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Ariel Caned
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The Birching Bench in the Girls Reformatory
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Hans Braun: Sailor Girls
This great drawing has featured recently in one of my own favorite posts on the topic of sailor girls. Here is the posting.
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Of course one aspect of this not considered there is the punishment of Japanese schoolgirls in sailor girl costumes. Something to think about isn't it.
But here I want to focus on the background to the main drawing. If you can tear your eyes away from the main culprit, bottom bared and bent over the cannon for the birch, each detail is worthy of a drawing and a fantasy in its own right. Just look how tight are the trousers and shorts on the girls, and how well formed their bottoms are. Two have even recently been birched themselves.
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Of course one aspect of this not considered there is the punishment of Japanese schoolgirls in sailor girl costumes. Something to think about isn't it.
But here I want to focus on the background to the main drawing. If you can tear your eyes away from the main culprit, bottom bared and bent over the cannon for the birch, each detail is worthy of a drawing and a fantasy in its own right. Just look how tight are the trousers and shorts on the girls, and how well formed their bottoms are. Two have even recently been birched themselves.
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Birched at Sea 2
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St Winifreds
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Rikki Caned
"Kindly remove your drawers, and mount up on the chair," he directed, pointing to the large leather armchair with the wicked rod he held, "I shall start by giving two dozen cuts, after which we shall decide if more should be called for. Your comportment under correction will of course have some bearing on my decision."
Two dozen, and mounted on the punishment chair! This was a stiff sentence indeed, but no more than my guilty person deserved. Was I not female, and responsible for leading the groom, and who knows whom else into those sinful temptations that stir the opposite sex, when the female cannot control her evil influence. But I hated that chair, as much as I feared that whippy rod. One had to climb up on it, with one knee on each of the padded arms. Since it was a chair of normal width, suitable for a gentleman's library, a mere woman had to spread her thighs to splitting distance to span them and then, still stretched wide open, he insisted that we put our heads right down on the cushions of the seat, putting our arms around the chair back to support our position. It was a most testing posture, not least because it exposed all one's most intimate parts to the gaze of the chastiser and, we feared, the rod itself might even penetrate to those secret depths of our persons, now humiliatingly displayed, and wreak havoc in our soft tissues. Perhaps, in view of the dangerous nature of those parts of our female bodies to the male at this time, he had already decided that they should be included in the portions our anatomy to be whipped into righteousness.
With trembling hands, I reached under my skirts to draw down, and discard discreetly, the thin cotton garment in which the offending parts were cased. Then I advanced to the brooding chair on equally trembling legs, climbing first onto the seat, and hoisting my skirts clear up to my waist, He was very particular about this, and would award extra strokes if even one fold of cloth fell below one's narrowest portion, before swinging each knee in turn up onto the corresponding arm.
I could feel the tendons at my fork stretching with the extreme parting of my thighs, and knew that my inner secrets were now visible to him. Marion and I are rather above average height for women, but despite our long lower limbs, we are only just able to spread our legs enough to place our knees in the required position, without straining the tendons in our crotches to the point where we feel the damage when we come to walk away from the place of chastisement. Charlotte has great difficulty with the position. While her limbs are well proportioned and shapely, she lacks the long thigh bones which enable Marion and I to bridge the gap between the arms, and even without the additional handicap of a bruised buttock, can only walk with a clumsy, and painful, wide-legged waddle, immediately after her correction.
I bent my head, and lowered it to the leather cushion that formed the seat of the dreaded chair, a process not without difficulties of it's own, for we had been used to the beneficial restriction of tight lacing from the advent of our womanhood, He contending that a woman without stays was too easily led into riotous behaviour, whilst firm bones, and strong laces, provided a restriction on too free movement of the body that would be reflected in a similar brake on our otherwise all too weak and wandering natures. The devices he prescribed, of whalebone, steel, buckram cloth and unyielding linen lacing, extended from just below our breasts, to rest on the outward jut of our buttocks, behind, with a stiffened busk flattening our bellies before, and reaching down to almost the tops of our thighs, and, bending to attain the required position for this form of whipping, sent the bottom edge digging into the pad of flesh above one's pubic bone.
And now I could feel the air on those parts, and knew that the position I had assumed, had opened up not only my nether cheeks, exposing my rear opening - my anus - to the light, but also had made those fleshy lips that guarded my female entrance, to part, and leave all that tender tissue unprotected from either eye or rod. With my head on the seat, my shoulders were near level with my knees, and I was able to put my arms round the back of the chair, digging my fingers into the leather near the bottom of the back. Now I was positioned correctly for the rod to have the maximum effect. My buttocks were spread and stretched, so that the flesh was at its most vulnerable, while the confines of my position, meant that I could not move one inch to avoid the worst ravages of the cane, but must hold myself steadily to absorb it. The only way I could avoid its dreadful bite would be to let my knees come off the arms, and that was unthinkable. To do so meant extra strokes, or even to take the whole punishment again the next day. On one memorable occasion, Marion had slipped, I am sure it was not a voluntary movement, after twenty three of a two dozen sentence. She was made to take the remaining stroke, then report, before breakfast, the next morning, to take the full two dozen over again. This was the only time I ever remember Marion weeping openly after a correction, and I had no wish to follow her example. I would cling to that chair, and keep my knees planted like the roots of an oak, though hell itself was loosed in my buttocks.
He approached, and checked that my posture was correct. His hands explored my bent cheeks, probing and squeezing, to assess their resilience, and fitness for the cuts to come. Ordinarily he would probe my previous welts with his finger, to assess what degree of bruising remained, but on this occasion I had been left so long that only brown and green traces remained on the surface, and the swellings had all subsided to such an extent that bruising was patently absent. His hands pressed in further, to explore the fleshy parts around my 'fig', while his thumb pressed against the dimple set behind. I believe he did this to assess my general state of health, with a view to deciding how much punishment it would be reasonable to inflict.
I heard a rattle as he picked up the cane from the desk, where he had laid it while he inspected my person, and, looking through the arch of my parted thighs, saw him come into my line of vision. As he raised the yellow length, I closed my eyes, and waited, bracing my body for the first shocking blow, praying that the coming agony would help me suppress those parts of my nature that had such a harmful effect on the male sex, driving out the evil inherent in all womankind, or at least rendering it harmless. My teeth grated, as I clenched them tightly, to trap my screams before they could rise, and my fingers dug even more deeply into the leather of the chair back. I was set now. The cane touched my nether cheeks, though only to mark where he would set the first line of fire, but, to my shame, my flesh cringed of its own volition. He growled that I was clenching, and to open up. Desperately I forced my buttocks to relax, leaving them open for the rod to do its best work in between the soft folds. My heart beating wildly I waited.
I had already forgotten just how deep that testing cane could bite. One might have been forgiven for thinking that with so painful an experience, the memory would remain for ever sharp, but I think the mind must soften the outlines of the blazing agony it raised in one's buttocks. Perhaps it was just the female mind that could perform this insidious treachery, evading thereby the lessons so assiduously imprinted in her nether parts, and intended by her master, to guide her out of the paths of wrongdoing, into the way of grace. We are unruly creatures, untrustworthy, even in our own minds, and I think it quite likely that we are guilty of this evasion of our duty as of so much else.
Be that as it may, the first blow shocked me. My breath went out in a sharp cry, bitten off almost as soon as started, then returned hissing between my teeth, as I felt the full flow of that throbbing agony that floods into the welt with the returning blood. Burning with shame at being so nearly undone at the first cut, I tightened my grip on the chair back, put my head even more firmly into the cushion, thrusting my spread buttocks up and back to greet the rod, and resolved to take the next stroke with better grace.
But it was impossible. If I had Marion's stoicism and bravery, I might have done it, though even she had cried out last night, but I was not made of such stern stuff and, though I clung to my position, nor let an outright scream pass my lips, I flinched with every cut, choked on guttural cries, and by the seventh or eighth stroke, blubbered like a child, rather than the full grown woman that I was. He paused in his measured flogging of my bottom and, to my shame, admonished me for my lack of composure.
"Not only are you snivelling like a babe," declared he, "but you are clenching your buttocks against the rod. Loose them at once, and let the rod in. How can your soul be saved, if your body will not submit?"
Mortified, I stifled my sobs, and let my buttocks relax as ordered, knowing that in this fashion I would receive the utmost benefit from each stroke. Desperately I clung to the chair through ten, through twelve, through sixteen, an Andromeda clinging to her rock, but there was no Perseus with his Gorgon's head to turn the Kraken into stone, instead the monster was in my buttocks, tearing and rending, inflicting on me the very pains of hell.
At eighteen I screamed, and nineteen too, as the cane dropped just a little, to strike, not on the painful crease between buttock and thigh, but on the thigh top itself. He growled his condemnation, and I choked into silence, or as near to as my gasping breath would allow, plus the creaking of the leather as my body writhed on its perch, seemingly of its own volition, and quite outside my ability to control it, nor did this meet with his approval either, and he gave me another cut to my thighs to still me. By now I had received twenty of the two dozen cuts I had been promised, And I was conscious that a desperate effort was needed to restore my credit, if further strokes, on top of my present account, were not to be incurred.
I dug my nails into the leather, forcing some stillness into my rebellious flesh, and set my teeth in my lip. How often had my sisters and I cling to this doleful mount in this fashion, driving our nails into the thick cowhide! So many times, in truth, that the tough skin had been all but worn through. It was only by dint of our assiduous attention, several times a week, working the best saddle soap into the hide for half an hour at a time, that we had managed to make it sustain our agonized assaults thus far. We tried not to think what would happen when, inevitably, one of us, in extremis, burst the thinning membrane. Now I was in that same extremis, literally clinging on by my finger nails to my position, and my consciousness, through the last four terrible cuts. I knew I was
clenching again, for he barked at me to make myself open again, and I tried desperately to meet his requirement, and then it was done. The cane fell no more, and I could only lie there sobbing, conscious of how I had failed to live up to the standards I had set myself, and that he would have wished.
I was surprised to hear the rattle of the cane, as it was set down on the desk, for I was convinced that my comportment under correction had fallen far short of satisfactory, and then I was aware of him behind me, and something hard pressing against the little dimple set behind my softly fleeced 'fig'. I opened my eyes, that had remained fast shut throughout, and looked through my spread thighs to see that his breeches were round his ankles, and he held a great throbbing member, redder than his flushed visage, directing it in between my cheeks.
More of this lovely but naughty girl here.
More of this lovely but naughty girl here.
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The Hairbrush
Actually not a standard hairbrush, more a clothes brush. A stinging and very effective instrument of girlish punishment as shown in this old and classic film. Enjoy.
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Girls and the Paddle
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Girls and the Paddle Again
Here in the South girls are still regularly paddled at high school and college. Never on the bare of course, that is just our fantasy, but often across skintight jeans or other costumes, like the athletics shorts worn by the pretty cheerleader in this old movie.
The girl is Katie but to my mind the teacher steals the show. Do you like that accent? She can paddle my butt any time. Part of this movie has featured here before but this is the full version. Enjoy.
The girl is Katie but to my mind the teacher steals the show. Do you like that accent? She can paddle my butt any time. Part of this movie has featured here before but this is the full version. Enjoy.
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Victoria Caned
This is Victoria, one of the most beautiful models ever to bend her heavenly bottom for the cane.
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The Birching of Altea
It is a while since we had a good story, so here is one about an 18th century judicial birching. It seems that sometimes the birch was applied to a young woman standing at the whipping post, as this drawing shows:
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And this is the position adopted by Altea and her friends in this story. Rather than just one post the whipping column sometimes had a crossbar, again as in this story. I have modified it here and there so that she is birched only across her bottom and thighs, and of course Altea is my own fantasy recipient. Enjoy.
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And this is the position adopted by Altea and her friends in this story. Rather than just one post the whipping column sometimes had a crossbar, again as in this story. I have modified it here and there so that she is birched only across her bottom and thighs, and of course Altea is my own fantasy recipient. Enjoy.
Ariel was first to descend, and tried to push away the hand of the man who would have helped her down. But he, with a coarse laugh, touched her waist and lifted her down, pressing against her lasciviously as he muttered, “Aye, lass, you'll soon be begging for gentler caresses like mine than what Master Dickon will dole out to you, I wager!”
Altea and Beatrice had tried to control their sobs and tears, learning that the implacable Queen was to watch their martyrdom. The friar ascended the steps of the scaffold with them, his prayers ringing out in the silence of the attentive courtyard. Ariel's eyes widened as she saw two buckets, in which sheaves of birch switches, bound and gathered and of varying thicknesses and lengths, were thrust. Buckets of brine, so that the withes would sting the more fiercely against naked young flesh. And there was no sun, only the gray leaden sky. The day was as mournful as their fate indeed.
They were on the platform of the scaffold now, the friar beside them, and the executioner and the assistant were off to one side, stooping over the buckets, verifying the condition of the rods selected for the castigation of these three young high-spirited rebels, whose caprice of a moment was to cost them so dearly. And now there ascended the steps the Lord High Constable, a bluff, red-bearded man in his early forties, with ruff and wig and sword and doublet, holding the imposing document signed by the Queen herself. He read it out sonorously, while the soldiers below played their drums in a low, muffled, continuous cadence, like that which is played when the condemned are brought out to face the firing squad or the noose.
It was a repetition of the sentence which had been read to them in the Tower. The young women stood, their backs turned to the palace, so that they would not have to face the mocking gaze of the Queen who would gloat over this atrocious hour.
The Lord High Constable now turned to Ariel and demanded, “Your age, Mistress Clarisson?”
“Twenty-three,” the beautiful young redhead responded with a steady voice.
“By the decree of Charlotte Sophia, then, Mistress Clarisson, you are to receive three and twenty cuts of the birch upon your naked body. And your age Mistress Digby?”
“Twenty—twenty-one,” blonde Beatrice tearfully stammered, then bowed her head as the tears ran down her cheeks.
“And you, Mistress Balmadge?”
“T-twenty,” brunette Altea responded faintly.
“You will mark that, Master Dickon,” the Lord High Constable admonished, and the hooded executioner inclined his head in respectful acknowledgment. “You will begin with the youngest, then. Let Mistress Balmadge be prepared for punishment!”
The terrible moment had come. And Altea Balmadge, with a cry of fright and shame, fell on her knees before the executioner and sobbed, “Have mercy, not naked, oh my God, not naked, whip me if you must, but don't expose me to all these people, in the name of mercy!”
The burly executioner moved towards the buckets containing the brine-soaked birch rods, and his young assistant, Tom, now approached the terrified brunette who was to be first to endure this public flogging. Seeing him approach, Altea uttered a cry of terror and, still on her knees tried to scramble to the edge of the scaffold. With a mocking laugh, the brawny young rogue seized her by the elbows and lifted her to her feet, weeping piteously. Then he hustled her forward to the cross-armed post to which she was to be tethered for punishment.
Master Dickon, stooping now, picked up a length of hempen cord and tossed it to his assistant who deftly caught it with one hand. Then taking a knife from the pocket of his leather breeches under the black hood which garbed him from crown to hips and thus made him the more terrifyingly sinister, Tom cut the cords binding Altea's wrists only to seize her left wrist in his left hand and draw it up high to the metal ring set in the crossarm. He turned to the executioner, who tossed him another length of cord, and this served to tie Altea's other wrist to the ring, so that she stood on tiptoes, painfully posed and helpless.
Setting his hand to the neck of her dress, he ripped it to her hips, and Altea uttered a scream of shame and terror: “OHHHH OH NO, NOOO! PLEASE—MERCY—MERCY!”
Beatrice, still on her knees, watched with horrified despair as she saw in this scene her own following ordeal. Only Ariel remained courageous, standing straight, her hands bound behind her, her back turned to the window from which the Queen watched with greedy eyes and smirking lips.
“Courage, Altea, courage. It will soon be over,” she murmured consolingly. But the brunette could take no consolation from the words. Her head strained back over her shoulders, dragging wildly on her bound wrists, she tried to twist her creamy body away from the executioner's young assistant as, chuckling lewdly, he seized the rent gown at the hips and ripped it down to the hem. It festooned at her ankles, and now she was seen in a white chemise with elegant lace trim. This too went the way of the gown, and Altea uttered another piercing cry: “OH NOT NAKED, NOT ALL NAKED!!” as she pressed herself frantically at the whipping post, glancing feverishly back at the hooded man behind her.
She was presented now in white batiste drawers, and a short white camisole which concealed her uptilting, conically shaped breasts, whose hard, dark coral tips nuzzled the thin material in the wild, sporadic panting of her terror.
Now the camisole was torn away and the glories of her virgin titties were displayed to all. Altea Balmadge's skin was a warm, ivory-cream in hue, satiny soft and finely sensitive in texture. Now that one could see her naked bubbies, one gaped at their beauty, for the lovegourds of Altea Balmadge could be fondled by one's glance, even if no mans' fingers had as yet encountered their satiny naked resilience.
Widely separated, set high on her creamy chest, they were proud and firm, arching upwards and out. The aureolae were narrow and brownish-coral, and one could see also the shallow, wide niche of her belly-button. Stretched in cross as were her arms, the soft nooks of her armpits were displayed to all those lusting eyes, silky down with soft black hair in tangled little curls.
Her stockings were of gray silk, held up high on her thighs by mauve garters, flouncy rosettes which could well have furnished some aspiring lover a delicious and provocative momento. Her legs were long and beautifully curved, the thighs gradually ripening as they neared the base of oval-cheeked but ample buttocks, gradually furrowed by a deepening cleft which led to both temples of her virginity, that of Venus and that of Sodom as well.
Naked now except for her drawers, garters, hose and shoes, Altea bowed her head and burst into hysterical sobs. The sides of her titties pressed against the rough wood of the whipping post's upright stake, impinging upon her the awful reality of this despairing situation, this public humiliation and awful degradation.
The young assistant halted a moment, perhaps so the spectators could feast their eyes on the lascivious nakedness of the lovely young brunette. Her curls were piled high on her forehead and at the top of her head, then tumbled in a thick, shimmering black swathe to her shoulder blades. Her eyes were closed desperately tight, but tears edged beneath the fluttering lids. Her delicate nostril wings flared and shrank, and her lips twisted as they sought to suppress the sobs and groans and supplications which surged to her creamy throat.
“Go on, man,” Master Dickon softly growled, as squatting beside the buckets containing the birch rods, he turned to watch his young assistant.
“At once, good Master Dickon,” the young assistant retorted. He put his hand to the waistband of the drawers, and with a despairing shriek, as she futilely ground herself against the whipping post, Altea Balmadge announced that this veil of modesty had just been torn from her shuddering, ivory-white body.
Now she was naked except for hose, garters and shoes, and her buttocks were delectably vulnerable and palpitatingly tempting in the morning light. The cool air made the flesh shrink, and the ample oval cheeks tensed and contracted violently as the unfortunate young woman strove with all her might to hide the most intimate regions of her person from these libidinous eyes.
It was the young assistant executioner who would flog Altea Balmadge. Brawny Master Dickon squinted at the ivory bottom-cheeks of the weeping young sufferer, and then judiciously selected one of the half-dozen birch rods soaking in the brine-filled buckets before him. It was a rod composed of half a dozen long, supple switches on which the green twigs could still be seen. A black cloth had been neatly and tightly wrapped around the heavier ends to form a grip for the wielder's hand. It was neither too bulky nor too thin, but in the opinion of the head executioner, an ideal instrument of fustigation for the proportions of Altea's ivory-sheened bare bottom.
Fighting her apprehension, her eyes tightly closed, her body pressed convulsively against the heavy upright piece of the whipping post, the naked young brunette awaited her birching. The cool air tickled her skin, sensitized her nerves and made this tension-filled moment before the actual first stroke and interminable, indescribable agony. With all her might she pressed her loins against the rough wood of the post to hide the thick black curls over the prominent fig of her virginity. One could see the rippling spasms up and down her thighs and along her stockinged, supple calves as she prepared herself for the first bite of the birch rod.
“I will mark it for ye,” Master Dickon muttered to his young aide, who nodded and took his place behind the shuddering naked brunette, standing at her left and brandishing the rod. He gave it one or two preliminary swishes in the air to test its efficacy, and the whistling sound made Altea Balmadge gasp and shrink herself with even more convulsive anguish against the rough post. Arching up on tiptoe, her arms dragged out in cross, the magnificent sculptuary of her white body stark against the leaden sky, against the brown planking of the scaffold. And now a collective hush had fallen upon the absorbed spectators. Ariel watched from where she stood, her shoulders still straight and her head high, while poor Beatrice Digby remained kneeling, weeping, head bowed, afraid to see the fate of her companion because it would foretell only too torturingly her own.
Tom lowered the rod to the floor of the scaffolding, measuring his distance, appraising the firm, ample ivory ovals of that luscious naked bottom given up to his flagellatory skill. Aware that Charlotte Sophia herself was watching, he determined to acquit himself with valor, for this might be an opportunity to win royal favor and rank as high as the man to whom he had been apprenticed these four years. He watched the young woman's buttocks tighten and shudder, as all her muscles came to her defense, and he waited his time, to prove he was no novice at this art. When he saw the cheeks of Altea's bottom relax their contraction, he suddenly drew back his strong young right arm and swung the birch out horizontally, taking a step forward, so the withes fell fantail across the upper summits of both naked bottom globes.
The shock and the surprise of the first cut overcame what remained of the brunette's already dispersed courage. With a convulsive jerk at her bound wrists, her head fell back and her mouth gaped in a raucous scream: “AAHHRR!!! OH SPARE ME, IT HURTS ME DREADFULLY, OH SPARE ME, I'LL NEVER DO IT AGAIN!”
“One!” Master Dickon imperturbably counted. He had risen, standing at the victim's right, his muscular, hairy arms folded across his chest, and his eyes glistened through the slits in the hood. He was a burly rogue in his late forties, heavily set and stolid, and it was his boast that he had broken some of the most distinguished criminals in all England on the wheel and made them linger longer than his predecessor, who had been a valorous dispatcher of criminals for the greater glory of the Crown.
He watched critically now, for his own skill was indirectly tested. It was he who had taught Tom how to apply the birch as well as the cat, and it must be done slowly and dramatically, spinning out each possible nuance of torment and terrified anticipation of the next stroke, until the victim's nerves were completely attenuated. The cries and the bodily movements of the culprit during chastisement would be the best clue to the efficacy of the flogging.
This first stroke was well placed, he silently approved, as he eyed his young assistant. Bright pink stripes formed vivid parallel upon the ivory escutcheon of Altea's naked behind. Now that she had had a taste of the lash, she would be the more vociferous and mobile under the following cuts. Squinting at his aide, he waited to observe how Tom administered this first of three whippings before the eyes of the Queen herself.
The birch was lowered to the floor of the scaffold now, as Tom again gauged his distance. Moving slightly more to the left and a step back, he now drew back his right arm, hovered the rod in the air, then lunged forward. There was an angrySwishuish as the withes sang through the air and curled with an angry and crisp impact against the very middle of both nether hemispheres. Altea Balmadge stiffened, her head twisted back and her eyes dilated and filled with tears, then she jerked frenziedly at her bonds and arched forward, grinding her furry cunt against the whipping post as she shrieked: “EEEYEEOWWW!!! I'M ONLY A GIRL, OH THE PAIN, THE PAIN, FORGIVE ME, OH HAVE PITY!”
“Two,” Master Dickon remarked and, catching his aide's eye, gave the youth a brisk nod of approval. The vivid tracery of the switches against that tender nacreous flesh dramatically and lasciviously accentuated all the immaculate ivory beauty of Altea's nakedness. Ariel slightly turned her head, and she saw that those seated in the pavilion were craning their necks to absorb the spectacle before them. She did not lift her eyes to the second floor of the palace where Charlotte Sophia broodingly watched the carrying out of her heartless decree.
Huishhhh! The second cut was placed perhaps twenty-five seconds later and again without warning, as the executioner's aide whirled the rod overhead and then stepped forward to send it slashing across the base of Altea's naked posterior. Once again the young body jerked convulsively at the whipping post. The knees bent, the loins ground feverishly, with a kind of salacious suggestiveness of self-masturbation, against the chafing rough wood of the whipping post. Then that agonized and lovely face was turned back over Altea's bare white shoulder, bathed in tears and contorted in indescribable suffering as her mouth gaped to emit the piercing scream of “AIIII!! OH, MERCIFUL HEAVEN, I CANNOT STAND SUCH PAIN, HAVE MERCY ON A POOR HELPLESS GIRL!!”
“Three,” the executioner proclaimed. Now, content with his apprentice, he directed his contemplative gaze at the two remaining victims, both of whom he personally would birch. The Lord Chamberlain had this morning personally informed him that the red-haired baggage was the guiltiest of all and must have more than her share of the switching. By the Rood, she would without fail. The haughtiness of her attitude, coupled with her vivid and sensitive beauty, stirred in the cruel heart of the royal executioner a satanic resolve to break her spirit, to humble her more than her companions. He would save the full strength of his arm for that saucy backside of hers. He would shame her and make her beg for mercy. That was Master Dickon's resolve.
By now the count had reached six, with fourteen lashes left. But already, distributed as they had been from the tops of Altea's ivory hips to her thighs, her bottom was furiously inflamed with the horrible striata which Tom had inflicted on her tender flesh. Her reactions delighted the spectators. There is always a sort of lustful enjoyment of such scenes, and from the dawn of time man has lusted to see his fellow man agonized by torment and by execution. The morbid festival of lust is always in vogue, regardless of the era of the setting. And the delicacy of savoring the lovely nakedness of this unfortunate beauty at the whipping post served to inflame the male spectators the more.
In places like the Bridewell, prostitutes and new offenders sentenced for a stipulated period of confinement received the “Welcome” given usually with the birch, or sometimes with a leather strap. In such cases where the quality of the prisoner was of low degree, the governor of the prison would decree the number of strokes to be inflicted. On Tuesdays and Fridays, the whipping day at the Bridewell, ladies and gentlemen of quality attended in large numbers. It was a rule that the female bottom was bare only for the birch, never for the pizzle or the cane or the strap; they would wear whipping drawers in the prison for their thrashings. But Master Dickon regretted only one thing in this most unusual chastisement: he would have given a year of his life, if the truth be known, to have had the affair staged at Tyburn, where all could see.
Moreover, in such a sentence as that pronounced on the trio, the phraseology indicated that the birch might be inflicted all over “the naked body” as set forth in the edict signed by Charlotte Sophia. At the Bridewell, whipping was given only on the thighs and the buttocks predominantly, although at times the prison matron might apply the strap over a lazy or insubordinate prisoner's shoulders, dispensing as many cuts as she deemed advisable to bring about discipline.
Tom. after a brief pause, dragging his gauntleted left hand over his perspiring forehead, he laid the birch across Altea's naked, tautening thighs, patting them as if to impart to the sobbing young woman where the next cut was to fall. Then, drawing back his arm, he inflicted the stroke with full vigor, and once again Altea Balmadge uttered a wild cry of pain and lunged against the post, her striped posteriors lunging and lurching from side to side in a most suggestive display.
“Seven,” Master Dickon announced.
The next three lashes were more slowly dealt. Tom applied them from the dimpled hollow of the satiny, creamy waist to the tops of her long thighs. Each left angry, blazing stripes against the tender, sensitive white skin, and each drew sobbing cries, heartrending pleas and plaints which attested to Altea Balmadge's suffering. By now, though she still strove with all her might to hide her pussy against the wooden upright of the whipping post, she was beginning to forget the shame of her posture and attire, for the birch had generated a most discomforting heat in her tender flesh.
Ten cuts remained. Tom studied his weapon, observed that some of the ends of the switches were frayed and some of the twigs scattered in his vigorous application. He dipped the birch into the bucket of brine, shook it out, and some of the drops fell on Altea's naked hips and sides, making her groan and sob even more piteously.
Satisfied that the rod would suffice for the remaining ten lashes, the young assistant once more resumed his place at the girl's left, and now extended the rod to press it against the plumpest parts of Altea's ivory botoom.
“Ohh, n-no, no, merciful God spare me such suffering,” the girl sobbed piteously.
Swissh! With all his strength, as if he had determined to draw the very plaudits of Charlotte Sophia with that single stroke, Tom applied the rod viciously against her lewdly presented buttocks. Altea Balmadge lunged madly against the whipping post, dragging on her bound wrists, head fallen back, eyes rolling and glassy with tears as she uttered a wild, wordless cry of torment.
Nine cuts remained. Slowly, seeming to prolong the interval between lashes, Tom inflicted the next six to the prisoner's naked bottom cheeks. But this time he applied the lashes diagonally, first attacking the right hemisphere, leaping the switches over the tightening, shadowy furrow which led to her virgin bottom hole, dealing thus two strokes from right to left.
Again he paused, and moved to the right. He inflicted the last two lashes from left to right, leaping the rod across the huddling, inflamed hemispheres. Each of the strokes drew piercing screams, incoherent pleas for mercy.
Despite the severity with which he had flogged the naked brunette, Tom glanced at his master to call the latter's attention to the fact that nowhere had he broken the skin. It was purplish and inflamed at many points where the twigs had nipped and where the long, slender withes had crisscrossed the previous marks. As he lowered the rod, Tom considered his handiwork and was secretly pleased with himself. This young bitch would have a difficulty in sitting down for quite some days. And she would need plenty of unguents and soothing salves before the skin of her bottom would lose the fiery heat he had engendered.
At Master Dickon's sign, two of the guards ascended the platform now, untied the half-fainting brunette and, forcing her to her knees, bound her hands once more behind her back. She must wait to watch the birchings of her two companions in crime, Beatrice Digby and Ariel Clarisson.
Swaying on her knees, head bowed, her naked titties heaving under the sobs she could no longer control, poor Altea Balmadge writhed and wept as there, kneeling naked on the platform in view of the small but highly appreciative audience, she exhaled her agony. Nor was she conscious that as she knelt, she exposed to glittering eyes the thickly furred oasis of her virgin cunt and the pucker of her oh-so-tight bottom hole.
The two guards now came forward to aid Tom in his preparation of Beatrice Digby, but he waved them aside with a contemptuous gesture. Bending toward her and seizing her wrists by the cord which bound them, he whispered, “On your feet, you yellow-haired vixen! You'll have Master Dickon to deal with.”
Using his knife again, as before, he freed her wrists, while the executioner tossed him two lengths of cord. As with Altea, Beatrice found herself with wrists cruelly and tightly bound to the metal rings of, the crosspiece of the whipping post, and then her own shameful martyrdom began in earnest.
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The Birch
I had a message asking what kind of birch Altea would have been punished with. Could I post a picture? This is what my imagination tells me:
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Ira has also appeared in a birching fantasy drawing like this one.
I will respond to reasonable requests for this blog. Just leave a comment like this lady did and I will see it. Tell me, like she did, if you do not want the comment published.
Ira has also appeared in a birching fantasy drawing like this one.
I will respond to reasonable requests for this blog. Just leave a comment like this lady did and I will see it. Tell me, like she did, if you do not want the comment published.
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The Birchings Continue...
Altea was punished here. Why not download this and add your own ideal pics for Beatrice.
Just as with Altea, Beatrice's dress and chemise were ripped from her body, and then her camisole. A gasp of admiration greeted the appearance of her naked breasts with their soft, pink, crinkly nipple buds and their wide, dark-coral circles which limned those succulent titties.
She knew the futility of pleading to retain her drawers, but all the same she could not refrain from bursting into poignant tears when the young assistant ripped that final veil from her as she stood there, arching on tiptoes to ease the strain on her arms and shoulders, naked save for stockings, rosette garters and shoes, at the whipping post.
Beatrice's bottom was magnificently rotund in its exuberant but flawlessly proportioned contours. It was a bottom that fairly cried out for the rod, and Master Dickon deliberated over it for a considerable period of time before he finally walked to the buckets and selected the instrument he meant to use on Beatrice's naked posteriors.
Beatrice seemed to try to hold her breath, and she clenched herself tightly and arched herself forward, so the dark golden curls which hid her plump, soft, virgin cunt could be hidden by the whipping post. But she could not control the sporadic agitation of her naked titties, which rose and fell with increasing turbulence as she heard Master Dickon move about her.
For her broader, rounder bottom, he had selected a heavier birch. Placing his hand on the nape of her neck, he growled, “One and twenty, and you shall count them yourself to see that I'm accurate, wench!”
Laying the rod across the broadest part of Beatrice's behind, the Executioner kept the poor girl in suspense a long moment, until he finally drew back his arm and dealt her a sweeping cut across the top of her thighs. Beatrice had not been expecting this, and the atrocious burn and agony of that perfidious cut drew a scream of pain from her, as she tried uselessly to jerk free. The second lash caught her across the shoulder blades and drew a strangled scream and a convulsive twisting about of her naked body. But Master Dickon had been jesting when he had told her to call out the count: it was his own official task to make sure the royal edict was carried out to the letter.
“Two!” he announced. Then, leaning toward the whimpering Beatrice, “I'm going to make that bottom of yours jump my girl. It's a superb backside, made for a good birching. I warrant, had your mother and father dealt you such when you were a child, you would not be here then dawning!”
Before the unfortunate, naked blonde could speak, Master Dickon had applied the lash squarely across the base of both huddling bottom globes. Beatrice Digby lunged forward with a choking cry, twisting her face over her shoulder to stare piteously at the executioner, while her fingers clawed the air.
One could hear the panting, heavy breathing of the spectators in the loges and in the windows beyond the scaffold. Master Dickon showed his full artistry now. Sometimes he would prolong the moment of waiting to a full minute, while poor Beatrice Digby whimpered softly, “Oh, my God, finish it, finish it!”
Again, he would lay two or three quick lashes on without pausing, but each attacking her at a different vulnerable and tender area of her pink-sheened body. One blow bit against the middle of her backside, the tips of the switches whisking round to sting her flanks. The very next, with scarcely any pause, slashed diagonally from left to right over the huddling hillocks of her underbum. A third, with hardly a pause, attacked the upper curves of her shuddering thighs. She began to caper from foot to foot, desperately trying to escape the burning lashes of the birch.
By the tenth lash, her cries were louder and shriller than poor, weeping Altea's. Out of the first ten strokes, Master Dickon had laid six over the jutting roundities of her velvety smooth bottom-globes. Their contractions, their yawning and shrinking uncontrollably, provided a salacious treat for the lusty males in the eager audience. And for the executioner himself, as well, for though Master Dickon was a bachelor and shunned by women who knew his occupation, there were times when he would journey to some remote village in the provinces to carry out the execution of some notable culprit, and then he would act the gallant with some none-too-discerning tavern wench or farmer's daughter.
His eyes blazed with lust through the slits of the hood and he resumed Beatrice's flogging. The last ten cuts were mercilessly prolonged to almost a full minute between stripes. Nine of them fell on that shuddering, welted, squirming, jerking bare bottom, and the last slashed across the tops of Beatrice's straining and flexing thighs, tearing from her a veritable yell of frantic, intolerable suffering.
Sweat glistened on her welted body as she sagged from the whipping post, head bowed, knees bending. Her buttocks were livid now, the stripes turning from crimson almost to purple. The birch rods were frayed and a profusion of twigs lay scattered on the floor beneath the writhing, inflamed burning bottom.
The two naked ladies-in-waiting who had received their birching, Beatrice Digby and Altea Balmadge, lay on their sides, their wrists bound behind their backs, naked except for their hose and garters and shoes, to one side of the whipping post. Their groans and tears and lamentations could be heard in the uneasy silence of the royal court yard. And now it was the turn of the ringleader, the beautiful twenty-three-year-old Ariel, whose temperament was as fiery as her hair and who now would be called upon to prove her courage. She could see the eyes of the spectators greedily staring at the two squirming, shamefully naked bodies, she could see the creamy skin of Altea marked with the now livid welts of the birching, and the soft pink skin of Beatrice, that exquisite blonde with such a gentle and docile nature, angrily striated. They were past caring now that they showed their pussies and bumholes to the gloating spectators, for not only had shame crushed them but the atrocious pain of the flogging had attenuated their sexual excitement.
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The Last Birching
“And now for you, my red-haired pretty,” Master Dickon softly growled as he stared covetously at the trembling Ariel Clarisson. His assistant cut the bonds that held Beatrice Digby's wrists to the crossarms and, forcing her to her knees, the young assistant corded her wrists behind her back and left her there with Altea to agonize and to sob heartrendingly at the torment of their young virgin bodies ... and to expose, heedlessly now because the suffering was so great, the dark gold and the jet black tufts of pussyhair which shielded their maiden love centers.
“Come along, Mistress Ariel,” Master Dickon chuckled in rare good humor, “you are the oldest, you have the most strokes, and I shall honor you with the full strength of my arm. Prepare her, Tom.”
The two naked ladies-in-waiting who had already received their birching, Beatrice Digby and Altea Talmadge, lay on their sides, their wrists bound behind their backs, naked except for their hose and garters and shoes, to one side of the whipping post. Their groans and tears and lamentations could be heard in the uneasy silence of the royal court yard. And now it was the turn of the ringleader, the beautiful twenty-three-year-old Ariel, whose temperament was as fiery as her hair and who now would be called upon to prove her courage. She could see the eyes of the spectators greedily staring at the two squirming, shamefully naked bodies, she could see the creamy skin of Altea marked with the now livid welts of the birching, and the soft pink skin of Beatrice, that exquisite blonde with such a gentle and docile nature, angrily striated. They were past caring now that they showed their pussies to the gloating spectators, for not only had shame crushed them but the atrocious pain of the flogging had attenuated their sexual excitement.
She stood, very pale, her head held high, as the young assistant executioner approached her, cut the bonds at her wrists and then grasped her by her left wrist to lead her to the post. “I won't resist,” she whispered, “just get it over with as swiftly as you can, please.”
“I'm sorry, my lady, my heart's not in this work. You and those two there are quality, and shouldn't have to be treated like—well—low hussies,” Tom muttered back. He made fast work of affixing her wrists to the metal rings set at each end of the crossarm of the whipping post. Then, with an apologetic, “Forgive me, my lady,” he set his hands to the neck of her black gown and ripped it down with a brutal tug. Ariel closed her eyes and took a long deep breath to fortify herself. She gasped again because the young assistant once again seized the tattered gown at the hips and tore it down to her ankles, then tugged it off her body.
In order to shorten the atrocious ritual of “preparation” for the birching, Ariel had left off her stays and petticoats, as, indeed, had Altea, and Beatrice before her. She, like they, wore just a chemise, and a thin camisole under it—a kind of jacket with straps which covered the bosom and the back down to about the midriff—her drawers, hose, garters and shoes. Now it was the time for the chemise to be ripped off; and a gasp of admiration, loud enough to attract the attention of the beautiful red-haired prisoner at the post, rose at the sight of this voluptuous, lithe, graceful body so tautly presented with extended arms, on tiptoe, all her fine, agile muscles quivering and in play, in this scanty and provocative dishabille.
Charlotte Sophia leaned forward over the windowsill to follow the stripping of this proud vixen who, in her opinion, was the worst of the lot, the one who had instigated this ridiculous trick which had so insulted her regal person. She wished she had made it the cat-of-nine-tails instead of the birch, and doubted the number of lashes instead of only twenty-three, one for each of Ariel's age. But at least, she-thought grimly to herself, the little Dime would receive many more lashes under the hot South Carolina sun, toiling on one of those cotton or tobacco plantations. She had given orders to the Lord Chamberlain to see to it that Ariel's indenture, even more that the lot of the other girls, be directed towards one of the harshest task masters, so that Ariel might well expiate her sin.
The young assistant now ripped away the camisole, and an even louder gasp rose at the sight of Ariel's magnificent titties, their dainty coral points stiffening with the cool air of this cloudy May morning. What magnificent, erect and arrogant globes they were, hard pears of pale creamy flesh flecked delicately with myriad rosy nuances, that exquisite speckling which attested to the natural tint of Ariel's hair and the pigmentation which supplemented it!
Her sweet belly was flat, and the dainty niche of her navel was exposed, an adorable eye which seemed to wink at the avid spectators, very narrow and deep, so furtive that My Lord Bruce Warrington, the first comptroller of the Royal Treasury, who had a penchant for thrusting his turgid penis into the bellybutton of his concubines and there achieving orgasmic fulfillment, seriously doubted that the sweet circumference of Ariel's navel would allow such introduction.
Master Dickon, who was examining the remaining birch rods soaking in the two brine-filled buckets in order to select a proper instrument for the fustigation of Ariel Clarisson's behind, now called out in a low voice to Tom, “Don't rush things so, man! Let 'em enjoy the baggage's bare skin! Let her wriggle about a bit before you take down her drawers. You'll have a better tip for your work, take it from an old hand at the trade!”
Ariel's lovely creamy cheeks turned scarlet with mortification as she overheard this obscene suggestion. She steeled her muscles as she pressed herself against the rough upright post, finding that she had been bound so tightly at the wrists and in such a pose that she had to exert all her muscular strength to stand on tiptoe if she did not wish the tight cords about her sensitive wrists to chafe and dig cruelly into the tender skin.
The spectators could see through the tightly molding white batiste sheath of Ariel's drawers the magnificent choreography of her buttocks, those solid and enticingly contoured ovals with which her long, supple and beautifully sculptured thighs merged in such harmonious juncture and it promised a highly entertaining spectacle when the drawers should be removed and those pale white, rosy-flecked bottom globes should quake and contract and jiggle and dance under the stinging switches of the executioner's birch.
Ariel Clarisson waited in a growing agony of suspense, praying that it would be over. Half a dozen times she was on the point of crying out to the executioner to begin the punishment, that it might be the sooner over. But each time she checked herself, knowing that the malevolent Charlotte Sophia would only find therefrom a sadistic delight in knowing her victim so afflicted by the mental torment which always augmented the physical.
The cool air laved her titties, flinting the coral buds in those dark-coral aurolae. As she pressed herself, the sides of her titties rubbed against the rough wood, reminding her of where she was and what awaited her, and she shuddered violently at this foretaste of pain to come.
“Oh, God, let it start, let it start before I cry out and shame myself before that vicious sow! Ariel thought as she prayed to retain her sanity in this awful moment of degradation. And as if in answer to her prayer, she suddenly felt the strong fingers of the young executioner's assistant on the waistband of her drawers. He pulled the waistband open, grabbed the tops and then slowly peeled the garment down from the glories of her jutting bottom ovals. Slowly, like a connoisseur delectating over that Callyphygian regalia, Tom drew the sheath down inch by inch so that those who watched might rhapsodize over the gradual unveiling of the firm, quivering, satiny oval hillocks! Ariel tensed herself, and arched her loins forward in an instinctive virginal attempt to hide the dark-red curls of her maiden bush from those besmirching eyes. Now she felt her drawers slither to her ankles, where they remained out of a refinement which the executioner himself designated with a gesture of his hand.
And she stood ready for the birch, naked to the stocking tops, the lovely, deeply hollowed spinal column making her back a wonderful canvas of soft creamy flesh, which culminated in those two temptingly ripe and firm, succulent bottom ovals with their gradually broadening furrow hiding its mystery in the ambery-shadowy groove which separated them.
All was in readiness now, and the spectators were agog with libidinous excitement. For Ariel Clarisson was the most beautiful of the trio, the oldest, the most courageous, and, it was well known, the ringleader of all these merry pranks which had finally boomeranged to bring her to this demeaning scaffold before the members of the court and the royal household.
Master Dickon rose, having selected the birch. It was a long and supple sheaf of switches, about seven of them carefully selected and profusely twigged so that the green buds would add additional sting to the tender quivering flesh of the naked prisoner. He brandished it in the air, whistled it over his head, as he slowly approached, with a heavy and ponderous dignity befitting his royal service. Here, in his opinion, was a magnificent bottom on which to work, one on which he could show the full gamut of his mastery. The girl's skin was delicate and delightfully sensitive, he was certain. And now he took his place at Ariel's left, his eyes feasted on the tensing ovals consigned to his punitive arm, observing with a silence view the resilience of the flesh, the contortions and the twitchings and palpitations which pervaded Ariel's naked flesh and which, in his role of torturer and executioner, told him much about the victim's temperament and her ability to withstand the flogging.
“You will count twenty-three, Tom,” he announced in his gruff voice. Ariel again drew a long breath and tremblingly tightened her muscles, arching on tiptoe, her calves and thighs quivering with the tension of her muscular resistance to the rod. She bowed her head, as in meditation, her eyes tightly closed. But she could hear the murmur of voices, unintelligible and yet, she knew, commenting on her naked charms, speculating on her ability to endure the flogging without crying out or pleading for mercy. And she knew that Charlotte Sophia was surely still watching at that window, waiting to gloat on her torture. She would bite her tongue off before she would utter a single supplication for leniency.
Master Dickon was in no hurry. He had already demonstrated excellent skill with Ariel's predecessor, and a glance at the still whimpering naked girl lying to one side on the scaffold beyond the post told him that she, at any rate, had no reason for complaining over her due. But this girl, the Lord Chamberlain had informed him, deserved the full brunt of the rod, a chastisement that would be unforgettable and recall to her, during her years of servitude in the colonies, the crime of lese-majeste which she had dared against her sovereign to whom she owed all fealty and respect.
“One!” the executioner's assistant called out in a ringing voice.
Master Dickon lowered the rod and studied the tensing creamy bottom before him. The first cut had left thin parallel bright pink streaks over both cheeks of Ariel's bare behind, and they were deepening now and darkening as the cool air caressed the palpitating flesh. He could see how the muscles of her sinuous calves flexed and shifted as she prepared herself for the next cut, and he smiled dourly to himself. She was a proud upstart, a fancy, pampered vixen who doubtless had never known such castigation. He would have her howling before a baker's dozen, or his name was not Reuben Dickon. He did not doubt that this proud baggage would be shrieking ere long.
Grinding his teeth together, he stepped forward and sent the birch whistling across the base of Ariel's naked behind. Again she jerked convulsively against the whipping post, grinding her furry snatch against the chafing wood, her head lifting a little, and her eyes opening under the ferocious stinging impact of the switches on her soft sensitive skin. But this time she had been prepared for it and she had-ground her teeth too to hold back any outcry. Nonetheless, the uncontrollable shivering along her thighs and calves and into the cheeks of her tightening buttocks told the executioner that she had not been impervious to the stroke.
“Two!” Tom announced.
There was a long pause until the next stroke, and Ariel nervously shifted from foot to foot, harassed by the stricture of her tender wrists against the cold heavy iron rings at the cross-arm. She bowed her head, she drew several deep breaths and prepared herself for the onslaught of that wicked, swishing rod. Out of maiden modesty, she continued to contract the muscles of her bottom to hide the shameful intimacy of the mysterious, shadowy crease between the oval globes. Master Dickon smiled again. She was an obdurate piece, this one! And judging from the way she squirmed and jerked that sweet arse of hers, he would wager his entire fee for this morning's work that she'd never been so much as bare-bottom smacked by her folks when she was a child. Else she would know that the stiffening of the muscles only makes the rod bite the more greedily and cause the more pain.
Then suddenly he lofted the rod, waved it in the air, and brought it down with a direct vertical sweep over the left buttock, the tips of the switches biting against the tender side and the edge of the hipbone, the full impact of the withes harshly stinging the plump firm curve of the summit. Once again taken by surprise, Ariel Clarisson jerked convulsively, and turned her face slightly to the left, as a stifled moan rose in her throat. Her nostrils flared and shrank as she fought for breath, and she was forced to shift from foot to foot to ease the now aching bite of the cords around her slender wrists.
“Three!” Tom announced.
Instantly, with hardly a moment of respite, Master Dickon whirled the birch above his head, and then drove it down on the right buttock, in exact counterpart to the previous blow. Ariel writhed and twisted violently from side to side, the firm mounds of her bottom jiggling and quaking in this peroration, and again her head rose, her eyes very wide now and blurred with tears, while a strangled “Ohh!” was finally wrested from her as Tom called out the fourth stroke.
Altea and Beatrice watched from where they lay, their own pain momentarily forgotten as they perceived the stoic courage of their dearest friend. And they, like the spectators, gasped aloud as they saw the hooded executioner step back, the birch extended horizontally in the air and then step forward to deliver a sweeping slash over the base of both huddling naked creamy globes.
“Oh—ahh!” Ariel Clarisson gasped aloud, and for the first time she glanced nervously back over her shoulder to see the dread figure of the executioner.
Again Master Dickon paused, lowering the rod to the floor of the scaffold while he contemplated the effects of the first five cuts on Ariel Clarisson's naked bottom. The weals were darkening now, and showed up in salacious contrast to the pale creamy expanse of that magnificent behind which had not yet been touched. He had made a kind of geometric pattern, with the two vertical cuts barring each globe in a downward sweep, and then the three parallel strokes across the tops of the hips, the very center of her bottom, and the base. Where next the birch would strike that voluptuous backside of hers, there would be intersecting streaks which would cut the finely grained skin and at last draw blood, he knew.
But now, to vary the fustigation, he raised the rod overhead and swept it around and then from right to left across her bare shoulders. Ariel had not expected this variation in the punishment; as a consequence, the bruising shock of the switches falling en masse over her gracefully slim shoulders drove her forward so that her titties mashed their impetuous crests against the heavy wooden whipping post, and a barely audible groan of “Aahhh!” was torn from her trembling lips.
“Six!” the young assistant declaimed.
The seventh blow followed at once, across the waist, and so adroitly placed that the tips of the supple withes licked round Ariel's naked side and onto her belly. Her face twisted with anguish, as her body convulsively jerked from side to side and she seemed to arch her loins against the post as her head tilted back, her eyes filling with tears, her nostrils flaring and a sobbing “Ohhh!” announced her feverish discomfort. The streaks left by the switches on her fair skin were bright under the cool air and the leaden sky, and they would darken with the caress of the air upon the sensitive flesh. The executioner's assistant announced the seventh stroke.
Now Master Dickon contemplated the gracefully chisled thighs, wonderfully supple and lithe, admiring the dainty pale blue rosette garters adjusted at the stocking tops to keep the girl's hose without wrinkle on those long lovely legs. He would make them caper before the count had reached the twenty-third stroke! And to that end, slowing raising the rod, he cut from right to left across both naked upper thighs, just below the base of that jutting vulnerable and already piteously welted backside.
“Ohh my God, ohh!” for the first time Ariel Clarisson cried out and shrilly under that furious slash. A woman's thighs are often more tender than her bottom, and the proud coppery-haired lady-in-waiting had never before known the ignominy or the burning bite of the punitive rod on her fair skin. She executed an awkward jump from foot to foot, almost like a grotesque peasant dance, her naked titties jiggling, her quivering bottomcheeks jouncing and contracting voluptuously, and the murmur of the spectators grew louder as they delectated over this visible weakening under the lash. They longed to see the blood flow, longed for desperate cries for mercy, longed to watch her naked, gloriously exciting body jump and twist and jerk and then finally, frantically, seek to evade the furious slashes of the birch. There was no pity in their hearts for Ariel Clarisson; she was now only a naked, female body sentenced to be whipped, condemned to be degraded for their pleasure, and they were impatient to have her taste the full lees of the bitter draught of suffering and ignominy. Master Dickon was perspiring under his hood, and he examined the rod, which had begun to fray. Many green buds and a few twigs lay scattered on the floor of the scaffold around the whipping post. He cast aside the birch and walked back toward the two buckets of brine to select another, meanwhile gesturing to his assistant to bring him a flagon of ale which had been placed by a guardsman on the edge of the scaffold near the steps. He found another rod as supple and as murderously flexible, swishing it about in the air, and then replaced it in the bucket while he strode back to quaff his ale. Ariel bowed her head and groaned aloud, desperately praying for strength for the remainder of her lashing. Fifteen more lashes, fifteen horrid biting kisses of that fiendishly stinging, burning rod. And an eternity of despondent shame and degradation as her body, unable to do her bidding longer as her will weakened before the onslaught of pain and suffering, twisted and jerked like a puppet to the tune which the rod would call.
Once again, Ariel could tell by the taut silence around her that the birch was about to resume its hellish work. And even as she thought this, the ninth stroke fell solidly across the center of her bottomcheeks, the twigs whisking round towards her tender groin, delivered with full force, and driving her with a spasmodic, wrenching lunge of her naked body against the whipping post. “Oh God, oh God! Give me strength!” she cried aloud, raising her tear-drenched eyes to the cloudy sky above, and her fingers clawed the air as she uncontrollably jerked at her bound wrists. The muscles of her bottom spasmed, as did those of her thighs and calves, and for a moment the streaked and quivering bottom ovals formed a rigid mass of tender flesh furiously resisting the pitiless cruelty of the lashing.
“Nine!” Tom pronounced.
Without respite, Master Dickon whirled the rod about his head, stepped forward and sent it sweeping over the very same spot where the previous stroke had bitten.
“AAARRRHHH!!! OHH, HOW IT TEARS MY POOR FLESH!!! HAVE PITY ON ME!” Ariel Clarisson screamed, in her exorbitant agony. She had ground her pussy against the whipping post, and now she twisted and rubbed herself as if in the salacious act of onanism, while her naked titties heavingly flattened against the unyielding wood, her head fell back, her eyes widely dilated and blinded with tears, and she shifted from foot to foot in a desperate attempt to find some solace in the cruelly constrained position which made her so vulnerable to the wickedly whistling birch.
All that she could think of was that thirteen more blows of that terrible rod remained, and that already after ten her bottom and shoulders and thighs felt scorched, and her muscles were aching from the repeated stress she placed upon them in preparing herself to meet .the burning shock of those licking, searching withes which curled around her tender flesh so pitilessly.
With it, too, was the frantic and desperate wish to conceal as much of her private person as she could from these jeering eyes, and that was why she rubbed her pussy and flattened her titties against the whipping post. But oh, if they would only untie her wrists, she would gladly hug the post and bear the thrashing courageously, for her wrists ached so cruelly and she was sure the skin was broken from the twisting of the thin strong cords into her flesh as she writhed and jerked under the blows from Master Dickon.
The eleventh lash was atrocious. She heard the whistling Huishhh and immediately pressed herself forward, but that still did not give her defense enough against the horrid pain. It was like a scalding douse, applied horizontally just below the plumpest curves of both bottom summits, and it made her cry out hoarsely again, wordlessly, for she had rebuked herself for calling for mercy after the previous stroke. Her ears were buzzing and her temples were pounding as she heard Tom call out “Eleven!”
And now again without respite, hardly had his last syllable echoed into silence, than the birch resumed its diabolical torment of her tethered naked body, sweeping from on high and diagonally from right to left down both shuddering and welted bottomglobes.
“Oh how I suffer!” she cried aloud in her despair, knowing even as she uttered the words that Charlotte Sophia was relishing them, mocking her suffering, gloating over it and yearning for more to be inflicted.
“Twelve!” the executioner's assistant called out.
Once again Master Dickon lowered the birch, studied it critically, and then moved back to the edge of the scaffold to stoop, retrieve his flagon, and to empty it, almost in a single draught. Refreshed, he set it down with a clatter and then returned to the whipping post. Ariel had turned her head over her shoulder to follow him and when her eyes met his hooded face and she could see the glitter of his beady eyes through the slits in that hood, she uttered a groaning sob and quickly bowed her head and closed her eyes, trembling fitfully as she strained on tiptoe. The muscles of her calves ached furiously, and her kneehollows felt weak and trembling. But above all else was the flaming fury which these last few cuts attacking her naked posterior had inflicted.
She heard him chuckle. It was with satisfaction, for he had his purpose. He had made this baggage, this flouncy lady-in-waiting to a queen, wriggle and cry out for mercy. The eleven remaining blows of the birch would make her grovel. Before he finished, she would babble that she would even give her body to him if he would suspend the birch. And this would be his final triumph before his sovereign.
Sadistically, he extended the rod of switches, and laid them solidly across the base of that magnificent and now cruelly streaked bare bottom. Ariel caught her breath, and gave a sobbing little whimper as again she stiffened herself and arched tightly against the post, her pussycurls rubbing convulsively in her agitation. Her teeth were chattering now, and a cool wind from the northeast had come up, but it did not sooth the furious smarting and burning of her whipped bare bottom.
Swishhh! The thirteenth stroke was given after a pause of thirty seconds, during most of which time Master Dickon had kept the rod pressed against the area he had selected for his cut. But it was backhanded, from left to right, with the full strength of wrist, and his dexterity made her cry out again, hoarsely and wordlessly, once again turning her tearstained contorted face back over her shoulder to implore him with her agonized eyes.
Now he paused again, and with his left gauntleted hand rubbed his sweating forehead. He would have preferred to have been stripped to the waist, even cool as it was for a May morning, but it had been the edict of the Lord Chamberlain that he would wear this funeral garb to strike terror in the hearts of the young culprits.
Ten more lashes, Ariel thought to herself, Oh, dear God in heaven, give me strength, or let me faint under the birch so that I am not conscious of my shame and my suffering.
But he let her agonize there for a full minute before he applied the fourteenth stroke of the rod, and this one too slashed across the base of her bottom but from right to left.
Her call was raucous, and her body clashed against the wooden post as she lunged forward, twisting her hips, rubbing her pussy furiously and lewdly against the chafing wood. Her fingernails dug into the post, as she jerked at her wrists, and the cords had bitten so deeply so that the flesh was bluish and swollen.
“Fourteen,” Tom enumerated in a clear voice.
Only nine left now. If only he would whip her somewheres else, she prayed. But Master Dickon wished to crown his handiwork with so able a thrashing as would send this arrogant and fancy jade off to the colonies with a bottom well marked to show her future master what an undisciplined baggage she was. Swiftly this time, the fifteenth lash was delivered, over the tops of Ariel's squirming hips, and a sobbing wail was torn from her, as she seemed to shift from foot to foot in a jerky, dance-like step that drew coarse jeers and hoarse, lascivious comments from the gaping audience.
Again she raised her eyes to the skies, but there was no sun to shine upon her. The air was cooler now, but again it could not alleviate the agony of her burning bottom. Even to move from foot to foot was torment, even to stress her muscles of calves and thighs cost her acute torture as the muscles of her bottom twitched and contracted, sending frightful new waves of suffering through the now livid, violently striated flesh. Only here and there, in obscenely pale patches, could untouched flesh be seen on the shuddering oval cheeks of her naked behind.
By way of raillery at her weakening to his strength, Master Dickon applied the next blow squarely across the middle of her naked bum, and she twisted frantically, shaking herself as if to disperse the burning fury of the switches; her head turned to one side, and a sobbing cry of “Oh God, oh God, pity a helpless girl who suffers beyond her due!”
And from the second floor of the palace, Charlotte Sophia gloatingly cried out, “You have not yet begun to know what suffering is, you shameless young Dirne!Master Dickon, I wish to see the blood spurt from that waggling backside!”
The hooded executioner turned and bowed, saluted with the frayed rod. Casting it aside, he went to the brine-filled buckets and chose a bulkier birch, swished it in the air, and then planted himself to the left of the now sobbing, writhing, half-fainting red-haired prisoner.
With all his strength, he now delivered each of the remaining cuts, with hardly a pause between each, across the broadest curves of those bewitchingly impudent, resilient hillocks of Callyphygian beauty, and under each Ariel Clarisson shrieked like a lost soul, capering, dancing from foot to foot, twisting her ravaged, teardrowned face back to implore mercy, sobbing, groaning through her choking plaints, as blood pearled indeed from the many savage crisscrossings of the striata dealt by those biting switches.
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