Black and Blue

Last week we took a drive to a little town less than an hour away to do some Christmas shopping. We were successful in our mission and managed to cross everything off our list. As usual, we stopped for lunch at our favourite restaurant: a British-style pub. I told you about our last visit here, and I wondered what our latest experience would be.

It was busy for a Monday, and the lone server was rushed off her feet, but she managed to take our drink orders immediately and left the menus with us. We had already looked at the menu on their website, but when we saw the lunch specials we both chose the grilled flatbread topped with tomatoes, mushrooms and cheese. Sounds like a pizza, doesn't it?

While waiting for our food I excused myself and went to the ladies' room, wondering if I would see the birch bundle again.

It was still in its corner, looking slightly the worse for wear. (This is the picture I took last time.) On the wall to the right, above the light switch, was a large poster that surprised me. It said:

Black and blue

And proud of it

So it seemed discipline was still being enforced, and that explained the tattered nature of the birch twigs. At least, that was what first ran through my spanko mind. Then I realized that the poster was advertising some sort of beer. I didn't have my phone with me so I couldn't take a picture of it, but it made me smile, and I memorized the slogan so I could share it with you.

We have plans for another shopping expedition next Spring, and I wonder what surprise will be in store for me next time.

From the Top Shelf - Une bonne fessee

Today's selection is from "The Awakening" in Jacqueline Ophir's short story collection, Fellowship of the Rod. It is about a little French girl from days gone by, who becomes obsessed with the idea of spanking. Her curiosity leads to a wonderful discovery.

From that day forwards, Suzette became fixated on her new and intoxicating area of interest. Taking care never to incur correction herself - girls were punished in any case less frequently than boys - she was a critical and refined spectator of all other executions. This meant something in the order of three punishments a week, almost always boys. Suzette found herself becoming almost faint with pleasure at the anticipation of an imminent chastisement. Not from cruelty, or at least not exclusively from this motive. Other forces were at work, a sense of theatre - she loved the drama of these occasions, the inevitable sequence of events, like a Greek play, a sense of style and artistry - she adored the graceful motion of the birch as it clove the air with a faint whispering whirr, to land with a flick slantwise across the posterior of the delinquent. This music, with its necessary counterpoint of entreaty, protest and simple distress, filled her young heart with ecstasy...

When Suzette was twelve she discovered the engraving.

It was in a history book which reposed on the shelves of the school's modest library. Idle one afternoon, when there was no school, Suzette went down to the Lambercier dwelling, knocked, and asked if she might spend an hour or two looking at the books. M. Lambercier, who answered the door, was pleased with this sign of nascent erudition in Suzette, and gave her the key. The first book she chose to browse through was a Lives of the Kings of France from Charles the Great to a century or so before her own time. She opened it, turned a page - and there was the drawing.

It was a woodcut of a medieval lady of noble blood applying a vigorous birch rod to the bottom of a boy tucked under her left arm. Actually it was an episode in the early life of Louis III but to Suzette it was much, much more. It was a symbol, a totem, a depiction of the cherished scene of her obsession.

She noticed presently that the lady wore a crown and was thus a Queen. This, for Suzette, was a fitting detail. Every lady who whips, imposing her will by main force, is queen for a short while, she thought, writhing in pleasure as she gazed at the spellbinding drawing.

Thereafter she often came and looked at the books in the library, whenever she had an hour or two to spare, in fact. The picture never ceased to enthrall her. She began to make up stories to account for the depicted drama. What mischief had the little prince committed? She decided it was disobedience. How many strokes of the pendant birch had he received across the seat of his hose? Suzette was a little disappointed that the princely bottom was not bare, so she bared it in her imagination, but came to grief with the fastenings, not knowing how one undid medieval hose.

What had the Queen, the stern mother, said? "Viens ici..." said Suzette aloud in a severe tone "...Tu avais ete tres, tres, mechant, et je vais te donne une bonne fessee!" Pleased with the ring of authority in these simple phrases, she repeated them, savouring and drawing out the last three words - "une bonne fessee" [a good spanking] with extra emphasis and inflexion. In her mind's eye, she saw the pretty little royal child, the look of dismay spreading across his elfin features and, still in the grip of her imagination, she leaned forward, picked up the little boy, tucked him under her arm and raised the menacing birch high in the air and began the punishment...

I can recall a small picture I once found in a set of encyclopedias we had at home. It was an engraving of a monk being birched on the bare, while his brother monks looked on. Although I pored over every other volume in the set, that was the only spanking picture I found. Needless to say, it was a very useful reference that I returned to again and again.

Start as you mean to go on

Last Friday I was at a venue where a wedding would take place the following day. I watched as a man carried in some distinctive decorations and placed them near where the bride and groom would stand. They consisted of two large baskets, each with six birch saplings standing upright in them. They looked something like this, but without the greenery.

Just as in the picture above, they had all been cut off at about six or seven feet in height. I thought it an odd choice of decoration at first, but then figured that birch trees had some special sentimental significance for the couple in order to be included in the ceremony. Can you see where this is going?

Why were the branches cut off? I suspect that either the bride or the groom (or perhaps both) enjoys a good birching from time to time. Perhaps the bridesmaids will be carrying birch rods, tied with white ribbons, in the procession. The bride will carry the largest bundle.  Then after the ceremony, the groomsmen will take the rods and playfully flog the bridesmaids as they walk back down the aisle. The groom will administer a few well-placed strokes on the bride's derriere in front of the assembled guests as his first official duty as her husband.

I wish I had an invitation to that wedding. But then again, perhaps it wouldn't be quite as I had imagined.

Poor Service

Ron and I had lunch in a British-style pub last week. We hadn't been there before but had read good reviews about the food and we were looking forward to a nice meal. But no sooner had we walked in than a harried server greeted us with the announcement that a large group of people had arrived unexpectedly, and it would be some time before anyone could take our food or beverage orders.

Well, that wasn't the best way to start, but we were shown to a booth and given menus. I could understand not having the time to wait while we decided on what to eat, but surely taking an order for two draft beers wasn't all that complicated. We examined the menu, changed our minds several times, and finally decided. Ron was visibly annoyed and kept checking his watch. As our wait reached the twenty-minute mark he was ready to leave.

"We've come all this way, we might as well stay now," I soothed. I didn't relish going out into the hot sun to find another restaurant.

Just then a server appeared at our table. She was young and seemed nervous and embarrassed. She ducked her head and stared at her pad while she asked if we had decided. Ron frowned at her sternly and her blush deepened. I aborted any unpleasantness by asking about the specials, and she looked relieved as she glanced over her shoulder and recited the items from a board on the wall. We ordered and she scurried away.

While we waited (again) I took the opportunity to go to the washroom, and as I navigated the back passages of the pub I saw the reason for the young server's apprehension.

I could tell that these birch rods were on display for the benefit of the staff, to encourage them to do their best and be as efficient and courteous as possible. I imagined the manager having a discussion with the cooks and servers later on that day, inquiring why they had not been able to handle a large crowd at lunchtime, and illustrating his displeasure with generous servings of the birch for all.

The food and beer, when it arrived, was good, and I hope that our cheerful "thank you" to the hostess as we left would lighten any displeasure expressed later on.

Birch for Summer

The hottest new trend this summer is birch.

No, not that kind.


Besides the invaluable role it plays in spankings in the form of paddles and switches, it is also popular on the table. Birch syrup has surpassed maple syrup in popularity as a breakfast topping on pancakes, as well as for glazing meats.

Then there is birch beer, a non-alcoholic beverage similar to root beer.

There is also cooking over a birch wood fire - a good way to dispose of the leftover twigs after a good birching. Other less common ways of cooking with birch include bouillon of steamed birch wood (made by boiling the wood and macerating the branches) and a dessert sorbet made from simmered wood.

The maker of the birch beer summed it up nicely for all of us who enjoy a little birch, saying that it has "a little bit more kick. Once people try it, they really like it."

From the Top Shelf - Society II

We continue the tale of the lady and Bertha, her maid, where we left off in the previous post.

She was as I had left her. Perhaps a little more tense and drawn, but still sitting calmly on the small chair beside mine at the bureau and with our books spread out before her. She rose at my entrance and stood, head down, with her hands folded in front of her. I placed the birch on top of the books and her widening eyes followed it to its resting place.

"You have never seen a birch rod, Beatrice?"

"No, Ma'am."

"Not even at school?"

'I never went to school, Ma'am." I should have guessed.

"Do not be afraid. It is not as fearsome as it appears. And I have no desire to do more than give you a little warning of what will happen to you if you happen to be naughty in the future. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Thank you."

Her relief that she was not facing a severe flogging softened her little face back to beauty again.

"Now, you said that your mother spanks you. Does she place you across her knee?"

"Yes, Ma'am. She says, er...she says that sitting down to spank me is the only chance she gets to take the weight off her feet." I laughed aloud. She smiled back at me.

"And your farther. How does he thrash you?"

"I bend over the back of his chair, Ma'am."

"Do your parents remove your drawers?" I kept my voice low and intent. She reddened and looked down.

"Oh, I've never worn drawers, Ma'am."

"So you are beaten over your skirts?" My disapproval was clear.

"No. Just me shift. Nothing else underneath."

"Humph. But it is your posterior which is the target of their attentions?"

"You mean me bum, Ma'am?"

"I do not care for that word, Bertha. From now on we shall say 'bottom' when we are discussing that part of you. Now answer my question."

"Sorry, Ma'am. Well, mainly my... bottom. But my back and legs get quite a few as well."

"I see. Well, I shall strike you only on your bottom. And Bertha, I shall always punish you on your bare bottom."

Her startled eyes flew back up to meet mine... I continued remorselessly.

"The birch is in any case always administered on the naked flesh. Otherwise the ends will snag in the clothing. But I shall bare your bottom even when I decide that a spanking is the right punishment." I watched the confusion and dismay flicker across her features.

"Actually, Bertha, I have had second thoughts."

Oh, dear. Are we not to witness a birching after all? Stay tuned...

From the Top Shelf - Society I

Today, Canadians are celebrating Victoria Day, and I thought it might be fun to honour that royal person's memory by sharing a Victorian spanking novel with you this week.

In this second delightful excerpt from Annie and the Society by Evelyn Culber -- here is the first -- Annie, a Victorian lady who enjoys both giving and receiving corporal punishment, decides to hire a lady's maid to assist her with her personal needs. After receiving her husband's permission and overseeing the preparation of suitable accommodations, she begins interviewing applicants.

Then Bertha arrived and I fell for her at once. She was as tall as I, with glorious red hair which cascaded in glorious profusion from under her simple bonnet, green eyes, skin that was almost transparently clear, a pouty mouth and every sign of a richly contoured figure. Even more important, her demeanor charmed me from the outset. Her references were excellent and I hired her on the spot...


She added enormously to my enjoyment of life. At first she was no more than a willing and effective servant but, before long, I discovered in her an encouraging desire to learn. We began with lessons in reading and writing, for she was almost completely uneducated. Perhaps it was my inexperience in the arts of teaching, but progress was slow and my impatience with her apparent inability to grasp the basic principles of the alphabet must have communicated itself to her, in spite of my best efforts to be understanding.


"Perhaps I should be whipped, Madam," she whispered.


I stared at her, my breath stopped in my throat and the thudding of my heart loud in my ears... I remembered that only the day before I had made a nice swishy little birch for us to use in one of our sketches, and that I had never used one in earnest.


"Yes, Bertha. A nice whipping is definitely in order. Have you been treated so before?"


"Oh, often, Ma'am. Both my mother and father beat me. Well, my mother only spanks me but my father uses his belt."


"They still punish you?"


"Yes."


"Your bottom has tasted the birch?"


"No, Ma'am." She looked very apprehensive.


"Then it has a treat in store. Wait here."


With a spring in my stride, I went to collect the implement, thrillingly aware that another chapter was unfolding in what had already been a life rich in sensual experiences.


My eyes lingered on her for a moment before I left. She was blushing and her gaze flickered from downcast nervousness to a steady meeting of mine. Her hands rested on her lap and were trembling visibly. Her fear was tempered with odd stirrings deep within her. I smiled softly at her troubled little face and closed the door behind me.


The birch was in the Studio, so I had time to ponder. Did I simply punish her? Without emotion and with little involvement? Or dared I lead her to the first steps on that strenuous path to the pleasures which I now found rewarding beyond compare?


I walked slowly across the grass until I had reached the Studio, found the delicate little rod and closed the door behind me. The pliant bundle, the handle tied up in a pretty scarlet ribbon, helped me in my decision. As I raised the business end to my lips and kissed the tips of the twigs as though envying the quality of the skin and flesh they would soon themselves be kissing, I determined to make the forthcoming punishment as sensual as possible. I wandered back even more slowly.

I'll let you savour the anticipation too, and resume this tale tomorrow.

From the Top Shelf - Serving Time, Part VII

When we left Fern last time, the illicit caning she had been administering was interrupted by the returning guard.

Since then, Fern was found in her hiding place. She denied having been the giver of Sylvie's extra stripes but was found out after Dr Marshall gave her a chance to add to Sylvie's punishment, and noticed her beginner's technique.

"That's why I had you brandish the rod," Dr Marshall explained. He took her hand and pulled her closer to Sylvie's nervously twitching bum. "See those marks?" He used his index finger to trace the red horizontal blotches.


Fern squinted at them. "Yes. So?"


"These are caused by the tip of the cane. In other words, the end of it has been the main part making contact with Sylvie's backside." He pursed his lips together as he studied the different shades of pink and scarlet. "That's because you're not used to laying on the rod and have caused it to fall in a diagonal line."


The doctor turned his attention to one of the unmarked bums further down the stocks. "Watch closely, Fern, and see how a caning should be applied," he said. He lined up the reformatory rod and applied it smartly so that it landed parallel across the creamy expanse. The girl grunted low. A uniform line appeared all the way across her wicked bottom. "See?" the man continued. "A good mark, a sore stripe and no bruising - the ideal chastisement for a lazy gardener." He smiled mirthlessly at Fern. "Don't worry, my dear, I won't bruise you either though I'll give you the hottest bum."


"No - don't!" Fern took three steps back and bumped into Ms Lenn.


"Take your punishment, my dear," the older woman said. "You know you deserve it."


Fern swallowed convulsively. "But I..."


"Sneaked out the wrong door. Neglected your gardening duties," the doctor cut in.


"And thrashed poor Sylvie's backside," the guard said, looking covetously at the various canes...


Dr Marshall turned to the guard. "Can you let the others go? I'll need all my concentration to teach Fern's fibbing arse some truthfulness."


The guard nodded then walked to the wooden restrainer and freed the naked girls...


"Fern - take off your shorts," the psychiatrist said.


"Can't I just...?"


"Procrastination will earn you further punishment and that arse is already due a severe thrashing," the man continued.


Trying not to think of the sore bum that awaited her, Fern unbuttoned and pulled down her summer shorts. She kicked them off.


"And your sandals," the man instructed.


She obeyed him and stood on the warm dust in her newly bared feet.


"Now, Fern, you can't expect to get to keep your panties on," the doctor said.


"I... No, sir." Deciding that to mimic obedience might lessen her correction, Fern pulled down her white panties with pink rosebuds.


When she was naked below the waist, the man pointed to the recently de-peopled stocks. "Get in the middle one, my dear. That'll give me ample room to swing the birch from any angle."


The birch! Fern quivered and felt hugely aware of her bare little bum. Hadn't the birch latterly been used on only the most intractable British criminals? Hadn't it eventually been banned?


...Fern walked towards the wooden stocks. She put her fingers to the upper section and pushed, surprised at how well oiled it was. She stretched her neck and arms into the required grooves.


Seconds after she got into position the hinged wood slid down, holding her in situ. How ingenious, Fern thought, moving her fingers and toes. She felt fully restrained, yet almost comfortable within the stocks' confines. Not that her bare bottom was going to be comfortable for long - not with Dr Marshall about to birch it soundly. It was about to become hot and red and sore. She winced as he walked before her and went up to the table and selected the twig-stiffened punisher. One lash would bring heat to almost half of her captive posterior, the birch was so wide. And she had no idea how many lashes she was about to get on her exposed cool orbs.


Fern tightened her lower cheeks so that she scrunched up her bum and made it as small and tight a target as possible. She held and held and held it like that until at last her strength gave out and she let her buttocks relax. Then she flinched and squealed as a smarting pain covered the top half of her arse. Damn him, he'd been patiently waiting his moment!


"Count each stroke for me, Fern, then thank me for it and ask me for the next one," the psychiatrist said.


"And if I don't?" Fern muttered.


"If you don't, I'll add a birching to the backs of your thighs to match each one planned for your recalcitrant little bottom. Your hips will be begging for mercy by the time I'm through."


She felt his smooth fingertips trace the crease at the bottom of her nether cheeks, and shivered with mixed shame and excitement.


"Thank you for using the birch on my bad bottom, sir. Please give me another taste," she whispered with obvious reluctance.


"Your wish is my command. Just think about why you're getting this," the doctor said. He used the birch a second time. Each individual twig left its hot trail, a trail which seemed to fuse with the others till her entire backside felt fiery and tight.


"Thank you for..." Again Fern acknowledged the horrid stroke, though she couldn't quite bring herself to ask for its successor. Her bottom already felt like an oven-baked apple. Would the thorough and all-knowing doctor turn it into a roasted chestnut before he was through?


...As if in answer, Dr Marshall ran the birch twigs over her bum, a caress with potential cruelty. "That's nice, isn't it, Fern? Quite stimulating?"


She shivered as the blood rushed to her pubis. She might as well be truthful, given that he seemed to read her mind with unerring precision. "I...guess so. Yes."


...Fern moaned quietly as he continued to stroke her twice-birched bum with the multi-fingered implement. Amazing that the sticks which had brought such pain could now give such pleasure to her exposed silky flesh! She could feel the gelatinous liquid starting to leave her aching centre...


She was nearing climax now, each caress with the birch sending more wanton weight to her mound of Venus. Desperate to reach orgasm, she pushed her hips back against the traitorous touch...[Dr Marshall] ran his thumb over her clitoris and kept repeating the light sure pressure.


"Ah ... aaaaah ... aaaaaaaaah!" Fern's body went into rapturous spasm after spasm as her pussy pleasured into release.


Climax here at Compulsion was unlike any climax ever known before. It intensified when the guards and the psychiatrist talked and touched her. Increased when they lewdly tormented and teased each genital itch... Fern kept her eyes and mouth tight closed, still slave to the incredible pulsing thrill between her legs and above them. Dr Marshall was exquisitely skilled in the art of making a woman orgasm. Dr Marshall was...about to birch her again.

He doesn't. Circumstances intervene once more. Isn't that always the way? But it all ends happily. Fern serves her sentence, then is offered the position of athletics director, and stays on at Compulsion, although no longer on the receiving end.

From Serving Time by Sarah Veitch.

Birching - Lesson One

There's a tutorial on the Spanking Wiki that shows you step by step how to make a birch rod. The picture of the finished product above is from the tutorial.

I would love to hear from anyone who makes one.

Dining and Birching

One evening last week we went out to dinner. As we entered we saw a bright, informal dining area for breakfast, lunch, and casual family dining. There was also a larger, dimly-lit, more formal area where several couples and some small groups of adults were enjoying their meals. As we were escorted to our table in the adult section, we passed an arrangement similar to the one below, which separated the two eating areas.


After examining the menu and deciding what to order, I stared at the room divider and of course, fantasized about the choice of birch rods as decoration. Was the owner a closet spanko? I pointed out the birch rods to Ron, and he laughed and shook his head. He then assured me that they had had absolutely nothing to do with his choosing this particular restaurant.

I wonder.

Birch Season

While driving home the other day, something in the back seat of the car ahead of me caught my eye. Something long and spiky. Lots of them. Could it be? Yes! Birch branches standing upright on both sides of the car.

A man wearing a cap was driving; he was also listening and nodding as his female companion spoke. I imagined that they had been for a walk in the woods to cut fresh birch twigs, and were now on their way home to tie them into bundles, soak them, and eventually try them out.

The question in my mind -- and perhaps the reason for their animated conversation -- was who would be on the receiving end?

Kinky Crafts

Every day I receive an e-mail from Martha Stewart's website with a new craft idea. Many of them are pretty mundane, but some have a decidedly kinky aura. Here are some that might be vanilla, but then again, might not be.

Belt buckle picture frame (to preserve the memories of all those lovely spankings)

Cane top table (what to do with worn out or outgrown canes)

Peg rack (for displaying implements)

Memory board (for photos of red, striped or marked bottoms)

Portable study station (obviously doubles as a spanking bench)

Gateleg sewing table (folds down when not in use for discipline)

Shibori scarf (for bondage with that elegant touch)

Spectacular pillows (to elevate the bottom just enough)

Japanese beads (perfect to wear with leather)

Birch trivets (a tasteful way to reuse those birch rods)

And then there was the video called "Five creative uses for household items". I leave that one to your imagination.