepped into the bath, and reached out his arms for his boy.   With Peter lying on his chest, d'Avaliado washed him thoroughly with spongefuls of soapy, steaming water.  Peter began to giggle, then to laugh, then to play with the water.   And then, suddenly, Peter was Peter 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."   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 his milk-white skin.   "I made these marks 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 when I do it myself, and doesn't make me deserve my real 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 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, Dr. d'Avaliado, I grew up with your mother.   But I am a woman.   You are standing naked 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 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, Dr. d'Avaliado," Sra. Rodrigues said, "she asked me if I had seen with which woman her husband had walked out the door."  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 note, and paid a servant five escudos to deliver it by hand, with instructions to wake the household if he had to.

They walked the kilometer 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.

  TOP      .VII.   Dona Helena 

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 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, spankings.   Here was Nuna come already.  "Nuna!", Helena shouted. "I'm awake.  Have you brought tea?   St. Joseph's ruler!   It is 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?   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 truly blessed;" Helena answered, "The whip is pleasure, a gift, not something we need.   Peter has been releasing his seed without it for a year.   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 more things than kiss.  I think they were only careful that Caterina did not have a child.   Did you never find man's seed on her underclothes?"

"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."

Nuna came in with 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, and a little tin of leather grease.   She applied it carefully, with a rag, working around each little jagged edge and point of the braiding.   She closed her eyes and whipped the palm of her left hand, shivering with remembered pleasure.   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 whipped by a man for pleasure before?  I would like to talk to her, if this is her first time."

"Dear Helena, I do not know what she has done before - she has been in America.  But I consider the girl under my protection.   He may kiss her, fondle her, spank her, whip her; that I will permit.   But he must do it here while we watch.   They mustn't be naked alone together.   And 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 undershorts.  An rising erection poked out of them.  "Good morning, Dona Teresa, Mama Helena," he said, "I hope you slept well.  Dona Helena, Nuna said you wanted to see me before school."

"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 must be incredibly painful. Teresa thought, but Peter gave no sign.   As he completed his turn, he found himself looking into the eyes of Maria Gonsalvez.  She was standing in the open doorway, holding the carving of Lucas's bottom, and was still wearing her evening clothes from the night before.   Her eyes were very wide.

  TOP      VIII.   the nine-tail tawse 

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 guitar case.   "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 Dr. d'Avaliado.   Everyone said he'd been a spy in Macao, and that he'd been transferred to Ponta Delgada because he killed a man with his bare hands.   But Lucas didn't feel so scared that he needed to let it show.   When they were shown into Dr. d'Avaliado's study, his father and Dr. 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, "Dr. d'Avaliado, I hope you are well?   And how is Peter?" When naked, he took the whip from the case, and presented it to Dr. 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, four of which were cut 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 backs of the legs, the sides of the legs, and between the legs.  Behind this was another sheet; these straps ran diagonally up, to strike the back on both sides of the spine.  The straps were punched with countless holes, threaded with thin leather laces, making little bumps to dig into the skin.   The lacings loosely joined the straps, to keep the straps from twisting and hitting edge-on.  The tip of each strap was wrapped with soft woolen thread, to prevent cuts.  The handle was long, and had the grip wrapped in leather, with a strap to go around the forearm.   A single stroke of this heavy whip thrashed an area from armpits to knees, and the straps wrapped around the body and slipped between the legs, and into the crack of the ass.

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, in English, "Thank you, Mr. McCallister.   If you should need the whip, send Lucas for it.   Or send Lucas to me and I will take care of the matter.   But I do not expect that you will have much trouble with him after today."   And he embraced James again and showed him out the door.

  TOP      IX.   Maria 

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 in his underwear.   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.    "Senhorita Gonsalvez, a pleasure to see you again so soon," Peter said in Spanish, politely embracing her and kissing her cheeks. He showed no embarrassment, not even about the erection that pushed her skirt between her legs. "I think you met Dona Maria Teresa da Sousa last night.   And this is my dear Mama Helena, Dona Helena Coutinho Carvalho, my great-great-aunt."   Peter continued in Portuguese, "Mama Helena, this is Senhorita Maria Gonsalvez from Cuba."   Most in the Azores could understand Spanish, but his Mama Helena claimed not to understand young people without an Azores accent even when they spoke Portuguese, so Peter spoke slowly and avoided any sort of slang.   Perhaps she was becoming somewhat deaf.

Dona Teresa asked, in Spanish, "Peter, would you like to do a carving of Maria?"   Peter looked startled.   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.   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 he bowed, and said, in English, copying her Brooklin accent, "Miss Gonsalvez, may I paddle ya on yar bay-er fanny?   I wanna pull yar 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?   His erection drooped.  "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 bare 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 as hard as he could.

The effect on Maria was just as Peter wanted.  The sudden, stinging pain made all the muscles in Maria's body jerk.   It was the effect on himself that he had not expected.   His erection swelled instantly into tight, painful hardness.   The strength of the desire which filled him was like nothing he had experienced, driving him, forcing him to plunge into Maria's offered, open 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.  We are going to do this.   We are doing it.  The waves of desire jerked him back and forth.  His penis touched the entrance to her body.  The next jerk would plunge in deep; and he could feel the semen building inside of him; lakes of semen, oceans of semen. 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 Maria, I am late for school." Peter shouted, "Dr. Diaz will flog me for sure."   And he ran for his school uniform, undershorts in his hand.

  TOP      X.   Manoel, whipped  

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, Dr. d'Avaliado," Lucas interrupted, "but I intend to go through with my punishment.   Peter tells me that when he disappoints you, he wishes you would punish him more harshly.   He says he needs the punishment to do better, but I do not believe it - I think that no whipping will ever hurt Peter as much as it hurts him, just to disappoint you.   But I'm not Peter, I need real punishment, real pain.   And I want to do better too.   My life depends on it."

"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, Dr. d'Avaliado.   I have other plans.   Knowing Peter has given me other plans.  He believes in me, even if my father and my teachers and everyone else who knows me does not.   My urge to drink is very strong, as it was in my mother.   I don't want to drink again.  I can't 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.   I believe in you."

"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.  "Would I be worth your confidence, Peter's confidence, if I did?  If you will not use the whip, I must take it to my Dad.    I respect your kindness, Dr. 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?  And this whip 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.  It does not produce great pain, like a prison cane or a knotted cat-o-nine-tails.  It is like a smacking, a spanking.  When it strikes the sting is shocking, but it is over in an instant.   There is no lasting soreness, as there is when you are beaten with a rod.  There is no bruise, or wound, or cut.  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, Dr. 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, Dr. d'Avaliado." Lucas said, taking charge as if he whipped heads of government departments every day.  "Take your trousers 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 - it hurts more.  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 Brother Bartolomeo at school, but afterwards he had liked showing off his whipped bottom.  He had never cried.   At pauladas or jogo do Pau, Manoel never minded the cajado blows that landed on his body.  When he had been at Coimbra, 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.   They fought not only without protective padding, but naked, as Camões had once fought with a man who found him naked in his wife's bed.  Manoel, a weak fencer, had repeatedly challenged stronger swordsmen, and in every match, he got stinging blows from the foil that left red welts and cuts all over his naked 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, Dr. 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, back, legs, and right side.   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, sometimes more and sometimes less.   The waiting was horrible, so awful it was almost a relief to hear the swish of the blow.  Manoel realized that it was fear, stark terror, that roiled his mind; fear he didn't feel when fighting with the cajado.   Fear made the pain worse.  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?

"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 it was the last stroke, up to the moment the next stroke hit, and then he hoped that that was the last stroke.  He felt his nakedness, and for some reason, he thought about Dona Teresa, ogling him naked, and shouting,  "Manoel Maria Coutinho d'Avaliado, you will NOT pack me off!"  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 invigorating.   At the very least to say how much he hurt and to 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. "Dr. 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.  Many sessions over the course of a long day.  At least a hundred strokes, perhaps more.  In total, more than seven hundred strokes.    Seven hundred strokes, Dr. 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, and that was my answer.  Seven hundred strokes, Dr. 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 for school, the Reitor will flog me."

  TOP      .XI.   Peter, imagined 

Maria had felt intense desire as she felt Peter, already thrusting back and forth, drop down toward her, and she was angry that he had spilled out his milk instead.   But the warm sticky juice was wonderful.  She smeared it with her hand.   She wanted Peter to turn her bottom into flaming quivering pain; she wanted him to stand between her legs as she spread them wide, so the whip bit deep into her crack.  The sight of her red bottom would cause more passion in his artist's eye than he could control.   He would grab her bottom, fuck her crack, and the pain as he pounded up and down along her sore bruised crack would be intense, and he would spill his warm soothing juice into it.   She smashed his carving into her crotch, hard, spanking her clit, but it was too big and she used her fingers instead.

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 by anyone else, but she didn't care.   The stroke fell, it hurt.   Maria could bear the pain but it raised no passion in her.  And Dona Teresa whipped across - the whip didn't reach her crack.  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 artist's passion gripped him he was like a tightly stretched wire.   If only this was Peter about to whip her, instead of Dona Teresa.   The pain, the spasm, would pass through her and back to him, through his eyes, and his body would be wracked with passion.

When the next stroke fell Maria imagined that it was Peter whipping, and Peter watching as she jerked from the pain.  Peter's body jerked in an answering spasm, and then Maria's passion came, wave after wave, her body twisting and flailing with the intensity of it, as Dona Teresa's whipstrokes continued to rain down.

Peter would have been most interested to watch this, if he had really been there.

  TOP      .XII.   Lucas, whipped  

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 Lucas's bottom, but with less force than he intended.   This was indeed much more difficult than whipping downward, and 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, Mãe de Deus, I thought I bore my whipping well, but this is amazing!  I groaned.  I sobbed.  The pain raced down my legs and out to my fingertips, and I know I clenched my fists.   I know my whole body jerked from the pain.  Look at this boy, he is not moving a hair.  He is not making the slightest sound.  It's as if he doesn't even feel it.   Well, no, he is crying.  Tears are streaming down his face.   Manoel stopped.  He couldn't continue.   He sat down and buried his face in his hands, sobbing, dropping the whip to the floor.

"Como esta, Dr. d'Avaliado?  Are you ill?" Lucas inquired politely.

Manoel was too choked to speak, but after a bit he managed to croak out:  "I will be all right, in a moment."   Then he said:  "I shall just get a glass of water," and he ran 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, as Lucas had found in the same bathroom a week before, it was impossible, even if you stood on the rim of the tub.   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.   But he could never use this whip on Peter.   Manoel returned to his study, this time in his bathrobe.

"I hope you are refreshed, Dr. d'Avaliado," Lucas said, sitting at the desk and flipping idly through a magazine.  "How many strokes had we completed?"

"Fifteen," Manoel answered, but then, more honestly, "I think it was fifteen.  Perhaps only fourteen."

"We shall do eight more, I think," Lucas said, handing Manoel the whip and bending over the desk.   "I congratulate you on your stroke, Dr. d'Avaliado, most excellent.   But one or two were light.  Please resume."

Manoel delivered eight solid strokes quickly, and no further tears ran down Lucas's face.   With the last stroke Lucas went to his clothes and began dressing quickly.   "I shall  be late for school," he said.  "Reitor Diaz will ask me to take my trousers down.  I hate being flogged more than anything."  And with that he was out the door, running to school.

  TOP      XIII.   Reitor Diaz 

You had to flog the dunces, Dr. Diaz reasoned, because they hated studying and hated even coming to school.   He liked to line the dunces up, bending over his desk, which was long enough for exactly seven boys, 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 is a strange one.   Brilliant at geometry, but strange.  Once Tenriffe, whom Dr. Diaz had never flogged, asked for a flogging: "I didn't study for the test," he had said.  "But you got a score of 90, Tenriffe, is only 100 good enough for you?"   "I should have done better," Tenriffe had said, "don't you care whether I do my very best, and not just good enough?"  "Tenriffe, the highest score on that test besides yours was 79."

But Tenriffe had insisted on a whipping, and when Diaz wouldn't give him one, his 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.   Since you wouldn't flog me, I asked him 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 let me have one more day.   Actually it's taken me five days.   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 the brilliant 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 answered for both of them: "No reason, we're 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 of an essay instead of a flogging, 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 the essay."   "And what about you, McCallister, will you write the essay?"    McCallister 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.

  TOP      XIV.  Manoel, redux 

"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 in English, too loudly - "'Ass hole' is only one word in Portuguese, sir."

"Dr. 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, Dr. 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 I'm afraid 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 Liliana Biscaino's anxiety to think of it.    He was in the wrong, and he had done harm.  Last night Dona Liliana had accused her husband in public of running off with a woman, and that was a very serious thing.   Perhaps their marriage would break up because of it, to judge by how upset Biscaino seemed to be.  Manoel gave Biscaino the rest of the day off, with an instruction to take his wife out for a carriage ride in the country, to some secluded spot.   I am very sorry, he thought, miserably sorry, but there is nothing more I can do.

Lucas had told the truth, there was no actual pain sitting in his chair.   But he wouldn't call the warmth pleasant.  It was more a constant reminder.   I was stupid to have asked Lucas for the whipping, Manoel thought, but I have had a very severe whipping today.  Can't I say I've been punished enough for what I did to Liliana Biscaino, and stop feeling so guilty?   But Manoel remembered Peter saying, "However much it hurts, it's not punishment, and doesn't make me deserve punishment any less." Peter was right, Manoel thought.  Being whipped by Lucas, for an unrelated reason, doesn't make me deserve my guilty misery any less.   I wonder, if I let Biscaino whip me, until he was satisfied, would that make me feel less guilty?   But that's no way to run an office.

Around noon, another telegram came from London, addressed to Manoel: "TELL PISSPANTS RATTAIL SAYS DRAP YOUR TREWS. STOP. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW. END. INSP. CHARLES R. CAMPBELL"   Although signed by an "Insp." this was not from Scotland Yard officially, as then it would have come through the inter-governmental line.  This was a commercial telegram - a personal, private telegram.  Mysterious.  Manoel went to the department library.   There was indeed an Inspector Charles Rattray Campbell in the London CID.  What was "drap your trews?"   Some sort of code?    If there was nothing to find on the Caledonian, why was a Scotland Yard inspector involved?   Unless they had found something after all?    Manoel studied the volume on English criminal procedure, but it made no sense.   And as far as he could tell, the English police disregarded it anyway.

I've probably landed Lucas's dad in jail, Manoel thought.  I'm involved in a mutual whipping arrangement with the boy, and I've just sent his dad to jail.  The rest of the day, every matter he worked on ended up more muddled than when he started.   Manoel quit early.

I need to fuck a woman, get drunk, or throw myself into the sea, Manoel thought.   Or fuck, then drink, and then drown.   Or have Lucas whip me again.   I'll just tell him, "By the way, Lucas, I've landed your Dad in jail."  Manoel called Isabel Lopez, the oculist.  She had been his mistress for two years, but she had ended their affair.   She declined, not too politely, to have a fuck for old time's sake.    Manoel suddenly remembered Dona Teresa saying "I am a woman, Dr. d'Avaliado, and you stand naked in front of me without a thought."   How perfect, Manoel thought.  Fuck a woman older than my mother.   Then get whipped, and then drown.   Or why even bother with whipping and drowning after that?

  TOP      . XV.   A letter  

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 I 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 hurt 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, he is paddled on his bare fannee.  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 fannee?   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 "Chouriço."   That is sausage.   I think in English you would call him "Waggle Weenie."  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 slang words.  What is the English word for what is vagina in Latin?    I need to know this one. )

Your cousin Isabel decided to teach Chouriço a lesson.   She and José and three other boys captured him on the way home from school and took his clothes off and hung him upside down from a tree branch.    I was not there, but I heard about it afterwards.  Then Isabel took a switch she had made from twigs and whipped him on his hands, his lips, and his cacete, to teach him not to force those things on girls.   Then she decided to pee in his face.   She took off her dress, and José whipped Chouriço's fannee to make him open his mouth.   She peed into his open mouth.   He spit it back all over her, so José whipped Chouriço's cacete some more, until 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 will write back the Azores slang, and I won't tell your grandma Nuna.)   Then José and the other boys washed the esporra off Chouriço's face with their pee.

The next day João Carvalho told me about it, and we pulled down Chouriço's shorts so I could see his fannee and his cacete.   João said it had been a really bad flogging, and his fannee and cacete would be worth seeing.  But there were hardly any marks.    Then João said maybe it wasn't such a bad flogging after all, and then he called Chouriço a paneleiro for letting a girl pee in his mouth, without a very severe beating to make him do it.    Chouriço said he wasn't a paneleiro, and he begged João to whip him again so he could prove it.  He asked me to pee in his face.  He said he wouldn't open his mouth again however much he was whipped.  But João did not whip him hard enough, and his marks were still not dark.   So that night Chouriço did something at home so his father would have to whip him.   José says he made merda on the kitchen table.  And during his beating, he called his father a paneleiro for not beating hard enough.  When he showed the marks from that beating, the beating for calling his father a paneleiro, everyone said that no boy in school had ever been beaten that much, and maybe no boy in the Azores, ever.  No one called Chouriço a paneleiro after that - we thought he was very brave.   I said that Tomas would not take his cacete out any more, so we shouldn't call him Chouriço.   José and João 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 for this in English.

Your loving friend Pero /\_ \/ |- in the Azores,
Peter C. Tenriffe.
Ponto Delgada, 14 May 1962

  TOP      XVI.  São Tiago o Menor 

After leaving the office, Manoel went to the small chapel of the holy family at São Sebastião.   He had hoped for confession and penance, but Fr. Creivello was not in the church.  Peter often came to confession 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 Maria's lap.   There was only a José and a Maria.   The Holy Mother looked very old, and São José was gaunt and haggard like a man on the brink of death.   Peter had said: "See how old they are.  Jesus must have been shown as a young man, not a baby, in this Holy Family."  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."    São José 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 the six palms in a cubit.   And here, below his hand, there are three scratches to divide a palm into for fingers.  The other scratches are worn away.   And look here, Hebrew letters.  That must be his name.  This was an old worn staff, ash I think, and this carving of São José 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 São José'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 forearm.   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 São José's staff.   "In the mystery plays I used to see in Compostela, when I was a boy," the old Priest answered, "São José got very angry when he found that Maria 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 São José could have thought he did, Father," Peter said.  "That could have happened.  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 young wife, and her son never does anything wrong, and even though he is younger, he is a better carpenter than they are.    The could have told tales, and fooled São José."

Fr.  Creivello recited the prophecy of Isaiah.

There shall come forth a rod out of the stem of Jesse; a branch shall grow from that root.   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 São José'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."   He himself said the ten hail Marys that he had hoped the Father would give him as penance.

  TOP      XVII.   the Coutinho mansion 

"I have been very bad today, Dad," Peter said cheerfully, "This cheese is very good, is it from the Azores?"

Manoel said "We can discuss good cheese and bad boys over cigars.  Lucas, I hope you never decide to give up smoking as well."  

Lucas said, "I appreciate what you are doing, Dr. 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, and make our sacrifice a waste, 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 did not answer.   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 whispered to Lucas.   "I should like to see it as well," Lucas whispered back, "perhaps we could get together?"

Dona Helena continued, "Maria wanted him to do a carving of her.   But she would not jump as he wanted.   He whipped her bottom to make her jump."    Lucas translated.   

Maria protested, "But I wanted him to,  I asked him to." Lucas thought: when Peter meets a beautiful woman, naturally she asks him for a whipping.  A quem Fortuna sempre favorece.

Nuna came in, "You rang, Dom Manoel?"   "Yes, Nuna," Manoel said, "is there anyone about we could send on an errand?"   "Yes, Dom Manoel, my grandchildren José and Isabel, are here."   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 to Manoel, "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, "She and Dr. Biscaino have been quarreling.   There has been some 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: "Peter, if Maria asked you to whip her, I don't see that you should be punished." 

"It wasn't just that, Dad.  When I whipped her I, that is I, well, I, I spilled semen all over her bottom."  

"I see.  And does this mean you can't do the carving you promised?"

"I'm not sure I can, Dad.   I promised her 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, Dr. 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?"   She put her arm around Lucas as she bent over to whisper in his ear, and Lucas's heart skipped.   He thought: we look like two lovers on this couch, 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.   He did not want to make this test easy on himself.   Before he started whipping, he took his stiffening penis in his hand and rubbed the tip across her fanny, and rubbed it on the opening whose name he did not know, in any language Maria could speak.   He grew quite stiff.   Maria's breathing became ragged and gasping.   She was well positioned.  If he lost control this time, his "dick" - he did know some American - would go right in.   But he was not going to lose control.

Peter raised 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 a mess of red stripes.  Peter was staring intensely at her body, and putting his hands on her to feel the muscles of her buttocks move, but his penis was not interested.   Peter asked Dona Teresa to do some of the whipping, so he could watch from another angle.

When José Alonso returned from the consulate with the carving, he found his schoolmates waiting to be punished : Peter Tenriffe had been stripped naked already, and Lucas McCallister was looking very unhappy.   The young woman, whose name he didn't know, was naked and was getting a severe whipping from Senhora da Sousa.  José decided to confess. "Please Dona Teresa, I was the one who bullied Tomas Biscaino.   Don't whip Peter or Lucas or this girl.  They had nothing to do with it.   They are just protecting me.  Give me the whipping.  Punish me as I deserve."    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.   I'm afraid that when she finds out it was your confession that brought her to the whipping post, she may be rather angry with you."

José gulped.

"You have only one chance.   Pesuade your sister that both of you should confess, and she need never know we spoke tonight."    José 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.   Were you involved?   Is José protecting you, as he thought you were protecting him? "   

Peter said, "I do know who did it, Dona Teresa.   But you won't learn anything from me, not even a denial.   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 into 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 it, but stood there for some time looking at it, and her.  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.  "My head is a block," Peter said, in English.  "Can you forgive me?"   Lucas thought: Oh, well.  Perhaps they will name a son "Lucas."

Peter said, "Dad, if I'm not to be punished for spilling semen on Maria's bottom, I made a spectacle of myself last night at the consulate."

"Yes Peter, you were very bad indeed.  You whipped out a carving worth five hundred American dollars between the soup and the dessert.   What father could endure such a dreadful son?"

"If we are talking of misconduct, perhaps you should tell Peter what you did last night, Dr. d'Avaliado," Dona Teresa said, coiling the whip and putting it back in her suitcase. "Or I shall tell him."

Manoel's heart thudded in his chest.   He did not want to confess the harm he had done to the Biscainos, to Peter.    But now he wished he had confessed it, rather than have his misconduct post-mortemed in front of Peter by this termigant.

But she had a different crime in mind: "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?"   

"Later tonight, Dr. d'Avaliado, I will show you how to undress in front of a lady with proper respect."

  TOP      XVIII.   Manoel, penitent 

Dona Teresa came to Manoel's room, and closed the door behind her.  He undressed in as respectful a manner as he knew how.  She had the suitcase with her, so clearly she had more punishment in mind than just stripping naked.   He said, "Dona Teresa, besides my insult to you, you know I was thoughtless last night, and may have caused Sra. Liliana Biscaino considerable harm.   Please punish me as I deserve, on behalf of your cousin.  Do not be lenient.   I want to be punished."  

"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.  He could not feel lust for withered breasts, wrinkled lips, a dried-up cunt and a bony bottom, but the whip was waiting, and he worked.   Her shuddering arousal from his kisses, bites, and slaps made his heart pound, and her rough lovemaking and sharp fingernails took him back to a whorehouse in Macao - no woman in the Azores would do such things.   And the whip was waiting.

A whipping was twenty yuan extra, in Macao.

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 watching through the door, naked but not in the least aroused, looking intently at Dona Teresa.

"Peter Tenriffe," she said, "I am disappointed in you.    And we have something here you've been asking for for quite some time."      

  TOP      .XIX.   ex-Consul John Gaskins 

Late in September, 1963, Congressman Frank da Silva visited the State Department, and dropped in on his old ally, John Gaskins, who had just been appointed Undersecretary for South-East Asia.   A new sculpture was being installed in the Undersecretary's office, a nude.  "By the same Azores artist," Gaskins said, "as those pen-and-ink sketches you liked, the ones you said seemed curiously familiar."   The sculpture was of a wrinkled old woman, 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 his female model.  And then the models - well, let's say they put a lot of feeling into posing.  Quite a lot.   I often watched; the sculptor never closed his studio door."   "Two 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, um, 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."



      July 2003
David Nunes da Silva
Comments welcome:

This is a work of fiction.   In particular, while the Museu Carlos Machado exists, it does not have a liceo associated with it, and consequently has never had a reitor, sadistic or otherwise.  This fiction is not intended to accurately depict conditions in the Azores under the Salazar dictatorship.

  TOP      . A1.    e-mail me  

From e-mail:
From name:
To: David Nunes da Silva   image - must be typed
Thanks for the mail.

modified:     A link to this page

  1. ASSTR 
  2. DNDS 

  TOP      A2.    Some characters, not all in the story. 

Family of Dona Teresa
Coutinho family McCallister family Biscaino family Maria's family Nunes family others
some non-fictional characters

                      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.

  TOP      A3.    Dates in 1962 (in Portuguese)

  TOP      A4.    Misc.  
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 |

Pokeweed (Phytolacca sp.), has red berries that can be used as a stain or dye.

Some Portuguese slang:

Protevangelium of James  (search on "dove")
 The Golden Legend

     There lived in Goa a rich man called Miguel Rodrigues Coutinho, nicknamed “Fios seccos” ( Dry threads) who was a money lender, and since he had loaned Camões some money, now he pounced on him and had him jailed until the debt was paid back.

      Miguel Rodrigues Coutinho was one of the richest and well known citizens of Goa. As a rich man he became an usurer, lending money with high interests. Likewise several military men who had served their term and remained in Goa becoming money-lenders were called chatins. They charged up to 25% interest rates.

      However, he had to let Camões go because it was proven that he had lost all his goods, when the shipwreck occurred, and in fact he had to enlist as a soldier in order to pay his voyage from Malacca to Goa.

The Red Nude, by David Nunes da Silva
Synopsis : It's 1962, and Portugal under the Dictatorship is full of rumors.  Some say that prisoners are tortured in the cells below the government palace.   Meanwhile a boy, who has never been whipped at home, gets to see the bruised bottoms of other boys, punished at school, and he wonders if he is ready for life.
Story codes: M/m S/M teen serious historical

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