Poll Result

The result of the poll is a narrow win for the birch over the cane. As one might expect, given the theme of this blog.

Thank you to everyone who took part.

Adapting Stories

I guess most folks know about adapting spanking stories from the web, but in case there are some who do not please read on:
There are some very good stories out there but you probably find that none of them are perfect for you. You can empower yourself and make them perfect very easily.
Download your favorite story into Word and edit it.
You can also insert pictures like I do.
You can globally edit the name of the girl being punished to anyone you like. And include pictures of her.
You can also adjust the description of her punishment in any way you choose, adding bits or leaving bits out.
You can even combine parts of two or more stories if you want.
In short, you can use the story as the basis for your own perfect story.
But be careful! If you choose a person in your real life as the subject of your fantasy, that file is dynamite!

Richard Manton

Someone asked me where the title of this blog came from. It was not derived from that famous book Beauty IN the Birch, but from an old Janus article by Richard Manton that described Victorian reformatory punishments.

Here is a part of it:

Picture a long stone-flagged room, gaslight glaring harshly on whitewashed walls. The windows are high up and barred. At the centre of the floor stands the fixed square block over which each culprit kneels. Several feet to the rear are leather chairs for the witnesses. They take their places, Mr Miles removes his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. He tests a slender three-foot bamboo. It has a rapier's spring. Like a golfer practising his swing, he cuts the air a few times with a trial swish.

The first delinquent is led in. She is just the rebellious tomboy to make a disciplinarian's fingers itch. Elaine is best described as a shouting, striding youngster. Lank fair hair combed from a central parting lies loose upon her shoulders. Narrow eyes and thin mouth give the broad oval of her face a look of snub-nosed insolence. This sturdy young rebel boasts robust young hips and thighs.

The witnesses catch her defiant gaze with quiet smiles of anticipation, their eyes taking in her strong young legs, grey pleated skirt and white blouse. In modern terms it would be the kind of grey pleated uniform skirt worn short enough to bare Elaine's sturdy young thighs.

Her crime, it seems, was breaking the finger of one of your matrons. Just the offence for which the Tory proposal of 1976 advocates birching or caning girls 'guilty of inflicting bodily harm'. Yet Elaine returns the gaze of the portly middle-aged justices with a look of contempt.

It seems she cares nothing for the impending punishment. Hardly waiting for the order, she sheds her skirt and kneels on all fours over the block. The tight white cotton web of Elaine's knickers show her to be `quite a big-bottomed girl in this posture'.

Despite more lurid suggestions of Mr Miles's involvement, it will probably be a matron who stoops over the block. Elaine's knickers are pushed down, and then she is positioned with meticulous exactitude. The pro-flogging brigade of our own day — MPs and public — would surely approve of such exhaustive precautions. It is, of course, left to you as James Miles to tuck up the tail of her blouse, well clear of the full pale cheeks of Elaine's bottom. Are you startled as she tosses back her fair hair, cranes round, and treats you to a burst of snub-nosed defiance?

Such girls as this were a puzzle to men like the author of Etudes sur la Flagellation — Jean de Villot. Elaine was facing - or perhaps about facing - a full judicial thrashing with all the trimmings. Yet by her continued defiance and insolence she seemed determined to do everything in her power to make it worse. Later on we shall have to consider why — but put out of your head any mischievous old-wives' tales about the youngster 'enjoying it'. Next day she would scarcely walk without some discomfort or sit without a wince and a sharp intake of breath. What is so enjoyable about that? A blister on the foot could be more fun.

As James Miles, however, you introduce one more refinement. Elaine must call out the number of each stroke before receiving it. Would our present-day advocates of the birch approve the idea? If the girl fails or refuses to do so, she will get the stroke anyway. But it will not count towards the total of her punishment. By defiance she will merely earn herself more lashes of the cane.

So, as James Miles, you must now take the bamboo in your hand. You announce her sentence formally to the girl and the justices, assuring her in the manner of a bawdy sergeant- major that it will be with the bamboo across bare hum-cheeks. Then you order her to call out the number of the first stroke.

Now comes the biggest shock of all. The rebellious youngster, in a burst of foul-mouthed, four-lettered defiance, refuses to call out the numbers of the strokes. In case you have not got the message, she yells to the world that you are a bastard, and an effing bastard at that.

Tossing back her fair hair, Elaine cranes round at the witnesses. The broad oval of her snub-nosed face is still suffused with defiance in her narrow eyes and thin mouth. How she curses the well-fed justices. In the privacy of the punishment-room they smile back at her knowingly, showing her their amusement and delight in her predicament. They let her see them sitting forward in their chairs for a close-up of the subject. Mouths pursed and eyes bright, they survey the sturdily broadened cheeks of Elaine's backside in its present posture. Whatever the explanation of her vulgar impudence, she must have known better than to hope for a reprieve later on. When the justices have such a hare-bottomed tomboy over the block, all leniency is forbidden.

So Mr Miles gently and almost teasingly measures the bamboo across the full pale cheeks of Elaine's young bottom. For all her defiance, the youngster is gnawing at her lower lip apprehensively. Her hands are clenched desperately and her sixth-former's buttocks are tensing and shifting under the menace of the bamboo touch.

With all the time in the world, Mr Miles takes aim. Then, raising the cane, he brings it down with 'an ear-splitting smack' across the full pale cheeks of Elaine's bottom: She gasps at the smart and her bum-cheeks begin to arch and squirm. Mr Miles knows from long experience that the initial smarting impact of the bamboo across Elaine's adolescent behind will swell in intensity to a savage climax several seconds later. Expert that he is, he aims each stroke to coincide with that climax of its predecessor.

Naturally there is an electric tension in the room as the smack! .. . whip-smack! of two more uncounted strokes rings out across Elaine's rear cheeks. This is accompanied by a gasping, a wrestling, and the strained creaking of the punishment bench. Surely the rebellious youngster must know as well as the witnesses that she will yell at the top of her voice for the first counted stroke, sooner or later. Only then will the official discipline begin. Incredible though it seems, she is actually trying to add to her punishment while she can still bear to.

To he fair to those who now advocate the return of the birch, they do not suggest flagellations on the Victorian scale. The Tory proposal favours 12 strokes, though the figure 18 has also been mentioned. The danger, of course, is where the punishment routine provides for an increase in the number as a reprisal for misconduct while the tanning itself is actually being given. Elaine's five years in the reformatory, under the old-fashioned law, would probably extend from adolescence to 18. One can well imagine the sort of discipline which the present law-and order brigade might well want to administer to the hare cheeks of Elaine's strapping young tomboy bottom during such a period of detention.

Back to Mr Miles in the reformatory punishment-room hack to the details which the pro-birchers would prefer you not to know ... .

After a number of uncounted strokes, the inevitable happens. A sizzling lash of the bamboo causes Elaine's sturdy young buttocks to clench frantically. As the impact swells, she tosses back her fair hair, cranes round at the witnesses in consternation, and yells out, 'One!'

The well-fed justices smile knowingly at this triumph of their power over her adolescent rebellion. The eventual submission of the victim is inevitable, but they prefer it when they have to wait. Mr Miles's mouth is set tight. The bamboo thrashes down with a pistol-crack report across the red cane-prints already branching across Elaine's backside. The sequel is predictable and easily imagined.

`Two! . . . Three! . . . Fo-o-o-ur! . . . . SIX! . . . . Please, not across there again! No! . . . . My
BOTTOM! Oh, please count that one! Ple-e-e-e-ase' . . . . O-O-W-HOO-HOO-HOOO' . . . . SEVEN! . . . . E-E-E-Y-OW' . . . . OH, NO! NOT THERE AGAIN' . . . . AHH! . . . . EIGHT' . . . . NINE! . . . . No-o! Not there again! It isn't fair! . . . . Y-O-O-W! . . . . TEN!'

Does this sound-track show the unacceptable face of law-and-order? Remember, if the present proposal becomes law, much worse than this will be heard many times a day throughout the land. One can well believe that by this stage of the discipline, the fiery spread of Elaine's bottom-cheeks 'resembled a girl made to sit all day on a cruel thorn- bush infested by angry wasps!' However, those in parliament and the courts who support such proposals have considered all this and have decided that the type of punishment inflicted on Elaine and her kind is OK by them.

The rest of us, however, may wonder about the so-called 'healthy' effect of such reformatory discipline. By this stage of the tanning, Mr Miles is finding the front of his trousers uncomfortably tight. Small wonder that the French suggested he was having 'punishment fun' with Elaine. One can well believe that the lads from the adjoining boys' department would have risked their necks to reach the high barred windows on the outside. The master and justices were perhaps too busy to notice. Yet Elaine, as she craned round with eyes brimming and mouth howling, may have glimpsed the faces at the windows wide-eyed and open mouthed, the lads' legs squirming to hold themselves high up as they peeped in on the scene. Healthy? Well, it beats jogging on the hard-shoulder.

So before we all go out and vote for the return of the good old system, let us consider some of the things it actually involves. Those who advocate it — without ever having seen it - give the impression that a reformatory tanning would he a clean, decent, thoroughly British occupation. Rather like a game of cricket with birch and rump six strokes to the over. Stiff upper lip? If anything was stiff in the punishment-room it is not an upper lip.

Victorian hooks and magazines thrived on whippings, sport and imperialism. For instance, Miles was quite entitled to cane a girl like Elaine or Ange after breakfast, and then call her hack for a second bambooing across her bare bottom after lunch. Were our ancestors shocked by this? Not a bit, it seems. The Captain, 'A Magazine for Boys and Old Boys', assured its readers that a second tanning an hour or two after the first was merely 'a second innings on a sticky wicket'. How England's upper crust chortled over the joke. One imagines the humour may have been lost on Elaine or Ange or Sal.

To begin with, the language in such chastisements as Elaine's is not at all the sort approved by the Viewers and Listeners Association for family entertainment. A vulgar young tomboy like Elaine, when stung beyond endurance, is apt to use terms you would not find in Jane Austen. After more than a dozen counted swipes of the cane across her bare bottom, even a sturdy youngster like Elaine is frantic from the lingering smart. Then there comes a wickedly-aimed stroke across the tender willow-pattern of bamboo already striping her backside. In a fury of anguish, Elaine twists her face round again, yelling, `My arse! Oh, you bastards! You bastards!'

We can look forward to a good deal of this, if the new proposals become law. The supporters of official corporal punishment, like those supporting the capital variety, are apt to assure us that their method is quick and clean. That's great, as long as you're not the one who has to clean up afterwards.

The last phases of such a punishment are likely to be extremely undignified. A sturdy impudent adolescent girl, kneeling so tightly forward over the block, is not particularly well-placed to exercise psychological self-control under the cane. After a stroke wicked enough to raise goose- pimples, Elaine's tomboy bottom thrashes in a paroxysm of wild agony, and her lips scream profanities. The snub-nosed rebel turns the broad oval of her face to the witnesses, her mouth forming an `Ooo!' of dismay at what she has so pitiably shrieked. She knows that such impudence qualifies for extra chastisement. Worse still, as her expression indicates to the judicial amusement of the witnesses, Elaine knows that in her present state the next smarting stroke may very well cause a repetition of her 'insolence', for which vengeance will be duly executed.

Supporters of the rod, of course, are quick to suggest that it would be `different' nowadays. It's hard to see how. Certainly as one correspondent in the Daily Telegraph (`Caning of girls', 26 January 1976) pointed out, the female bottom would continue to be the target zone. 'After all, decorum has nothing to do with it, since the punishment is to be dished out by mistresses.'

So much for the soothing assurance that reformatory canings would be 'all right now' because girls like Elaine would be tanned by female officers. Just imagine two or three ladies of this ilk standing over the culprit as James Miles did, eager to let off some disciplinary steam. It will all be behind closed doors and no questions asked afterwards. Even if the questions are asked, the Home Office will be able to tell us that the allegations are bizarre and untrue. Picture the scene, the culprit over the block and a good selection of canes in the rack. Can you imagine what would happen to the strapping young cheeks of Elaine's sixth-form bottom in the next half hour?

For the moment, though, you are still James Miles hack in the last century. To Elaine's shrill and frantic protests that she can hear no more, you need only reply that she will be made to hear it away. No need to concern herself over that.

During the rest of the evening you ply the cane with the virtuoso skill of a concert pianist before your guests। Every 20 minutes or so, the door of the Red Room opens. One pretty miscreant leaves, rubbing her behind cheeks tearfully, and another is summoned. Sarah Barnes and Charlotte Burton may have praised your virtues at your trial, but that only makes you the more keen to instill a little virtue into them now. Perhaps you progress all the way up the age-range in your disciplinary zeal, all the way to flighty young women of 27 and 28.


You can find the full story of Elaine Cox in Richard Mantons's book of the same name.

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.’