Friday, 16 April 2010

Fourteen strokes may seem a strange number but remember she was "on the bill", a schoolroom phrase meaning that her faults, and those of other girls in the household, would be listed as on an old time shopkeeper's bill, together with their individual cost in terms of corporal punishment.

At regular intervals, usually weekly on a Friday or Sunday evening, the girls would present themselves for correction as she describes. A total of only fourteen means that she had not been into any serious trouble that week. Had she, for example, been discovered masturbating she would be "up" for a lot more.

But now her thrashing begins:
My tutor braced his feet well apart behind my naked white moons and lifted the rod to lash it down low in a long practised sweeping motion that brought all its half dozen or so switches to bear at once, spaced out slightly over my well spread bottom cheeks, each twig burrowing deep into my soft flesh, the sharp nodes and hardened buds biting even sharper.I bucked to the stinging blow, my breath going out in a strangled gasp. I always forgot how very much the birch stung, blotting from my mind the excruciating minutes I had last spent taking two dozen tight ones for unseemly language. That had been just a week ago and my faded memory was rudely restored by the band of fire that blazed across my naked rotundities under my tutor's discipline.
Scarcely had I absorbed the scalding thrash when the next cruel cut swished in. I moaned to myself. Here am I already panting after only two! My thoughts were interrupted by another vicious cut that had me grunting and involuntarily trying in vain to squeeze my bottom cheeks together as if to wring out the pain.
My tutor thrashed me steadily, laying on the strokes with drive and precision honed by experience. Lovely, he must have been thinking, looking at the white mounds, now streaked with a multitude of vivid scarlet lines. He thrashed the rod home again across my now writhing buttocks, sweeping up from underneath to catch me on my most sensitive parts, the twigs splaying out to catch the tops of my thighs, the tips going up and in between to clip the pouting rosebud, drawing a sudden yelp from me.

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