His Method In Her Madness
When the Little Dithering amateur dramatics society plays host to eccentric stage veteran – Sir Godfrey Darcy, one young actress experiences a hands-on lesson in Method Acting. Showing admirable commitment to immersive technique, he demonstrates the proper way to administer a thorough spanking... leaving the astonished audience, not to mention his hapless volunteer, wondering where acting ends, and reality begins!
from 📚 Vintage Spanking
English theatre had produced some colossal talents over the decades, but there were few who shone so brightly as the eminent Thespian, Sir Godfrey Darcy. For more than thirty years, this patriarch of performance and passion had been a true legend of the West End stage. His back-catalogue ran the gamut from Shakespearian tragedy, to the charms of saucy comic improv.
Among his many accolades, he held the honorary position of Emeritus Professor of Strict Method Acting at Oxford University and was a past winner of the Gilded Footlight Award for the most consecutive hours spent in character. He’d achieved this exceptional feat at the 1908 Edinburgh Festival, despite the organisers repeatedly begging him to stop.
Therefore, his willingness to deliver one of his world-renowned Method Acting Workshops at the Little Dithering Amateur Dramatics Society was a remarkable event. It was almost unheard of, for a small provincial theatre group to host such a celebrated master who, throughout his long career, had graced countless stages and scandalised many an audience.
After much cajoling, the Postmistress’s pretty, twenty-one-year-old niece, Miss Mildred Pemberton, had been enticed to 'volunteer’ for the workshop. Sir Godfrey’s eccentric reputation for unconventional technique preceded him, and negotiations had not been easy. Rumours abounded of the various clandestine incentives that helped to secure her agreement. These included an additional two days annual holiday entitlement, and a covert payment of five shillings. Ultimately, it seemed that pragmatism might exceed the young lady's theatrical ambition.
Her delicate assignment would be to assist in one of his most notorious masterclasses. From an extensive repertoire of wildly unconventional theatrical exploits, the society had selected the ominously titled: “Heroine in a Calamitous Pickle”.
Mrs Witherspoon, chair of the theatre’s board of trustees, proudly stood centre-stage to introduce Sir Godfrey. He strode into the spotlight – tall, broad-shouldered – casting an imposing shadow against the backdrop. He deposited a small carpet-bag on the props table but before he could speak, the theatre’s side-door burst open and in marched Lavinia Beaufort-Smythe, the spoiled middle-daughter of the Duchess of Larkswood.
“Don’t start without me, darlings,” she appealed, summoning the injured tone of an oft overlooked understudy. “Oh- my! Sir Godfrey, what an honour. I’ve always admired your work!”
The great man glared down from the stage, weighing up this haughty young woman who had so rudely interrupted his introduction.
“Quite...” he replied. “As I was saying, I am Sir Godfrey Darcy, and tonight, I have the pleasure of presenting a personal favourite from amongst my workshops. I’m very much looking forward to sharing some valuable insights.”
Mrs Witherspoon glanced down at Mildred, giving her a sympathetic nod of encouragement. The young woman gulped, apprehensive, noting Sir Godfrey’s stalwart frame and stern demeanour. She arose from her seat, feeling an anxious tremor in her knees.
“No- no! Just hold your horses, deary. I won’t hear of this!” The voice was that of Lavinia, projected with unmistakable theatrical clarity.
Mildred froze halfway to the stage.
“Mrs Witherspoon, really, you can’t be serious,” Lavinia protested. “A mere local shop-girl? I insist I be allowed to take her place. I, as you well know, have far more stage acting experience. Have you forgotten that I once played the role of Cordelia’s chambermaid in our production of King Lear?”
There was a collective rolling of eyes at the tiresome big-headedness of this insufferable woman.
“Well- actually, this opportunity has already been promised to Miss Pendleton,” Mrs Witherspoon explained, “although, if Sir Godfrey doesn't object, I suppose there’s no harm in making a small amendment to the programme.”
Noting the relief sweeping across Mildred’s countenance, Mrs Witherspoon couldn’t suppress a knowing smirk.
Sir Godfrey gave a gracious half-shrug, a gesture of magnanimous acquiescence, confirming he was happy to accept this minor change.
Was there a wicked glint in his eye, Mildred wondered? His theatrical skill was so finely honed that it was almost impossible to determine what was acting, and what was real.
After just a moment’s deliberation, he enquired, “If Mildred will now be available, perhaps she could assist at the props table? It’s often helpful if someone can pass items to me.”
Buoyed by her minor victory, Lavinia pushed in front of Mildred, strutting onto the stage with the arrogance of someone accustomed to making a grand entrance. Her silk dress, the colour of vintage Champagne, lightly draped her curvy hips and swayed in well-rehearsed gossamer-nonchalance, revealing an almost continental amount of knee as she walked.
Sir Godfrey addressed the audience as Lavinia took pride of place at his side, whilst Mildred adopted a more modest position beside the props table.
“I believe an actor must be ready to step into their role at a moment’s notice,” he declared. “We will, therefore, launch straight into our workshop scenario. I shall play the role of a long-suffering husband,” he gestured towards himself, “and you will play the part of my barefaced, impudent young wife.”
The notion that, at only twenty-seven years of age, she might conceivably have chosen to marry a grey-haired gent of almost sixty, triggered an involuntary, contemptuous sigh. Sir Godfrey glanced towards her, evidently delighted.
“That’s wonderful, my dear. Superb improvisation. Hold your position right there.”
Turning to the audience, he drew attention to what he saw as her well-observed, characterful insights.
“Note how she is emulating a splendidly indignant expression,” he said. “Observe her sassy attitude, portrayed with marvellous simplicity by her arrogant stance. The way she has chosen to place her hands upon her hips is inspired. I can already tell I’m working with an actress of prodigious potential.”
Lavinia’s face coloured even further as they moved into phase-two of their workshop scenario. To her horror, the improvised role required her to stand accused of flagrant impropriety, caught in a romantic tryst with the gardener.
Raising his deep voice and pointing his finger, Sir Godfrey scolded her lack of moral character – and lascivious attitude. The scene he invoked, showing far too much relish for her liking, included every sordid detail of how he supposedly discovered her in flagrante delicto behind the greenhouse and in a state of obscene undress. The very thought of it brought her blood to the boil.
“How dare you tarnish my good name with even the hint of such a suggestion,” she gasped. “I have never been spoken to like this before! Never!”
Once again, Sir Godfrey turned to the audience.
“What you see here is a perfect example of immersing oneself into a role. Note her blushing cheeks and the sour expression of disdain. Do you hear the realistic portrayal of anger in her retort? Do you notice how she ensures that every moment is altogether convincing?”
The audience apparently did, and polite applause of admiration rippled through the rows of seats. Lavinia stared back at him – astonished and appalled. Had he been a lesser man, she would have given him a firm slap, and yet she found herself in a dilemma. Despite the outrageous narrative impropriety, she knew that she still coveted his approval.
“In fact, your performance has reached such heights,” he announced, “I believe we can jump directly into the ultimate phase of the masterclass.”
Drawing a wooden chair into the centre of the stage, Sir Godfrey seated himself, his feet planted square upon the floorboards.
“And so, as I take you across my lap, ensure that you maintain your character's established appearance of shock and indignation!”
“As you take who? Across the- what did you just say?” Lavinia blurted, but an instant later she found herself captured by an iron grip, descending, in an irresistible guided swoon, onto his presented thighs.
“How dare you!” the hapless actress exclaimed. “I’ve never... I mean, you can’t... I mean... oh- my gracious!”
“That’s very good”, Sir Godfrey observed, “but might I also suggest a phrase such as: You wouldn’t dare! I find the cheekiness of that line always plays well with audiences. And once we begin, please do try to emphasise your reactions. In larger theatres in particular, it’s necessary for the leading-lady to be quite vocal.”
He laid his broad palm upon the perfectly poised, pert posterior, which he’d ensured was centred over his lap. Turning back to the audience, the chilling implications of his next announcement filled Lavinia with dread.
“As I demonstrate the correct method to deliver a thorough and realistic spanking, I want everyone to pay very close attention to every reaction and every improvisation. Now that we’re able to see this young lady’s prominent talents fully on display, I’m certain you’re in for an educational treat!”
From her perfect vantage point beside the props table, Mildred leaned in. She noticed the size of Sir Godfrey’s hard and almost leathery right hand, and how it seemed to encompass more than half of Lavinia’s bottom. A fresh wave of relief washed over her as she realised that, in these unusual circumstances, it could so easily have been her who found herself in this humiliating position.
It was hard to feel sorry for the self-entitled Lavinia but, for just the briefest of moments, Mildred felt her own bottom clench in subconscious sisterly solidarity. Sir Godfrey possessed all the exceptional presence of a profligate disciplinarian.
Lavinia herself cringed in abject mortification, glancing sideways towards the enraptured audience. Some of them, she saw, were jotting down notes. Even worse, Mr Arnold Porter, a renowned photographer from the local newspaper, had taken up a position near the front of the centre aisle, his camera held aloft. He was acclaimed for the sharpness of his focus, and for never missing a newsworthy opportunity.
For a legendary figure, famous for his acting ability, the crack of Sir Godfrey’s right hand against her defenceless derrière, was uncommonly realistic. Wide-eyed, her shriek of surprise rang to the rafters as the buzzing sting penetrated the insubstantial fabric of her dress and reverberated throughout her rear.
His promise of thoroughness proved to be no idle boast!
“You’re doing a marvellous job,” he assured her, smart smacks of his palm punctuating his words. “Your acting skills are truly engaging. We’ll continue for a while longer, so that everyone can appreciate your commitment to the role.”
The lively delivery ignited a fiery sting across her cruelly upended behind. By means of relentless repetition, he appeared determined to ensure the audience had ample opportunity to absorb his unambiguous techniques. Again and again his palm struck down upon Lavinia’s quivering cheeks, her howls of protest echoing with heartfelt authenticity.
Only once did the thorough-Thespian pause during his ministrations.
“Exquisite acting, my dear. The volume and clarity of your squeals has been second to none,” he complimented, observing that his co-star had temporarily been rendered speechless. “In conclusion to these workshops, I often find that a climactic denouement can be emphasised as follows... Miss Pendleton, would you please pass me a hairbrush!”
While Mildred rummaged in his props bag, Sir Godfrey swept up Lavinia’s skirt, exposing a pair of silk charmeuse under-shorts in a shocking shade of pink. The fit was snug, and the tightness was emphasised even further by her prone position. There was a hushed gasp as the audience noted the scandalous manner in which the immodest silk garment wrapped, taut and unyielding, around the gloriously throbbing curves of her buttocks.
“Oh- no, you don’t!” Lavinia wailed, a hand shooting back in a bid to preserve whatever might be left of her collapsing dignity.
Demonstrating a degree of finesse that could only have been acquired through extensive practice, Sir Godfrey continued hauling back her dress, trapping her wrist amidst the billowing fabric. Indifferent to her struggles, he twisted and pinned the inescapable bundle securely into the small of her back.
“Ah- thank you, Mildred. Most kind. Oh- and, I see you’ve picked out my larger model.”
“This is utterly outrageous,” Lavinia continued to protest as the delivery-mechanism of her persistent posterior torment, now reinforced by a sturdy Mason Pearson hairbrush, sprang to life once more.
The fragile covering provided by her exposed knickers, now addressed by the heavy brush, led to far crisper smacks, and sharper yelps of protest. The deep smarting that was burning and prickling towards an astonishing crescendo dominated Lavinia’s attention.
“You beast! You- you- monster! Unhand me at once!” Lavinia demanded.
Unable to conceal a sly smirk, Mildred addressed Sir Godfrey. “She really captures the moment, doesn’t she? I doubt that even her former governess would have been able to elicit this level of realism.”
The steady thwack- thwack- thwack of the hairbrush, as it danced its merry jig upon her helpless derrière, continued alongside the rising urgency of Lavinia’s cries. She could feel her body tense and jerk with every smarting whack, the sounds of her punishment and escalating panic filling the small stage.
Every flash of pain, every incendiary impact, seemed to build upon the last. To her consternation, several of these unforgettable moments were accompanied by the flash of Mr Porter’s camera bulb.
By the time it was over, the regretful, chastened actress found that her lower lip trembled in a sulky pout, and warm tears ringed her eyes.
Once her grateful fingers were finally free to massage the seat of her dress, her bottom felt as though it was on fire. In a state of rueful introspection, she contemplated that suffering for art had become far more literal than her previous, more romantic notions had ever led her to imagine.
“And so,” Sir Godfrey Darcy concluded, unconcerned by Lavinia’s squirming discomfiture, “you can see that immersing oneself into a character’s lived-experience with full commitment, allows one to acquire a detailed, intimate knowledge which can be drawn upon in future performances. Trust me, a hands-on approach almost always guarantees a glowing result!”
Rejoining the ensemble on stage, Mrs Witherspoon now bore a beaming look of satisfaction.
“A round of applause for Sir Godfrey Darcy,” she announced. “And of course, you've got to hand it to Miss Lavinia Beaufort-Smythe. Such a talented young lady! Who'd have thought a simple re-enactment could look so devastatingly real? It certainly made a memorable impact!”
Mrs Witherspoon herself joined the emphatic ovation as the assembled society members rose to their feet. The applause echoed through the theatre hall, continuing for a considerable time.
Mildred noticed that Sir Godfrey abstained from any clapping. Perhaps, she contemplated, this was a strategy to preserve the readiness of that masterful right hand for his next masterclass.
In a courageous show of resilience, Lavinia appeared to attempt something resembling a faint smile, though the incessant, pulsing pain of her behind caused it to falter into something more like a tragic, tearful frown. She found it hard not to cast a doleful glance towards Mildred. In this workshop of woe, the other woman may have been upstaged, but at least she hadn’t been upended. It was unclear whether the audience truly appreciated her commitment to the method, or whether they had simply been enjoying the spectacle.
Shortly afterwards, Lavinia quit the Amateur Dramatics Society, a decision that was precipitated not only by her bruised bottom, but also by the following morning’s sensational front-cover of the Little Dithering Gazette.
Mr Porter, in his own inimitable style, had captured a perfect mid-spank moment. Lavinia’s mouth hung open in an anguished grimace, her moist eyes squeezed tight shut, whilst Sir Godfrey’s hairbrush was pictured descending in a purposeful blur. The caption read: “A Striking Success – Local actress, Miss Beaufort-Smythe, turns the other cheek!”
The headline awakened stinging memories, which she would have preferred to put behind her. She had always dreamed of receiving a rapturous standing ovation. It was a tribute she now found profoundly apt, since the prospect of sitting down was, for the foreseeable future, entirely out of the question...