PN Dedeaux Again

The birch is a somewhat old fashioned method of corporal punishment so this drawing gives the right feel, so to speak. Of course her frilly knickers will have to come down too before she goes over the birching horse.

But now for another period piece from P.N. Dedeaux slightly adapted by me. Ira's introduction to her tutor and his cane:

‘What do you propose to use on her, in particular?’asked Lord Usher.

‘Cane, birch and, when necessary, the leather, replied my tutor. I’ve seen plenty of birch about here already. She shall put them up herself. Excellent training, thinking about it first.’

‘Well, don’t cut her quite in two’, laughed Lady
Julia, looking down into my face. ‘She’s a green girl,
even if she has been to the stables once or twice.’

‘Oh I don’t doubt but that she can go a few. A
sound swishing never killed anyone. In any case,
she’ll just have to get used to it, that’s all.’

‘Faith’, said Lord Usher with ever-brightening
eye, ‘I admit I shouldn’t care to be in the bill to you
with Ira, for all the tea in China. Do you mean
to make it Fridays, as it was for us?’

‘Us too’, said Lady Julia.

‘As it was, so it shall be’, confirmed Mr. Pelham
on a nod. ‘Fridays after dinner.’

‘The deuce but these rods look licky. What are they exactly?’

‘Willows and, for serious work, a malacca.’

‘Let me see them, old chap.’ The tutor surrendered the bundle of fasces,from which Lord Usher selected one. Its slippery supple quality as he flicked the air with it made my skin go goosey all over. The thing was pregnant with pain.

‘Understand they’re introducing these all over.
Quite the thing. In the schools, I mean.’

[This was the time when the cane was replacing the birch as the preferred means of corporal punishment in British schools.]

‘Yes’, agreed Mr. Pelham, re-accepting the wand
and doubling its great length almost in two, ‘Rugby
has quite gone over now, I hear.’

‘Some say they are even more cruel.’

‘Than the birch? I have heard the complaint.
Trouble is, a birching takes too long. If you hit hard,
and I like to, you can slow a swishing to as few as
three or four a minute, with maximum pain. As you
may imagine, this impedes class work. For the
classroom these canes are admirable. They cut
sharp with but a few.’

‘But don’t they bruise terribly?’ asked Julia, frowning.

‘Tolerably. But that adds to the desire to avoid
repetition. A swishing on a girl’s bum already tender from
the stick can be very salutory indeed. In my last job I
started off by giving my two charges six of the best
before breakfast each morning for the whole of
their first week. You should have seen the result.
Supple as gloves in no time. No, Ma’am, you must
never let up when breaking a young’un into harness.’

‘And I doubt if you do, Mr. Pelham’, she said
with another chesty shiver.

He stared at her steadily an instant. ‘No. I don’t.
What presumes to be weaker must be
hardened all the more in the intenser fire. So come,
let’s see what we have to deal with here. Step
forward, Miss.’

The cane tapped a place on the carpet and I took
up my stance there, dry-throated.

‘Ever tried the cane?’

‘No, sir.’

This, it will be observed, was my first vocal
declamation to date in the scene.

‘Nor does she, Plum’, guffawed Lord Usher,
‘appear over-anxious to make the acquaintance.’

‘It is no sparer of persons. Turn round and let’s
look at you.’

My skirt swung over my filling thighs as I
obeyed.

‘Lean over with your hands on your knees. Hm.
Let’s say she may wear skirts after lessons at noon
are over, but they will have to be briefer than this.
I require a complete consciousness of her person at
all times. Now, girl, from me you’ll always get it on
the bum.’

With a little contemptuous twitch, or flicker, of
his stick the tutor flipped up my skirt behind. My
pretty slip followed. Cream-coloured silk bloomers,
so tight they creased where I creased and dimpled
where I dimpled, too, were all that obscured my
robustly-parted buttocks for the three pairs of eyes
watching, and I flushed with unrequited shame. To
my added horror, however, the man approached
and began to palpate and prod with stubby fingers,
separating the cheeks and weighing them in his
cupped palms and generally acting as some butcher
might to his meat.
‘This is all in her interest’, I heard Lord Usher
reassuring his wife. ‘Quite a science in knowing
where the nerves lie, and applying accordingly.’

‘Now touch your toes’, said that voice I was
already growing to fear intensely. ‘And now’, he
said, when I had done so, ‘stand up and this time,
girl, when I say touch your toes bend over as if your
life depended on it. Mind now, I want your head on
your knees. If you can’t put your palms on the floor
with straight legs in two weeks I’ll have you doing
special exercises for two hours a day. Over!’

‘That’s better’, said Lord Usher, when I had
lunged like a hinge. ‘That’s what I call a tight bum.’

‘Pulls up the puppy-fat. Head right down now,
Miss. Pull over with your arms.’ The cane tapped
one flesh side. ‘Tighter still. Try now.’

‘I’m trying, sir’, I puffed.

‘Well, try harder.’

I strained again. This time as he approached I
was aware that the thin silk perfectly outlined the
fatty purse pushed back by the posture, between my
legs. There was nothing I could do, however; I could
not diminish its appearance, and indeed I knew all
too well that its divided nature was perfectly
apparent. I resolved not to move under his
ministrations, whatever they might be, and did not
do so while he again felt me all over – until he
pinched the cloven fruit testingly in his fingers, and
ran a finger to my tight anal orifice. I gasped and half rose,
crimson, but he ordered me over again.

‘This is a good solid girl-bum’, he pronounced. ‘I
could wish for more separation for the stick, which
is an impact instrument, but there is no doubt she can
go a few. No danger here of touching bone, the
coccyx is even well covered. I suspect it will be most
tender low down, in the gluteal fold, and I shall
work there if need be.’

‘You are very exact’, said Lady Julia.

‘Now, Miss, stand up. Take off your drawers and
let’s see your skin.’

‘No!’

I recoiled with a startled gasp, frightened by my
own refusal as much as anything. There was a long
silence.

Finally, flexing his wand, the tutor said:
‘Is no the only word you know, child? I am afraid
it is one to eradicate from your lexicon so far as I am
concerned, as rapidly as possible.’

‘And which will cost her?’ insinuated Lord
Usher, avidly enough, with a loose smile.

‘Six of the best last thing tonight’, said the tutor,
still staring at me.

‘A hard start, forsooth. But it is as well to get off
on the right foot, early.’

‘I seldom give less than six. Even with the malacca.’

Lady Julia smiled. ‘Poor old Ira. I shall come
and say good-night to you when it’s over.’

‘Refusal to obey an order is a serious offence’,
continued the tutor. ‘It is a Commission of a grave
nature constituting Insubordination.’

‘I will repair it, sir’, I said, reaching under my
skirt. But he merely shook his head.

‘Too late. You will put it down in the Demerit
Book I shall set out in the hall tomorrow. It will be
left open there for all to see, and the account settled
each Friday.’

Lord Usher gave a nervous laugh.

‘Severe as ever, eh, Plum. Settled by the twigs, I
assume?’

‘Insubordination is six with the birch, yes.’

I had a strong desire to leave and, dropping a
profound curtsey, asked if my presence were further
required and, if it were not, that I might be excused.
‘Mind now, Ira. Six strokes of the cane across your naked buttocks.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You may go.’

The rest of that day was devoted to my preparations.

Somehow, I know not how, Mrs. Wilson soon got
wind of my impending punishment, and that
afternoon she delightedly dilated on the event:
‘Springy as an eel, yet hard as stone at the tip.
He’s already sent down for some size, he has, to
stiffen ’em up a bit, you see. Oh I wouldn’t want to
be in your shoes tonight for a hundred sixpences,
Miss Highhat. I’ve seen boys of eighteen blubber
after a meeting with canes like that. They sting
like fury. At first it’s like a hot oil bum, then like a
white-hot sword drawn across your bum, and then
the true fire starts to mount. A good cut is at its
worst fifteen seconds later – when ’e comes at ye
again. And again. Arter three you’ll be wishing
that big impudent bottom of your’n were half its
size. Oh I’d give anything to see it, I would. It’s the
best thing ever for ye, Ira.’

I lay on the bed that night, waiting for my dread visitation. I had left my dinner and fled upstairs, where I had stripped at once and bedded. I put on my flimsy nightdress but left my silk stockings and boots, unsure of how I would be required to present myself for punishment.

As I lay on my side with the light still on I stared into the fire which Lilly always lit for me,and I tried to remember what it had been like in the stables. A hot oil bum, that was all. My fingers went under my nightgown and ran over the warm puddings of my hinder halves, soon to be thrashed into by a pitiless round cane. Then my fingers strayed to my front, where I was surprised to find my clitoris swollen and very sensitive.

The urge to masturbate - a newly discovered but strictly forbidden nocturnal pleasure in which I frequently indulged - was very strong, but then there were sounds downstairs, a slammed door, and I heard that purposeful tread which was soon to haunt my nightmares.

Mr. Pelham had steel tips to the heels of his boots and he walked as he did everything, as if he meant it. My stomach turned. For a second I again doubted that I could hold my water and thoughts of masturbation fled - at least for now.

He strode in briskly, holding a soullessly long, horribly whippy, thin, yellow cane, shut the door behind him and said,

‘Turn out.’

I jumped off the bed but for a moment he did not
deign to look at me, moving about the room touching
pictures and objects with the glittering tip of his
stick.

‘Next time you are ordered punishment at bedtime you wait outside
the door, in the passage, understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But at least you are dressed correctly for it. Turning his pallid gaze upon me and pointing the cane at my nightdress he said, ‘Lift it right up.’

This time I could not obey quickly enough. My
nightie was up and I was back on the bed in a flash. But the man’s
eyes did not drop, nor so much as stir to my revealing nudity.
My bush was by now thick and firm up my belly and
in a wide bar across it. My bottom hole was pouting and puckered. But if I blushed he did not. He read my mind at once.
‘You’ll stop this silly flushing, child. You aren’t
a girl to me. You’re a pair of buttocks that need to be punished.
All I’m interested in is making certain you regret
your action …’

‘I do already, sir’, I assured him.

‘Don’t interrupt me, Ira. And I won’t repeat again in a
hurry. Now stick out your bottom, feet well apart, and put
your hands behind your head. Lean forward to
widen yourself completely and let your cheeks hang
quite limp. I want them relaxed for this first
introduction. I’m going to take you full across the fat
this time.’
I felt the cold of the cane in its
measuring tap and he went on gently, ‘A little
further still. Now this is the first time I’ve
whipped you, Ira, and I want you to tell
yourself that every time I do so it’ll hurt more than
you think. I’ll never let you off lightly, ever. You’re
going to get the rod again, and again, and again,
until you’re properly trained and in the right frame
of mind. Six strokes.’

At once the air soughed behind me, a sound
completed by a fleshy smack. A hot oil burn was
what I told myself as that cane bit round my
hanging cheeks. No more nor a hot oil bum,
PLEASE! But Mrs. Wilson was right once more. The
pain drove up like liquid fire. This sting was
incomparably superior, more subtle, than the
bruising strap. I gasped and perked.




















Thwllk!
The same meaty whack told me he had cut again
– two! This time I hissed, hopping in place. The
spot struck by the tip was unbelievably painful.
There was no withstanding it. I writhed.

Thwlllk!
The third long, almost lethargic motion sent the
stick lashing round my bum. There was a mirror
opposed to me on the other wall and who was this I
saw within it? A girl with elbows back, hands at
nape, her face scarlet and writhen together, eyes
squeezed up, the torso forward and her ripeness of
belly receding into a darkness below. Come on, I
wanted to beg him now in my extremity, get it over
with, give me the next. But the waiting became too
much and I grabbed back.

‘Get into position.’

‘But it hu-uuuurts … so terribly.’

‘Three to come. If you reach behind again, I shall
hit your hands.’
I endured four, and five, though my boots might
have been treading some blistering treadmill.
Again the flame burnt too deep and I grasped my
hotly-wealed posteriors as if a horde of hornets
had just been let loose there. Came a rapping crack
and I squealed as he skinned my knuckles, dancing
with pain. one fist to my mouth. Somehow I
resumed my place and swallowed the last on a cry.
After which I sat my raging bottom on the bed, my
hands under it, rocking and weeping with pain. The
cane was incomparably stricter than I had
conceived it to be.

‘Ah, sir … you didn’t need … to be as severe.’

He put on his jacket which for the first time I
saw he had doffed for the task.
‘It would be as well for you to get my regulations
concerning correction by heart, Ira. Any
flinching off means taking the cut over. Moving out
of position, two extra. Failure to wait for
permission to rise after the last cut, three extra. You
were not to know about permission but you will have
to do much better under the rod than this, if you are
to enter Miss Ponsonby’s in a year. She requires total
stoicism. You moved twice, thus meriting four.’

‘Please, sir, please … you can’t mean … uuu, you
hit so hard!’
‘However, as this was your first essay at my
hands, I shall be unusually lenient. You will be
permitted to take them start of work tomorrow.’

‘Sir!’ I protested, squirming. ‘I am but a girl.’

He nodded at the door. ‘A girl who is going to get
four cuts across the bum at nine sharp tomorrow.
It is now you are learning your lesson, when the
sting is at its liveliest, and you can promise that
pronounced bottom of yours that I gave you now
what will be child’s play to what you’ll have in
the bill, Friday night, should you disobey again.
Moreover, I shall profit by the fact of your sex to
which allusion I am grateful. I shall not hesitate to
set you on a stool with your knickers round your
ankles, and your b.t.m. on display for all to see –
servants and visitors alike – any time it’s had to be
treated in earnest. You’ve a strong pair and I’m not
likely to let up on ’em an instant. Goodnight.’

When he had gone I recovered somewhat and
moving stiff-legged to a mirror inspected the marks
made by that mercilessly licky stick. The weals
were dark and hard, plump and lumpy and full of
blood on the right. My wondering fingers traced one
place where three seemed to have fallen together.
How had the poor skin, so contused, not broken?
Heavens, you didn’t half catch it, I thought,
staring at those rounds. I unlaced my boots and went to bed, laying on my belly with those swollen fruits in my hands. Now that the worst was over I felt a curious glow again all over, a sense of fulfilment in having been so well-whipped, and come through. My hungry fingers strayed to the front of my nightdress again.

Caned in front of Stepmom

She is sent to bed under the watchful eye of stepmom, where she will listen to them doing it next door - like they do every time.

P.N. Dedeaux Duty Caning

This comes from An English Education, set in a strict girls
boarding school of the kind featured in Jane Eyre. Indeed
Jane is the principal character and sufferer. Enjoy.

An hour later the Duty monitor for the day, a
great girl called Hutchinson, swirled past me in a
side corridor, looking sumptuous in her white.
‘Oh I say, Eyre.’ She turned back and felt into a
little leathern bag at her waist. ‘I nearly forgot.
You’re on Demerit tonight. Untidy locker on
inspection.’
She handed me a button with UNTIDY on it. My
lips were giving way. Tears mutinied to my eyes.
‘Ber-but I’ve just had nine …’
‘Well, you’ll get three more, won’t you. Oakes is
on Duty and she always makes it hurt. Cheer up!’
And she patted my cheek. ‘It won’t kill you, quite.’
I was ‘up’ for my first Duty caning. My stomach
shrank, my sides caved in. Sure enough, the
dreaded list went up shortly before Evening Hall.
‘Hard cheese, Eyre’, said a voice in the crowd
around it.
‘Good Lord, Maud is in for eight!’
There were six names: I was to suffer last.
‘Jennifer’s hardly going to have much fun.’
The notice, whose letters squirmed like snakes
before my eyes, read:
The following will attend on the Duty Mistress at
9.00 p.m.

Drayne, J Tardy 5
Palmer, T. Idle 4
Morris, M. Pert 4
ditto 4 [this was Maud]
Wragg, T. Inattentive 3
Ponsonby, E. Idle 3
Eyre, J. Untidy 3

Needless to describe the content of the hours that
passed between that simple reading and our evening
prep where, eyes glazing over well-bethumbed
Ovid or stealing a crucial glance at the clock above,
the six culprits sat with cringing skins and sinking
stomachs, occasionally receiving the sly glances of
other girls.
Promptly on the chime of nine Hutchinson strode
in and went up to the mistress in supervision. Then
she came down the aisles collecting us. She tapped
me on the shoulder with a whispered ‘Wanted’,
and I hecticly amassed my books in my desk and
followed the rest out. Without the door she called
our roll to see that all were present, then said
‘Hurry up, get into line. Now follow me.’ We did so
to the far end of the building where we went down
some wide steps to the formal Duty chamber. It was
the most miserable rank imaginable who lined up
along the wall one side of this, while the Prefect
stood opposite with the great black Demerit book in
one hand. After some minutes a few senior girls
appeared, and chatted with Hutchinson; they
liked to see the punished girls come out after their
chastisement and squirm and writhe their way up
the stairs. Finally, the sharp staccato of a
mistress’s high heels might be heard. Miss Oakes
came into view.
The Latin mistress was young and energetic, with
short curly blonde hair and square shoulders on a
chunky body. Her close-fitting black velvet tunic,
with the big L in gold on the left breast, hung
without a fold from the bursting body, while the
skirt hem barely covered the buttocks, under which
smoky stockings were tautly gartered. She bounced
into the room as we curtseyed and Hutchinson
followed in with her.
One of the great girls at the side said, ‘Ouch …
ouch … whew!’
I took a deep breath. Apprehension was filling
me wholly. We were going to get it. There was no
avoidance now. The ineluctability, the march of
events, had us in its sway and I fear that just in
front of me Thomasina Wragg [the girl birched by her tutor] was gently
crying.

Then the door abruptly opened and the monitor
called, ‘Come in’.
We entered and lined up, one behind the other,
on one side of the room. This was timbered and
raftered and far too large for the task assigned it,
that of corporeally correcting the skin of not so very
terrible sinners of the fair sex. Its size alone struck
awe into our hearts, even if its appliances did not
suffice for that task. There was a large fire. Miss
Oakes sat on the edge of a worn deal table
confronting us with three or four of the most
ferocious canes I had ever seen behind her, and the
Prefect stood beside our rank with her book. But all
the furniture we could see was the board.
This simple affair was the guillotine in our lives
of the moment. It was a plain upright board, or
plank, resolutely accoutred with straps and bars,
and for us it bespoke pain. We were going to have to
bend over the board, buttocks bare, and be flogged.
The mistresses believed in variety. Some took
the proceedings with many monitives; tonight Miss
Oakes seemed averse to such. She merely nodded.
‘All right, Hutch, let’s get on with it.’
The monitor scrutinized her book. ‘Drayne?’
‘Here.’
‘Tardy. Report of Miss Smith.’
The mistress said, ‘Have you anything to say?’
‘No, Miss.’
‘Do you wish to appeal?’ On another negative
Miss Oakes said simply, ‘Five. Take them off.’
The girl, whom I did not know, was clearly used
to the procedure. Her only visible signs of fear were
certain grimaces of the mouth, as she gradually
unbuttoned and undid her scant knickers and slid
them off. As she went to one wall where we had to
hang them on a hook, glimpses of alliciating white
underbuttock could be seen. She was not a tall girl
but had the same tantalizing liquid flesh of
Georgiana, albeit fuller of form than she.
‘Put her over tight.’ With a much less certain
look the girl approached the board. She stood to it
slightly astride and Hutchinson positioned her.
The feet went through two slots in the base,
about half a yard apart. They were then securely
stocked by bars behind the ankles. A further bar,
adjustable at the knees, made any flexion of the
legs impossible as well as undesirable. The top of
the board came about hip-high, but contained a
leaf which could be adjusted to various heights.
Atop this was a leathern pommel against which
you braced the pubis. Then an iron bar was adjusted
just behind, in the small of the back; loosed on
springs this bar then pressed there hard, cambering
the loins, an effect all the more brilliantly
produced as the monitoring Prefect then stood before
the girl and, grasping her wrists, hauled her fully
forward. Back curved, bottoms parted, tautened and
arched out for the whip, the culprit was ready to
suffer. And what a whip it was.
The Reverend Brocklehurst [the headmaster]saw to it that
nothing was spared in the severity of these
occasions and the Duty rods were those employed
with effect in boys’ reformatories. Yellow, shiny,
well-waxed their entire surface, they were longer
than the classroom canes and thicker at the tip,
though almost as whippy. I was to learn what such
minor modifications meant in intensification of
suffering. A sound Duty flogging and – I was
witnessing one – was something not even the
hardiest girl wished to repeat in a term.
Bared by no more than a contemptuous flick of
the cane under the skirt hem, the buttocks were
well spread and stretched for treatment as the
Prefect hauled on the culprit’s arms from in front.
After stepping the soles of her shoes in some rosin
at the side, the mistress measured aim and stood
back. She came about two paces forward, swinging;
the sleek stick slickly divided the air with its
drear whirr, then thumped into the underside of
the cheeks, which it visibly drove upwards. The
shock on the whole body attested to the gathered
velocity of impact, while the involuntary squirm,
and purple welt, affirmed its effect.
‘One’, said the Prefect loudly.
The mistress examined her weal. The girl in front
of me ran her tongue on her lips. She was shaking. I
caught her sick whisper, to herself, ‘Right in the
crease.’
There was a long pause whose silence was merely
underlined by the quickened breathing of the
sufferer, then two fell. A trifle higher, but a fullbodied
blow.
The mistress said, ‘Damn!’ Then, ‘Quite forward,
please, Hutch.’ The third followed deep into the
sulcal groove again and the girl gave a long
exhaled ‘Ooooo-uuuuh!’
Her head came up between her shoulders and I
could see her eyes tight shut. Fatty writhings of her
inner cheeks, pouting anus, poor pathetic wrigglings of the
wounded rounds together, spoke of her torment. She
gave a short cry at the fourth but was silent after
the fifth, her clenched mouth dribbling. The five
thick weals flamed at the very bottom of her
buttocks.
Miss Oakes looked appraisingly at these fat,
blood-thickened welts drawn full across the
underseat, for the Duty strokes were always
delivered low, into the tender sulcus if possible.
With a smile she unlatched the ankle-stocks and
the legs shot back, threshing and writhing.
‘All right.’ The Prefect released the sufferer
from before and she jumped up, face crimson and
contorted, grabbing at her inflamed flesh in rolls.
The pain was mounting up in earnest now. She
ducked a knee and mouthed an almost soundless
‘Thank you’ to the mistress and then walked, or
writhed, a-tiptoe to the side where she retrieved
her scanty undergarment.
‘Not bad, Jennifer’, said the mistress. ‘You can get
an A.’ And so the monitor duly inscribed it in the
book, each of our official chastisements being
graded for stoicism under the rod.
The girl made with ducked face to the door
without putting on her knickers, as was the form.
She looked thoroughly punished, through and
through.

Now it was the turn of pretty Teresa
Palmer, up for four. A thin girl she went to her fate
in demonstrable fear, whimpering at the board, ‘Oh
Miss … please, Miss … oh please Miss.’ She cried
lustily at the first but pulled herself together and
endured three more thudding strokes with no more
than panted gasps. She too was allotted an A. She
writhed like a dervish on her way to the door,
however.

Now poor Maud Morris, the answerer-back in the
changing-room, was called forward. Her two faults
were announced, she was sentenced to her awful
eight, and she impassively peeled the thin fabric
from her round bottoms. Bent over the board this
was indeed an impressive rump, sturdy, wellparted,
full of spring, with the afternoon’s cuts
clearly inscribed across the cheeks. Miss Oakes
seemed to want to make sure the maximal severity
permissible was inflicted, for any criticism of a
mistress was conceived especially heretical.
She bounded forward and lashed the young chubs
till they juddered again. Ferocious weals barred the
underneath proffered. With astonishing phlegm
the girl silently reached six, after whose
resounding whack she slowly stiffened, her cheeks
squeezing in with her agony.
Like a runner at the end of a race she gasped
back, ‘No, please … it is enough … dear God, to
punish me so …’
Miss Oakes smiled, watching the pain do its
work.
‘Relax’, she said gravely. ‘Unclench them,
Maud.’
The girl groaned. The Prefect pulled her arms
and the cane sang in again.
‘Seven!’
‘YOWWW!’
‘Eight!’
‘HOAAAW!’
Maud Morris writhed in perfect agony when it
was over. She walked from the room slowly,
holding herself and making dreadful deep groans.

‘Next.’
Wragg and Ponsonby were despatched in the
same businesslike way and suddenly the room was
whirling round me. I was there alone, facing the
now slightly smiling mistress on whose upper lip I
could see a droplet of sweat. It was happening, it
was happening …

‘Eyre?’
‘Here.’
‘Untidy. My report, Miss.’
‘Have you anything to say?’
‘N-no, Miss.’
I could not take my eyes from that frightful cane
whose tip was pressing and bending at the
floorboards before me.
‘Wish to appeal?’ On another negative the
mistress then said, ‘First time?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
She nodded. ‘Three of the best. Take them off.’
As I returned from hanging my miniscule knickers
on the hook my beaten buttocks cringed in
anticipation.
‘Over tight, Hutch.’
I was sick-throated as the monitor, first taking
off my UNTIDY button, put me to the board. The
leathern pommel came just to my height and, when
I was pressed against it with skirt up in front, felt
wet and warm from the groins of the previous sufferers. My
legs were stocked and straightened by the knee-bar.
I bent over. Released across the small of my back
the bar there, also padded with leather on its
underneath, pressed most strongly. Its spring was
very powerful, more so than I had expected and
made me arch out my bottom behind. The Prefect
then took my hands in hers. She did this by
gripping my right wrist with her right, and I had
to grasp hers back. Then the left was taken
likewise, in her left, and with hands crossed over in
this manner she hauled me forward. I realized I
was on my toes and quaking all over.
The mistress examined her meat, feeling out the
sulcal groove with a finger, since it was a tradition
that the Duty cuts were delivered here where, any
girl will tell you, it hurts most. Due to the friction
of the overhang the skin is more tender at this
point. Before I knew it I was cut.
‘One’, said the Prefect.
Ah, what a stroke! It fell with less sound than
I’d expected but jolted me forward with a grunt. A
savage wave of flame laved my lower person.
Heavens, how it stung. Suddenly, it seemed that a
second wave rose and joined this first, mounting
unbearably. I heard a breathless whine – my own –
and cringed in my cheeks, so rudely assaulted. I
held myself tense in spasm for what seemed
minutes, then, exhausted, let my buttocks hang
slack, and flaccid.
I was whipped again. This time I gasped aloud.
The monitor counted. The wave flamed. The pain
ate in. Oh this was strict, indeed. The Duty cane
doubled the agony. Again, a brief fury of rebellion
helped me endure – it was unjust to be made to suffer
so. Stocked, stripped, and given cuts to make a
convict writhe, right in the tenderest part of our
softest persons. But, where was the third?
‘You’re clenching’, said the mistress.
‘I cer-can’t help it, Miss’, I barely breathed.
‘Well, you’d better or you’ll get extra. Relax
them quite now.’
The third terrific stroke wrapped itself around
me.
I cried.
‘One extra for clenching’, I heard in the mists
above my head and behind my bruised back.
It was given. I prefer to pass over what ensued.
Somehow I managed to curtsey and leave that room.
I was awarded but a C. What I best remember was
the sudden access of pure white fire that attained
me outside the door and sent me spinning like a
dancer, grabbing great rubbery rolls of tormented
flesh, in front of the grinning great girls there, as I
tried in vain to pluck out the demon which was
continuing to burn into and under my being.
‘Hooouuu-aaaaah!’
‘Tight enough for you, Eyre?’
‘Why did you get four?’
‘Feeling warm?’

I got to the dormitory and put myself to bed, as
was the rule. Lying on my belly in the half-dark, I
felt those brutal weals, the skin all hot and taut
upon their bulges. I wished for the frame that
birched girls were given, to raise the sheets off
their flogged bottoms. The pain gradually dimmed,
dulled and I felt warm all over.
Presently the door softly opened and closed and a
figure approached me, that of Parker. Another was
with her, the monitor’s friend Crawford. Holding
hands by my bed they looked down at me softly
smiling.
‘Bad luck, Eyre, we heard you got a Duty.’
‘A real beauty’, said. her friend, ‘according to
Hutch.’
‘It did sting rather’, I said with assumed
bravado.
‘Can we see them?’
‘Oh all right’, I said with a petulant shrug of my
body.
My sheets were peeled down, my gown up and
cool air calmed my buttocks.
‘Phew! you certainly caught it on the right.’
‘You could put a ruler over the lot, I declare.’
‘Th-that one you’re touching now’, I said as a
hand pulled the buttock slabs up to examine well
under me, ‘that was the worst of all. The last one.
For clenching.’
I felt a curious quaint pride in having come
through and in having these great girls examining
my wounded person with such obvious respect.
‘You should never clench with Oakes. She
always notices’, said Parker, still feeling me.
‘Besides’, added Crawford, ‘clenching only
makes it bruise more. It helps against the first
sting, but not the second.’
‘It helps in birching, though.’
‘That’s why they fig you first.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Ginger suppository up the anus. Makes you
spread like billyho.’ The girls giggled, then Parker
whispered something to her friend and Crawford
left the room. The Dorm head leant over me and
said a little breathlessly, ‘I’ll put some cold cream
on them for you, Eyre, and you’ll feel ever so better,
just you see.’
I was not averse. Actually I was beginning to feel
a pleasant heat in my soft and swollen lower lips.
Parker went up to her alcove and came back and sat
on my bed. She began to rub the cream into my
cheeks with slow squeezing hands. I panted at once.
Soon my hinds were so greasy they were slipping
under her ministrations, blubbery balls of flesh that
she churned together with her thumbs up their
insides.
‘Feel better?’
‘Ooooh yes. Ber-but I … oh Parker … I’m …’
She chuckled knowingly. ‘Relax. Let yourself go,
silly.’ Then, ‘You’ll have to cant your bum up a bit
so’s I can get at those lower weals.’
With grateful greed I did so, on my knees, my
loins arching of their own accord. I knew the
twinned apricot of my sweet slot was pouching
prettily back between the top of my thighs.
‘Oh thank you’, I panted. ‘This is lovely.’
She laughed again and laved into my cunt with
her greasy thumbs. I ooohed at once. I felt red-hot
down there, like a kettle about to burst. When one
thumb flicked my clit I groaned aloud. The ready
sentinel was stiff.
‘I … oh heavens if you go like that … I’m, uigh,
I’m afraid I’m going to squirt!’
‘Of course you are’, she chided. ‘Just let yourself
go. You’re learning something we all find out here
sooner or later. It’s five times as fine after a
whipping. There, you’re drippy as a sponge.’
All the while she had been massaging the
underside of my bud with the ball of her thumb. It
was irresistible. I said quietly, ‘I feel I’m going to
blow up now’, and I did. She jammed her thumb full
home, palming my belly, as I came, giving me
purchase on which to mash my hungry red dragon. I
jacked straight, gripping her wrist between my
thighs, and tides of ecstasy flowed, molten, over me
in wave on shaking wave. She was right. I had
never known such lengthening of bliss, finger myself
as I might at Gateshead. Finally, when I could look
back limp, I saw Parker sniffing her hand with a
smile.
‘You smell of violets in a hot sun, darling’, she
said. ‘Heavens, you certainly go a lot. Was it good?’
I wriggled expressively for answer.
‘Well, we shall have to wipe you off in the
wash-room, shan’t we, or you will be on the mat for
staining your sheets tomorrow. The grease won’t
matter so much, but if Matron sees your goo …!’ She
tugged at my shoulder. ‘Come on, idiot. Then you
can be nice to me behind my curtain afterwards,
can’t you, I’m certain you’ve a tongue like an eel.
Remember, I do have to give you three more in a
mo’.’
Suddenly I wanted to cry, and did so.
‘Wha-wha-wha’, I blubbered, keening. ‘We’re
all always being caned here … and it hurts so
much …’
‘Yes, but think what a lot of good it does you.’

Caning Girls Prussian Style

A caning session this time, by P.N. Dedeaux from The Prussian Girls
introducing the Duty caning of which more another time. Enjoy

The time was half past eight in the evening, and at nine the
Duty Mistress held her notorious session with those
unfortunates who had been put up on the Duty List.
This was one of the most dreaded moments of the
day, for all concerned.
The lovely girl sighed. She shifted her thighs. Under the
tight green knickers her bottoms felt shivery and
wobbly, and twice as big as usual. She wondered if
it showed, behind. A book dropped and she jumped.
It was the girl in the desk to her right. As the
book had fallen open near Monika’s feet she
reached to help pick it up. A note was stuffed
hurriedly in her hand. Two bright eyes caught hers.
Slowly, under carefully cupped fingers, Monika
read the single word scribbled in pencil – ‘Glück!’
Good luck. She ventured a quick glance across the
aisle, and caught her friend Barbara Mack’s eyes in
a sympathetic squeeze of commiseration. Then she
swallowed the morsel of paper, barely moving her
gullet as she did so. That had been decent of
Barbara. If they’d been caught, Fräulein Katte
would have given Barbara ten with the birch. At
least.

The door swung open and Monika’s world crashed
about her. For a second she couldn’t catch her
breath. A tall Prefect called Else Gundling
strode in, wearing her uniform of office – in her case,
of the same soft black leather as the mistresses’, but
the skirt in very short pleats falling over smoky
stockings, tautly hauled, and knee-length leather
boots. These clicked with precision as the eighteenyear-
old girl went up to the Monitor’s desk in
silence, curtseyed, and whispered something. Then
she was coming along the aisle to Monika, whose
heart began to hammer like a … like a …
‘Duty Mistress requires to see you. Follow me.’
Sickly closing her Caesar, Monika stood up and –
with nobody looking at her but everyone looking at
her – followed the Prefect out of the room. Once
outside Gundling led off smartly down long stone
corridors, lit by flares. She marched in martial
tread – left, right, left, right – and Monika had to
keep step with her, just behind. The girls were not
allowed to talk. The shadows fled over the strong
broad shoulders of the figure leading her, yes, to
hell. Round Gundling’s thick neck was the gold
chain from which hung a P, symbol of her office –
not for Präfekt, but for Pflicht, since she was Duty
Prefect for the day. The shoulders tapered to a
surprisingly narrow waist, caught in by a broad
leather belt, and beneath that the hips thumped
out lustily to either side, making the brief skirt
swing, as the heels struck down sharply at the
flagstones. Monika was feeling sicker and sicker – it
was all happening so fast, so irrevocably – she tried
to breathe in deeply, half tripped round a corridor,
heard an irritated ‘Come on!’ and was soon aware,
at the end of their flickering vision, of the long,
long corridor leading to the West Wing and the
little area, or parade ground, in front of the Duty
Room. Before she knew it, the Prefect had
reached this, turned completely round, standing to
attention with her back to the wall one side of the
door, and staring, expressionless, over Monika’s
shoulder.
‘Hurry up. Knock’, she hissed in a whisper.

Monika stepped up shivering to that plain deal
door whose vision had filled so many Prussian girls
with trepidation. She raised her hand. She had to
knock. But her fingers refused to function. She bit
her lip. She was going to cry. Perhaps to pee. After
all, it had been such a very little fault. Hadn’t it?
Speaking to a mistress without being spoken to. An
accident, as a matter of fact, a slip, but as in the
Army every accident at Rutenberg was treated as a
crime. How many then? Talking out of turn was
surely only six. It couldn’t be more than six, could it
… Wedell wouldn’t give her more than …
‘Oh come on’, said a voice and the Prefect beat
her own knuckles on the door. A low ‘Herein!’
resounded in a woman’s tone and Monika
constrained her fingers to open the door, enter the
room, close the door behind her, march to the centre
and curtsey to the two women standing there, one
slightly behind the other.

It was a large rectangular place with a wooden
floor of ebony black and a general impression, at first
always, of being furniture-less. Like some
gymnasium, or stripped prison antechamber. An air
of stern gloom hung over all.
This was not relieved, for Monika, by the sight
of the two mistresses. The one who stood closer back
to the fireplace was Fräulein Holz, of whom
Monika had inadvertently asked a question,
without being addressed, or raising her hand first,
that morning. Thus incurring mandatory
chastisement. The one in front was much more
impressive, however, since she was not in the
customary uniform. Fräulein Wedell, as Duty
Mistress for the day, did wear the gleaming,
creaking thigh-length boots, it was true, but above
these what she had on was no more than a most
skimpy tunic of spotless white, a heavy Tours silk,
caught in at the waist by the usual wide belt but
the skirt falling, in a slight flare, over the firm
slopes of her hips from which it depended briefly,
in suggestive reign, on the tops of her brilliant
boots. She had on the chain of office and a golden P
was embroidered between her breasts. At thirtytwo
Fräulein Wedell was a massive beauty with a
rather flat face, slumbrous eyes and a mane of brown
hair held back in a slide. Under her tense, gourdlike
breasts, whose nipples prodded like thumbs at
the stuff enclosing them, she bent a long and springy
Rohrstock or cane, yellow, highly polished and concluding in a
knob, at the grasping end. She looked as if she could
cane extremely hard, which she could, and enjoy
doing it, which she most certainly did.

All this had Monika’s gaze, fixed straight in
front of her like a soldier’s, taken in, as well as – to
her right – the outlines of a leather-padded
vaulting horse. These occasional punishments could
be treated in various ways. In this case they had
probably decided to take her over the horse. But
her thoughts were interrupted from further
speculation on her fate.
‘Monika Vorst?’
‘Yes, Fräulein.’
‘You stand accused of speaking to a mistress
without permission. Report of Fräulein Holz. What
do you plead?’
‘Guilty, if you please, Fräulein.’
‘Have you anything to say?’
‘No.’
‘Do you wish to appeal?’
‘No.’
This ritual over, Monika waited with bated
breath.
How many?
‘You will receive eight strokes with the cane.’
Eight!
‘Thank you, Miss’, she said hastily.
‘Strip’, came the command and again hurriedly,
as if there were suddenly no time, Monika reached
under her tunic and slid her tight green knickers down and
off, leaving them neatly folded on the floor. Then
she tightened up her stockings and folded her skirt
into her chain belt. After which she stood to
attention again.
Monika tried to keep her face as expressionless as that of
the hefty Wedell, as the latter wiped off her
fingers on a rag and raised the senior cane. Monika
gulped. It was an aching, soulless length of round
yellow willow, or ash, that the mistress was now
rubbing with rosin at its gripping end, obviously
capable of lashing out agony across a girl's naked bottom.
It was a thing of the reformatory rather than the girls’ dormitory;
its thumping whip would make a hardened harlot dance.
Eight strokes with … that?

The Duty Mistress came forward and for a second
inspected her naked front. Monika had a heavy
bulging mound adorned with strong curls rather
darker than her hair; her vulval lips were pulpy
and close seamed. Evidently satisfied the mistress
went behind.
‘Lean forward, hands on your knees.’
She palped and pressed the flesh of the young
buttocks carefully for a moment. Monika knew she
had marks from a previous beating behind and the
good Fräulein was feeling the extent of bruise left,
if any, in order to see if she should use the same spot
again. For maximum pain within the just limits of
allotted discipline was a sine qua non of Schloss
Rutenberg, as elsewhere in the kingdom.
Not content with examining Monika's buttocks, the
mistress ran her fingers up and down the lovely girl's
bottom crack and into her pouting anus.

‘Bend over there.’ The quiver of willow
indicated the caning horse.
It was a low one and Monika stretched over it in
the correct pose – feet astride, her belly on the
leather top, which inclined slightly down, her
arms in front of her, her hands gripping the wood at
the side. She stared ahead at a far wall, on which
was a rack of canes in parallel lines. She heard
Fräulein Holz come forward, the two exchange some
comments, and she heard the Duty Mistress step
well back and to one side.

Then she heard the sudden thumping pace and that tearing
of stretched silk which was the noise the cane made as it
whirred through the silent air about her, more
compelling a sound than any in her memory and,
indeed, more frightening than the little dry thuck
of its licky impact.
By then it had happened. The limber limb
thrashed round the fatted flesh of her bum low down, causing
her a blaze of excruciating pain. She gasped and
clenched her teeth, so as not to cry out.
Seven more.
There was a long pause, for these mistresses were
expert in the minutiae of physical chastisement,
knowing that the feeling of leisurely endlessness
was an essential ingredient, and timing their cuts to
succeed at the maximum moment of mounted
sensation.
Tthhhrrrrrllll-wuck!
Two.
Monika said nothing. She was being thrashed
now, and she knew it. She was a privileged member
of a master race, a race of gods and goddesses,
descended from the mists of old, ancestors of glory,
and she put her tongue between her teeth, bidding
herself bite through it rather than disgrace her
body and cry out. All she uttered were stomachdeep
grunts – ‘Huink!’
Three … four … five … you could get to five or six
with one of these light canes, but anything more
began to be a problem.
‘Lower’, murmured Fräulein Holz, from behind
her.
Phrrrrwuppp!
ONLY TWO MORE!
It was a good thrashing and, though low, well
spaced out so that the whole of her bottom stung,
hard. Wedell always had a lot of weight in her
cuts. If only she’d get these last ones over with
quickly.
Monika knew just what she looked like
from behind – a pair of welted buttocks which, try
as she might, could not keep from squeezing and
squirming and rolling, her buttocks well spread and
her puckered anus on display, the slotted oval of her sex shamelessly on show beneath. She jammed her
knees into the woodwork and found that her fingers
were scratching at the same in front.
‘That one made her jump a bit.’ There was low
laughter.
‘Anyone would think she wanted it … up her.’
Ph-ph-phrrrrrpp!
Monika lost and found her tongue – ‘Haïee!’
That had hurt very considerably indeed. Oh
God, how that beastly cane could sting. She shot out
a leg. Christ! Could she hold it for another! She
had to … for Brandenburg, for … Prussia. She knew
the Prefect outside would be counting the cuts,
which would come to her as thin flicks of air, and
she wondered if a finger would be under her skirt
working up a hungry tongue of gristle in her slit.
PHHHHRRWPPPPI
Over!
But this was the worst. The pain was at its very
worst about thirty seconds afterwards, and lasted so
for a full minute; she had to show her control by
waiting for Erlaubnis, the ritual word of permission
to get up, and then she had not to rub her bum after.

She tried to freeze herself to the caning horse, tried to
still the seething writhing of her ribbed cheeks in
her rear. Tears ran down her lovely face.

‘All right’, she heard.
She stood up a trifle unsteadily, clamping hands
to her sides to stop them wandering out of control,
made weakly for her knickers, which she
shiveringly pulled up. Having frantically tugged
down her skirt she approached the Duty Mistress,
dropped to one knee, said, ‘Thank you for punishing
my fault, Fräulein’, and kissed the tip of the cane.
To her dry lips it seemed somewhat warm. Then she
was blundering out.
The Prefect waiting outside, just under the
well-known Duty List, frankly grinned when she
saw Monika’s writhen lips and miserably fisted
hands at her flanks. Although she was not
supposed to speak, she said, ‘Good caning? I hoped
you were going to get ten.’

She started striding back. Monika stumbled into
step behind, but was now able to grab her beaten
buttocks and knead them beneath her tunic. The
Prefect walked fast, knowing (as knew mewing
Monika) that the pain was still mounting nicely in
the pair of whipped bottoms and that self-control
on re-entering the classroom was going to provide a
salutory task of will power. It was for that one went
to places like Schloss Rutenberg, after all.
‘Hey, keep in step’, she more than once turned
back angrily to declaim.

A good caning? Monika knew it had been.
Excellent. Eight sweeping strokes right under her
chubbiest parted person, a seething cauldron of
purplish weals that made her suddenly pant and
stop, squirming, her forehead pressed to the icecold
wall.
‘Please, Gundling. Just a second. Honestly.
Wedell cuts so tight.’
‘Come on. Or I’ll have to report you for
dawdling.’
The Pre was pulling at her tunic when, from an
intersection ahead, a mistress appeared. She was
young and pretty, with rather mousy hair, and
under normal circumstances they would have
detected her approach by the jingling of keys at her
belt. This mistress as yet wore none. She was new
this term and her name was Maria Daunitz, from
near Gentin. By chance she had got to know Monika
Vorst and came forward, smiling shyly, at the
already much-embarrassed girls. Stopping in
corridors was a caning offence. In some schools you
had to run in all passageways.
‘Poor Monika. Have you just been caned?’
‘Yes, Fräulein’, came the answer, after both girls
had curtseyed.
‘Let me see.’
The mistress parted skirt and panties and
inspected. The weals were thick and hard and hot.
Another caning across them could be agonizing, if
well applied. Which, at Schloss Rutenberg, it
invariably was.
‘Hurt a lot?’
‘Yes. I was j-just …’
‘Well, you’d better be on your way, hadn’t you? I
know the Head doesn’t approve of dawdling in
corridors. Any more than I do.’

She tapped the slabby butt and watched it joggle
out of sight, round another turn of the corridor, as
Monika followed the martial Prefect. As the latter
finally opened the schoolroom door for her charge
to enter she, too, smiled. The girl was doing well. It
might be interesting to find out one day, one night,
if she … and just which dormitory was Vorst in?
‘Thanks, Gundling.’
‘Just as well it was that new mistress. Or, she’d
have had both our hides.’
Red of face and wet of eye, but hands beside her,
Monika went up to the Monitress and requested
permission to return to Prep. It was granted and,
when she resumed her desk, stood at it, as was
required of any girl who had just suffered correction.
In the total silence of the softly ticking room, every
aspect of it proclaimed one thing and one only: I
have been flogged … I have been well caned across
the naked buttocks and it stung like such sheer hell
I wished I didn’t have any. Eight slow juicy strokes,
driving in just above the sulcus until I wanted to
scream and squirm but I couldn’t. I couldn’t, because
of my country’s honour. All the same the tip did eat in like
fury. She could feel it still.

Across the aisle Barbara Mack saw sidelong the
little fatty quivers that shot through that jut of
rump. Her eyes were moist and gleaming.
Yes, it was still hurting a very great deal – as
each single breast, beating beneath those thin green
tunics knew. Monika herself bore no resentment.
Such a notion never even got near to her mind. She
was happy she had again ‘come through’, without
disgrace, and that was simply that. It had been a
routine beating, and thus another ordeal and
challenge to rise to. Like an athletic activity, in
many ways. She had broken a rule, and reaped the
consequences. She admired Wedell for making it so
painful, so ‘tight’, and knew she had got
everything out of her eight strokes she could. Once
or twice she had been a trifle wild, she had
‘overhit’ perhaps at the end, but by and large it
had been a methodical, calculated caning of the
type that made you feel corrected through and
through. Monika’s burning bottom now felt thrice its
size, heavy as lead, but she knew corporal
punishment achieved its goal. If she made that
same mistake again, she’d be more likely to get a
dozen. And anyway the worst of the smart was now
subsiding nicely, melding into a pervasive heat,
and sense of satisfaction at her centre. Relaxed and
torpid, she stared at Caesar’s rank prosaic prose
and knew she would have to borrow Barbara’s bone
thing from her again tonight.

Classic Birching

Pictures of girls receiving the birch are hard to find and the best known series is shown here. It is probably incomplete and I would certainly like to hear of any that are missing. The original pics are labelled Soho but I think they come from Nu West. The first girl to be birched I think is Debbie, a Nu West star from years ago.

I like to think that the birching takes place in a girls reformatory when corporal punishment of deserving girls was the norm. I like to imagine the girls have been caught in lesbian activity and face the mandatory punishment for this of twelve strokes of the birch across their bare bottoms, well secured in turn over the birching horse.

Take a look at the birch being used on the girls. It is not a bundle of twigs but a group of half a dozen or so thin whippy canes, bound together to form a handle. Just imagine how much that stings!