Doctor’s Orders
Doctor’s Orders is a tale of novel diagnosis, firm corrective remedies, and one young woman’s regrettable visit to the Netherby surgery. When Miss Patricia Featherstone seeks a cure for her chronic ennui, she discovers that Dr Blythe’s prescriptions are far more hands-on than she ever anticipated. Treatment is swift, but recovery costs her dignity, and complicates the seating arrangements.
Act 1 – Diagnosis and a Dreadful Prescription
The village surgery of Dr Algernon Blythe was a place of respectable gloom. The oak furniture was heavy and dark, the shelves filled with vials that suggested unspeakable cures, and the anatomical posters looked suspiciously outmoded.
Into this scene swept Miss Patricia Featherstone. Known as Patsy to most, and to some as “Oh— Not Her Again”. Her arrival was heralded by the unmistakable scent of Chanel No. 5, underscored by a hint of indignation. Her sunglasses perched unapologetically upon her head, and she carried herself with the air of a young woman on the cusp of either scandal or redemption — though not necessarily in that order.
“I’ve simply got no energy, Doctor,” she sighed, collapsing onto the examination couch with the kind of flair only an exclusive boarding school education could bestow. Her skirt rode up as she settled, revealing an indecent flash of thigh. “I wake up tired, I can’t concentrate on anything, and I feel an almost violent disinclination to help around the house.”
Dr Blythe, a man of benevolence whose ear hair had long since outpaced his dwindling head hair, adjusted his spectacles with a gentle squint. His medical career had spanned a wide array of ailments, from trench foot to tennis elbow, but of late, the village had been beset by a peculiar epidemic that he privately dubbed Idleness Syndrome.
“I see,” he murmured, scribbling something illegible into a leather-bound notebook. “And are you sleeping well?”
“Oh yes,” Patsy said brightly. “I didn't wake up until noon today. And that was only because the cat jumped on my head.”
Dr Blythe made a noise somewhere between a hum and a sigh, and turned to a drawer behind his desk. From it, he extracted a sealed envelope and tapped it once against the desk.
“I believe,” he said, with the gravitas of a man delivering a minor royal decree, “that we’re dealing with a case of insufficiently moderated high spirits. I find it’s become rather prevalent among the younger persons of the district.”
“Is it catching?” Patsy asked, eyebrows rising behind her sunglasses.
“I feel it's more cultural than infectious,” he said, with the cautious air of someone dodging potential litigation. “But I’ve devised a preventative course of treatment. The full details are enclosed.”
Patsy turned the envelope over, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Is this one of those newfangled vitamin prescriptions?”
The doctor remained straight-faced. “No, my dear. This is a more hands-on approach. I've prescribed a course of traditional corrective stimulus, to be administered by a trusted family member, or close friend. Someone with a firm hand, if you will.”
Patsy raised an eyebrow, her voice dripping with scepticism. “I'm not sure I fully understand Doctor. Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting? Isn't this a bit unorthodox?”
Dr. Blythe's fingers steepled together, his eyes glinting. “In my clinical opinion, the gluteal region remains one of the most responsive sites for applied behavioural medicine. The results can be enlightening.”
Patsy's frown deepened, her cheeks flushing. “You can't be serious Doctor. Are you actually prescribing me... a spanking?”
The doctor's face remained serene. “I prefer the term traditional corrective stimulus. But yes, in layman's terms... a spanking. I assure you, it's a tried and tested approach. And, if you have any questions or concerns, you can always consult with my district nurse, Mrs. Doughty. She's an expert in this particular form of therapy.”
Patsy stood, dazed, envelope in hand, and left the surgery without quite knowing how her legs were working. She barely recalled crossing the village green, though at some point she passed the post office and almost tried to post her handbag.
By the time she reached Netherby Lodge, Patsy had cycled through disbelief, outrage, and horror. She toyed with the idea of losing the note, but in the end, she realised there was no escaping it. If she ignored it, Aunt Honoria would sniff out the deception with the precision of a bloodhound in pearls — and when she did, the prescription might return with significant reinforcements.
Inside, Aunt Honoria was polishing the silver with military intensity. The drawing room glinted with upright morality and polished mahogany.
“Aunt Honoria,” Patsy began, suddenly unsure whether to laugh or cry, “I’ve been to see Dr Blythe.”
Her aunt did not look up. “Did he understand your symptoms? I hope he managed to get to the bottom of everything.”
Patsy flushed. Her aunt had chosen an unfortunate turn of phrase — all things considered.
“In a manner of speaking. He gave me… this,” Patsy said, holding out the envelope like it might explode.
Aunt Honoria squinted. “I don’t have my glasses on. Read it aloud, dear.”
There was a pause. Patsy took a breath, then read aloud.
“A corrective measure is advised, requiring direct action by a trusted household superior. Application should focus on the lower posterior region. This may introduce acute temporary discomfort, but if properly enacted, the effects will be prompt, persuasive, and character-building.”
Aunt Honoria looked up. “Patsy, are you quite sure you’ve read that correctly? It sounds rather…”
“Unusual?” Patsy interjected. “Victorian maybe? Perhaps illegal? Yes, it's all of those things.”
“I suppose you fully understand the nuances of this particular remedy?” her aunt asked, incredulous.
“Yes, Auntie. I think he expects you to... put me over your lap, and then... smack my bottom!”
Aunt Honoria nodded thoughtfully, as if considering the merits of this unusual treatment. “Well, Dr. Blythe has always been a proponent of unconventional methods. But one can't deny, he does get results.”
Patsy’s voice rose in mortified protest. “Aunt Honoria, this prescription is ridiculous! I’m twenty-one!”
“Which makes you old enough to know better,” her aunt replied, gently patting her hand. The touch was deceptively maternal and sent a twinge of dread skittering down Patsy’s spine. She was all too aware the next touch of that hand might be far less delicate.
“We’ll have supper first. Then we’ll see to the prescription.”
Patsy gaped. “You can’t actually be serious?”
“Patsy, you know that I've always believed in maintaining good health, and household decorum,” said Aunt Honoria. “This may help on both counts.”
Dinner was a bleak affair. Patsy barely touched her haddock, haunted by the envelope on the mantelpiece. It simply sat there, looking smug. Meanwhile, her aunt remained perfectly serene.
After pudding, Aunt Honoria rose.
“Go and change into your nightdress, Patricia. I expect to see you in the drawing room in precisely five minutes.”
Patsy nodded, like a condemned duchess accepting her fate. As she climbed the stairs with the solemnity of a funeral march, she wondered if Aunt Honoria would notice if she pinned a cushion to the inside of her nightie.
Act 2 – Supervision and Side Effects
Five minutes later, Patsy returned in a white linen nightdress, looking like a tragic heroine from a minor Russian opera. Aunt Honoria sat upright in a tall wooden chair, her expression calm, her bearing that of a woman preparing to settle a longstanding account.
“Over my lap, please,” she said crisply. “Let’s not drag this out.”
Patsy froze. Her legs felt oddly disconnected from her brain. The feel of her nightdress against bare skin suddenly seemed far too insubstantial. Lowering herself over her Aunt’s lap, feeling the rough tweed skirt through the whisper-thin linen, stirred memories she’d rather not revisit.
I'm far too grown up for this she thought, hardly able to believe what she was doing.
“Aunt Honoria, surely we can be reasonable—”
Smack.
“Honestly, Patricia,” came the reply, firm and unhurried. “Dr Blythe knows what he's doing. Remember, this is for your own good.”
Smack. Smack.
“Ouch! Auntie, this really stings!”
“Correct. And it's clinically endorsed. Now hold still.”
Patsy winced as the treatment intensified, each brisk spank landing with humiliating precision. The thin linen of her nightdress offered little comfort. She wasn’t sure which burned more — her upturned backside or her pride. The sound of each slap was a sharp crack, echoing off the polished furniture and making her jump with every stinging impact.
She considered protesting again, but her aunt’s rhythm was becoming relentless, her grip secure. It would be like arguing with granite. Each brisk impact jolted through her, sending a shameful warmth trickling down her spine, pooling somewhere that was most unbecoming.
Then, with a jarring abruptness, the doorbell chimed.
Aunt Honoria paused, sounding mildly annoyed. “Well that’s inconvenient. Just as we were beginning to make a little progress.”
Patsy, still draped inelegantly across her aunt’s lap, blinked. From the persistent prickling heat pulsing throughout her bottom, she had hoped this might have constituted more than just a little progress. She couldn't help but wonder if the unexpected visitor might have overheard any of the thorough spanking going on just a few feet behind the closed front door.
“Have I been saved by the bell?” Patsy asked, but without much real hope.
“Certainly not!” Aunt Honoria replied, guiding her upright. “Go to the corner. Hands on your head. And do try not to sulk. It looks so undignified.”
Patsy obeyed in stunned silence, cheeks blazing — all of them. She shuffled into place, spending this temporary reprieve pretending she was merely admiring the wallpaper from very close-up. Beside the front door she heard muffled voices and a few moments later, footsteps approached the drawing room.
Mrs Doughty was stout, officious, and dressed in navy from bun to boot. She carried a clipboard and a briefcase with the ominous finality of someone who knew what follow-through meant — both in spirit and in wrist.
“Mrs Doughty,” Aunt Honoria said. “I'm so glad you could attend.”
“I always assist Dr Blythe with field supervision,” said Mrs Doughty. Her voice was crisp, like cold toast. “He finds it improves compliance.”
Patsy turned slowly from the corner. “Supervision?”
“Observation and calibration. Sometimes the dosage needs to be increased.” Mrs Doughty opened her briefcase with the air of someone selecting surgical instruments. “When did symptoms first appear?”
“Since Cheltenham,” said Aunt Honoria. “Worsened after the tennis club dinner.”
Mrs Doughty nodded, jotting notes. “A classic onset pattern.”
Patsy stared as the woman produced a single brown leather slipper from her case. It looked seasoned, frayed at the edges and ominously supple. Clearly it was no stranger to vigorous application, well acquainted with many an upturned posterior.
“It's a standard model,” Mrs Doughty explained. “Good weight. Not too much bruising, unless you give it some real enthusiasm.”
Patsy winced at the thought of it.
“Over my lap again dear,” said Aunt Honoria, patting her knee. The gesture was gentle, but the implication was not.
Patsy hesitated. “I don't suppose I could request a second opinion?”
But the look from her aunt made it clear. There wasn’t.
With theatrical reluctance, Patsy resumed the position. There was a momentary cool draught as she felt her nightdress being folded back to expose all of her bottom, and what little remained of her dignity. The fabric rustled like a final whisper of modesty, before being tucked tormentingly out of reach.
“This may smart,” Aunt Honoria warned.
Thwack.
Patsy jolted. Compared to her Aunt's hand, the slipper had far less philosophy and far more conviction.
Mrs Doughty watched closely. “Good follow-through. Excellent distribution and coverage. Keep a steady rhythm.”
Thwack.
“Ow! Auntie, please—!”
“Give particular attention to the lower quadrant,” Mrs Doughty advised. “That’s where stubbornness tends to accumulate.”
Thwack. Thwack.
Patsy wriggled, but her aunt’s grip was implacable. The treatment continued in steady, humiliating increments.
Thwack.
“I’ve learned my lesson, I promise—!” Patsy gasped.
“I don't believe in self-diagnosis,” Mrs Doughty intoned.
Thwack.
Patsy’s world narrowed to three things: sting, shame, and the clipboard woman’s unbearable running commentary. Eventually, after what felt like a public humiliation disguised as perverse physiotherapy, Aunt Honoria paused.
“What's your current diagnosis, Mrs Doughty?” she asked.
The woman consulted her notes. “A satisfactory first session, but I'm going to recommend weekly reinforcement for at least two months.”
Patsy groaned. “Weekly?”
Aunt Honoria set the slipper down with tidy finality. “There we are dear.”
Patsy slid off her lap with all the composure of a collapsing tent. Her face was pink, her dignity was left in tatters, and her bottom felt heavily medicated.
“Upstairs and straight into bed,” said Aunt Honoria. “The prescription is complete, for now, but don't try to adjust your nightie! The fresh air will do it the world of good.”
Patsy tottered toward the stairs, her hands feeling the glowing warmth as she massaged her smarting behind. The staircase felt as if it had grown to twice its usual length as she ascended. From the hallway, Mrs Doughty’s voice drifted like a spectre.
“It's a typical case, but I think she'll respond well to continued treatment. Side effects may include reduced sarcasm, and improved posture.”
Patsy collapsed into bed with a whimper. Pride or posterior — she couldn’t say which throbbed more. But she did feel oddly clear-headed.
Act 3 – A Scandal in the Garden
The Langley-Williams garden party was in full swing. Bunting flapped, Battenbergs perspired in the heat, and the brass band wheezed its way through something almost jolly. Tea and gossip were in full flow.
Patsy perched gingerly on the edge of a wrought-iron chair, shifting now and then with the subtle discomfort of someone regretting recent behaviours. She was wearing her softest and most comfortable bloomers, but nevertheless, every slight squirm reignited a wicked burn throughout her ever so tender derrière. Her cheeks had cooled, but her bottom had not.
And, she wasn’t alone.
Across the lawn, several other young ladies hovered similarly over their seats, daintily declining second helpings and avoiding any brisk movements. It was less a gathering and more a symposium in delicate seating arrangements.
Arabella Thornton dabbed her brow with a lace handkerchief. “So,” she said knowingly, “you’ve seen Dr Blythe too, then?”
Patsy nodded, lips tight.
“Sealed envelope, I suppose?” Arabella asked.
“With dosage instructions, and a supervisory visit,” Patsy confirmed.
They exchanged a look of shared understanding and mild trauma.
Fiona, seated nearby, leaned in. “My prescription involved Mrs Doughty, and something that looked awfully like a butter pat. I still flinch whenever I catch a glimpse of the milkmaid.”
Arabella shuddered. “He said mine was a classic case of social flippancy. Suggested my godmother as the administering party. She took it very seriously.”
Patsy tried not to wince. “I think I’m developing a phobia of envelopes.”
Nearby, Aunt Honoria was deep in conversation with Mrs Doughty by the tea urn. Both looked exceedingly pleased with themselves. They chuckled with the air of women who possessed the confidential knowledge of exactly how many bottoms in attendance had been vigorously in receipt of pre-emptive diagnostic interventions.
From the corner of her eye, Patsy noticed a familiar face slipping away from the marquee. It was Julian Marlow. He was a rather dashing young man, captain of the cricket team and suspected of mild jazz appreciation. He walked stiffly, eyes downcast, tucking a familiar cream envelope into his blazer pocket.
There was a moment of silence among the girls.
“Oh,” said Arabella softly. “Oh my.”
Patsy sipped her lemonade. “Well— at least Dr Blythe believes in equal opportunity.”
The girls watched Julian disappear behind the trellis, moving with the unmistakable gait of someone recently diagnosed, and currently enduring some persistent side-effects.
“Do you think his was a pre-luncheon prescription?” Fiona asked, eyes wide.
Patsy tried not to laugh, lest the movement might jostle something tender. She had always heard prevention was better than cure, but judging by the state of the village, it seemed all of them were receiving both. At least, she thought wryly, the ennui was gone — replaced by something altogether warmer.
With a sigh and a delicate shuffle, she reached for another scone. It was hard to stifle the wince as the lace hem of her dress brushed against skin that was still faintly throbbing.
“Surely,” she thought, “Doctor’s orders shouldn’t be quite so hands-on.”