From the Top Shelf - Twelve More Strokes

More from Obliged to Bend, by B.A. Bradbury. The first dozen strokes of the cane have been administered here and here, and now it's time for the second dozen.

I allowed her to rest for five minutes or so. Initially grateful for the respite, she had begun to fidget by the end. She was impatient to see the back of all this, of course; unlike her employer, who could think of no better way to pass a frosty winter's afternoon.

"Very well," I said. "For the next dozen you must bend over and grasp your ankles."

She complied, and I raised her skirts. Though hardly original, this position is both eminently practical and nicely humiliating...

I walked behind the governess...bending over for punishment. A highly attractive woman was presenting her beautifully formed and nicely striped rear end for further treatment. In this same household three young women lived in blissful ignorance of my plans for their tender young bottoms, whilst a pair of maids were only too aware of my intentions towards theirs. Maybe one cannot have absolutely everything in life, but this came pretty damn close...

I readjusted her skirts and gave her an immediate swipe of the cane. It was a substantial stroke, guaranteed to take her mind off all extraneous matters. She groaned and swayed forward a little. Another advantage of this classic position occurred to me then: the victim cannot diminish the force of the blows by jerking her hips forward at the last second, as she can when standing upright. Whatever is delivered, that is what is felt.

"Thirteen, sir," Irene Hammond murmured.

I had not rescinded the instruction to count the strokes so she was doing what she had been told and was obeying the last order given. In some aspects of this art, she was remarkably sagacious; in others suprisingly naïve.

I decided to reward her good behaviour and made the next four somewhat lighter. This change was immediately detected in her voice as she counted. Rewards were all well and good of course, but I would hate her to think I was going soft. The very next stroke, therefore, was once again a firm one.

"Eighteen, sir."

The quaver was back, and I felt a sense of deep satisfaction. I had practised this art for many years and prided myself that I was master of both it and myself. I realize I risk being branded a braggart, but this is my honest opinion, and false modesty is more reprehensible to me than conceit.

Six more strokes were due Mrs Hammond in this second set. The challenge would be to make each stroke harder than the one preceding, and to cause her voice to crack on the final stroke, but not before.

Could I do it? I was confident that I could, and if I did, then I reckoned I could justifiably claim the title of Master Flogger and consider myself a very fine fellow indeed. If I failed, then clearly I needed a great deal more practice, and Mrs Hammond, Alice, Rose, Elizabeth, Victoria and dear Cathy had better resign themselves to taking their meals standing up from now on.

So I composed myself, like a musician about to attempt a difficult piece. I flexed my arm, took a deep breath, and took careful aim.

Swish, went the cane... Then snick!

"Oh!" went the governess... then, "Nineteen, sir."

The swish-snick combination was repeated, and the count climbed slowly. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two... Her voice so very close to breaking now. The next stroke would be critical. Too much and I would have failed; yet my self-imposed rules demanded it be harder than the last.

I drew back the cane, and snapped it forward. It contacted with a solid thwack!

"Ah-hhh!" she gasped.

The next few seconds were each about a fortnight long. I realised I was holding my breath. Would the damn woman never speak?

"Twenty-three, sir," she said in a voice that quavered mightily, but did not quite break.

After that it was easy. A slight extra impetus to the swing was all that was required. I was confident she would not move. She knew what was expected, and had herself well under control.

I raised the cane and swiped it across the lowest part of her behind, in the crease were buttock meets thigh. It is a particularly sensitive spot and it drew forth an agonized gasp. The wait for the count seemed interminable, but I had no real doubts as to the outcome.

"Twenty-four, sir," she said, her voice cracking beautifully.

James Montague - flogging supremo. I almost stepped forward and took a bow.

To be continued...