From the Top Shelf - Peeping Tom II

We resume the punishment being administered to a naughty young gentleman, caught spying on three ladies enjoying a naked lunch in their garden. If you would like to read (or re-read) the first part of the ladies' retribution, it's here.

It was time to birch him. I sent Bertha to collect the rod and smiled happily at the twinklings and little wobbles from her rear as she trotted off.


By happy chance, I had been pruning a nearby apple tree and had left the ladder against it, so that we had a perfect apparatus for his whipping immediately to hand. I told Mavis to fetch sufficient ribbon to fasten him and enjoyed her more stately trotting.


He resisted a little as he was led to the ladder, but it availed him not one bit, as by now we had fully regained our eagerness. His arms were stretched up to their fullest extent and tied at the wrists, then his ankles to the sturdy wooden base. We studied him and I decided that his bottom would be better posed if it projected more. As it was he was tucking it in, so making a proper assault on the lower curves near impossible. Bertha retrieved his clothes, which I rolled up tightly and thrust between the ladder and his belly; the improvement was marked and he presented a handsome sight, with the fine muscles of his back clearly defined, his sturdy thighs quivering with apprehension and his still-pink rump curving towards us, sufficiently open-clefted to form two distinct halves as opposed to a divided sphere.


I picked up the rod, lay it on the middle of his bottom to ensure that I was perfectly positioned, raised it slowly and brought it whistling down, carefully angling the swing so that his left cheek took the initial impact and the supple rod then wrapped round the curve beyond. He hissed at the burn. I continued remorselessly, making small adjustments to the placing of my feet to alter the parts on which the tips of the twigs landed. I had never struck a bottom as hard as I did his and by the twelfth, he was howling his pain to the unlistening clouds. Unmoved, I crossed over, pausing to examine the scarlet hue of his flesh and completed my planned two dozen from the other side, thus imparting a more even distribution of weals over the entire surface of his plump buttocks and thighs.


Further examination showed that I had not drawn blood -- it was a light, though quite bushy rod, specifically designed for Bertha's tender skin -- and the weals were light. On the other hand, he was very red indeed, hot to the touch and clearly smarting like the devil, panting hard and I think close to tears. But I did not feel that he had had quite enough, so allowed first Mavis then Bertha to take hold of the rather worn rod and give him six each.


The final dozen proved to be enough. There were a few scratches, he was sobbing and had clearly learned his lesson, so we let him go. The physical consequences would heal in a few days, but I felt sure that he would always remember the events of the day.

What happens next? I would love to share that with you, but there is no further mention of the young man in the book. I'm sure you can use your imagination to create a suitable conclusion to this lovely afternoon birching. If you do, please share it as a comment.