THE LANDLADY'S PUNISHMENTS
Dear Auntie Helga,
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When I first went to university in the 1960s I was a shy, bookish type who found it difficult to mix with others after being bullied a bit in boarding school. I was generally thought of as effeminate and by the time I left school and could grow my hair, as was the fashion in those days, I probably confirmed that view.
In college however I discovered beer! This made me quite outgoing and a bit of a party animal and of course my studies suffered.
One night after a very late party I stumbled back into my lodgings, which were run by a widow, a former school teacher, known as Mrs Mac. I fell into a drunken sleep only to awake hours later to discover that in my sleep I had wet myself and the bed sheets were soaked with my shame.
I did what I always did when faced with a problem. I ignored it and hoped it would go away! So the next day was a Sunday and we made our own beds on a Sunday and I knew it wouldn't be discovered. I hoped that it would have dried out before Mrs Mac discovered it.
I went of to college on Monday, and gradually forget about things over the day and arrived back for my evening meal. I went up to my room and everything seemed Okay. But, suddenly there was a knock on the door and in marched Mrs Mac, clearly very cross. She pulled back the blankets on my bed and said:
'What have you to say about this?'
I stammered something about it being an accident but she would have none of it, and in no uncertain terms declared that this was caused by my party ways and drunkenness. I stood red faced and ashamed in front of her.
You can move out straight away, she said," and I will be informing the college accommodation office of the reason why."
I begged her not to do it, as I couldn't stand that humiliation. She thought for a moment and then said:
"I will not say anything to the college if you mend your ways and accept my methods of correction."
I would have agreed to anything at this stage so I hastily said that I did agree.
"Very well, then, we will start tomorrow after you come home from college". She said and left me to go and prepare the evening meal.
The next day I arrived home and she was waiting at the door. We went up to my room and she said,
"I have removed all your spare clothes from this room, I will go downstairs and I want you to take off what you are wearing completely, go into the room next door and put on the school uniform you will find there. Every night when you get home you will do the same. This will, I think, prevent you from going out every night!"
I thought it a bit odd but only raised a small murmur of dissent, which she quelled with a stern look.
So I did as she said, stripped naked and went in to the adjoining room. What a shock I got when I saw laid out on the bed, her daughter's old schoolgirl's uniform. Her daughter Marjorie had left school the same time as me but worked as a typist in a local firm. We were a similar build, so I am sure Mrs Mac knew the clothes would fit.
I supposed it was my strict boarding school upbringing that made me do just what I was told. So strangely in no time at all I was dressed in the wine coloured uniform of the local convent school. There was a pair of white school cotton knickers, white knee socks, a light blue blouse with revere collar, a knee length box pleated wine-coloured skirt and a similarly coloured crested jumper with St XXXX Convent written on it.
Events seemed to happen quickly after that. Mrs Mac knocked on the door, saying "are you decent" and walked in looking at me with satisfaction, saying, "Well I don't think you will be going anywhere tonight." It was then I noticed in her hand the slipper I had often heard her discipline her daughter with. "Now" she declared, "Touch your toes or hold your ankles. You must be punished for soiling the bedclothes. This should have been done to you some time ago."
What could I do, I did as she said and she delivered eight very hard whacks to my white knickers having raised up the skirt first (no doubt she learned her expert technique from her time as a teacher).
"Now" she said "we will go down and have our meal".
I once again did as I was told, and walked down the stairs, only to find the daughter smirking at the bottom. She must have heard my slippering and, dressed as I was, I think my humiliation was complete.
"What a cute girl you make Nicholas" she said, "we will have to call you Nikki from now on" and burst out laughing.
This was not the end of my ordeal and every evening I became Nikki, but
it was the beginning of a drastic reform of my behavior. I may tell at a
later date how my year with Mrs Mac worked out in more detail. Suffice
it to say that I became a model student in more ways than one, albeit
one who sometimes had a sore bottom. And one who learned how being
forced to wear that humiliating school uniform was and is the making of
Thank you for your letter Nikki. I'm sure that our readers will agree with
your delightful landlady that your drunken behavior is what got you into this and
only through a strict regime of petticoating would you ever improve. I suspect that is the
case since you indicated there was more to tell and that success was achieved.