From the Top Shelf - An Introduction to the Birch

I enjoyed reading A Degree of Discipline, and I hope you did too, but I must admit I was disappointed that we did not see the birching bench put to its intended use. I intend to remedy the situation with today's story. There's no birching bench in it, but a very thorough birching makes up for the omission.

This extract is from Miriam by Patrick Henden, published by Blue Moon Books, and the writing style is reminiscent of earlier anonymous authors of Victorian flagellation novels.  Miriam, a new student at Grangemoor boarding school, is summoned to the Principal's study, unaware at this time, innocent and naive as she is, that the good lady is an 'addict of the rod'.

"You are to see Miss Collett in her study at five, Miriam."

These fateful words being uttered to me were to change my entire life, though then I knew it not. I was then approaching my seventeenth birthday - a boarding school "Miss" who often yearned for the greater comfort of home than Grangemoor afforded. I was a quiet girl and not given to mischief. The reasons for my having to see the Principal were therefore rather mysterious to me. I could only, however, accept, with a demure nod, the dictate of my French Mistress, Mademoiselle Aline d' Arville.

The glances that were cast upon me by the other girls around me in the classroom filled me with apprehension. One was rarely, if ever, sent to Miss Collett to be praised. Perhaps she had news of home to give me? Such thoughts increased my perturbation. Seeing this from the expression on my face, Mademoiselle D'Arville leaned over me and whispered,"You have done nothing wrong. You are simply to receive a lesson."

My astonishment at this was great, for the Principal never descended to teaching herself, except very occasionally to condescend to a group of the most senior girls. I felt flattered yet I remained uneasy, with good reason as shall be seen.

Long did the two hours drag until the hour approached for me to present myself. Having knocked upon the door of Miss Collett's study, I was held in waiting for several moments before it was opened by Cynthia Martin, the head girl. She was devilishly attractive, though putting on many airs and being whispered to be a distinct favourite of several of the younger teachers. She appeared slightly flushed of face and her hair was awry, though at the time I put this down to my imagination.

I could not help but take note, however, that two of the buttons of her dress were undone close to her bosom, and such untidyness struck me as exceedingly odd.

"You may enter. The Principal is ready to see you," she said. Catching my possibly over-obvious glance, she fiddled with the loose buttons and went out hurriedly. I made my entrance very nervously and with uncertain steps, being told by Miss Collett - who was seated at her desk - to enter sharply and to close the door. Upon doing so and approaching her, I noticed with surprise that a small birch lay upon the polished surface of her small writing desk, which stood to one side of the main one.

I was then put to questions about the progress of my education during the past six months of my tenure, which I thought I had answered well enough. All the time, however, I had a strange feeling that Miss Collett was regarding me with a faint mixture of amusement and sadness, which quite put me out for I lost track of what I was saying.

"You seem to have made reasonable progress, Miriam, in English literature, in geography and history. Your knowledge of French, however is sadly lacking," Miss Collett opined, to my bemusement, for I thought I had got on reasonably well with all the horrid verbs and strange words.

"Oh but I have tried," I stammered.

"Not enough, I fear, Miriam. I mean to give you a little lesson in applying yourself. Go to the couch there, raise your skirt to your hips and kneel upon the cushions."

Her words struck me like a thunderclap. I had never been so much as spanked until that moment and could not believe what I was hearing. My expression made this evident, as did the stumbling but incomprehensible words that tumbled from my lips. I believe indeed that I moved a step back towards the door. At this her eyes narrowed and she rose.

"Are you disobeying me, Miriam?"

"Oh no, Madam, no, but..."

"There are no 'buts' when I attend to a young girl's bottom," was the response, at which she came round her desk and took my elbow. Being thus guided to the couch, I all but fell upon it which caused her to complain loudly.

"Position yourself properly! Right up on hands and knees with your hips and posterior raised. My, what pretty drawers you are wearing! They may remain on for this occasion, though I vow this will be the first and last birching you will receive without your bottom fully bared."

I misunderstood her words, taking it to mean that I was to receive only this one admonition for sins and omissions that I felt sure I had not committed. Shamefully raising my dress as she had bid me to, I waited with dried lips while Miss Collett walked back to the escritoire and picked up the birch. Approaching me again from the rear, she then twitched it across the backs of my thighs, which made me jerk and utter a small cry, though the twigs were softened.

"There are two lessons I have to teach you, Miriam. The first is that French verbs will be learned in all their conjugations. The second is that a well-brought-up young lady makes the least noise under the birch. It disconcerts others and merely leads to further application of the twigs. Do you understand?"

"Y...y...yes, Madam."

"Your posture, Miriam, is appalling. You dismay me. Dip your back, girl, and make your bottom more prominent. Good heavens, has your papa never spanked or birched you?"

"Oh no, Madam!" I gasped while uneasily endeavouring to obey her wishes. My body being young and supple I was able to globe my bottom up to her while yet praying that she would accord me only the lightest strokes.

Such wishful thinking was soon to be dispersed. A swishing sound, caused by the twigs passing rapidly through the air, came to my ears and then almost simultaneously I felt their burning sweep across my half moons. So burning, indeed, was it that a racking cry of alarm broke from me, which I instantly attempted to muffle. My hips twitched and my bottom cheeks squeezed beneath the stretched white cotton of my drawers.

"This, then, my dear, is the christening of your bottom," said Miss Collett with what sounded like a trickle of laughter in her voice, though this too I put down to my imagination. Humped over as I was, I could see naught but the inky blackness of the velvet under my eyes. It was warm to the touch and I realised with astonishment that Cynthia must also have knelt upon it. Her face had not appeared distraught, however, as did mine at the second impact of the twigs, which again caught me full across the bulge and caused me to swallow down a cry as best I could.

"AAAAAAAHH!" The cry burst from me unwittingly, for there was no pause between the second and the third, which, if anything, basted my poor nether cheeks more fiercely and caused my hips to squirm with yet more animation. Already I felt that my poor bottom was on fire.

"You must try to be quiet, Miriam! This is only the beginning of your lesson," Miss Collett admonished me and thus made me very uneasy with regard to her comments about 'first and last time'. Naive as I was, I did not appreciate at that moment that on all future occasions my bottom would be bared for the birch. It truly was my only experience of a birching where my drawers were left on. Of such knowledge, I was, at that time, oblivious. I heard the outpourings of my own breath, which came in would-be muffled gasps and cries as the birch assailed my left cheek, then my right until I was wriggling around violently.

Miss Collett did not seem to be put out by this and, by devious movements of her arm and wrist was able to follow my contortions so that at no time did my bottom escape the twigs but rather suffered all the more.

I sobbed, I covered my eyes, I strove to contain the surging heat and the stinging, yet I felt I could not. So insistently did the birch assail me that I thought it would never end. Only afterwards did I learn with great astonishment that I had received but a round dozen. It had seemed like hundreds. Every inch of my globe sparkled with fire, while my cheeks were soaking wet with my tears.

"Up with you now, girl, and stand!" I heard all of a sudden and even though I was so in pain I felt I couldn't move, I was minded at least to escape that awful swishing and so somehow scrambled to my feet with my skirt all awry around my waist. I made indeed to tug it down, but a sharp sally of the birch across my right wrist made me cry out and desist.

"When you are told to stand, you STAND...and do nothing more!" Miss Collett admonished me. I could hardly see her through my film of tears. My hips wriggled for I could not help myself. Miss Collett, far from complaining, appeared to drink in all that she saw, from the tips of my boots to my white stocking tops and the lightly swelling columns of flesh that rose up from them.

"You will continue to stand posed exactly thus for a few minutes while I attend to some papers," I was told. I found it difficult to do so. Above all I wanted to clutch at my hot bottom and squeeze the cheeks gently to try and rid them of the awful burning pain. Afraid that I might get another swishing, however, I stood as still as I could, being very conscious of my skirt around my waist and my legs and drawers showing.

For long, long minutes I was ignored while the Principal, seated again at her desk, perused I know not what accounts or reports, though she appeared to do so with eagle eye, her pen now and again twitching across a sheet of paper.

After a seeming eternity, she raised her eyes to me again. My tears had dried. A warm glow was slowly announcing itself in my bottom cheeks as the stinging sensation receded. Again she appeared to weigh me up. Then, appearing satisfied, she nodded.

"Restore yourself neatly, Miriam, and report back to your French class." she said.

That was quite a birching! Now then, on with conjugation.

From the Top Shelf - Fifty Years Ago

For our first story for 2014 I have chosen one that is a look back into the past. "Fifty Years Ago" by Pauline Summers is the first-person account of her introduction to birching in a reformatory.  The story is from the Janus Collection of Spanking Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Fifty Years Ago

I do not suppose that there are any of the present generation who realise what it was like to be in what were called 'reformatories', fifty years ago. I entered one of these establishments later in life than many, being a well-developed girl of eighteen when it happened, and knowing that I would be an adult woman by the time I left.

For some reason there was not a uniformed policeman available to take me on the train journey and so the authorities found a retired policeman to escort me, who, of course, was in ordinary clothes. He was a man in his fifties, grey-haired and kindly. On the train, he tried to give me some good advice to keep me out of trouble in future, but with the willfulness that had just led to my court appearance, and my resentment of all authority, I spurned his attempts to help me. Not only that, but I jeered and laughed at him, calling him an old fuddy-duddy. He showed great patience at my rudeness and constantly begged me to change my ways and 'knuckle down to it' otherwise I would find myself in real trouble at the reformatory. He observed that I would probably be in line for a good dose of the cane. This only increased my resentment and I said:

"I'd like to see anyone try to cane me!" Then I called him an old fool and to stop wasting his breath.

That did it! He said "You are a silly little girl. It's about time you learnt some manners, and perhaps this will teach you. You've been asking for it!"

He reached across the carriage, and a moment later I was floundering across his knees. I fought and struggled, but all to no avail. He got my wildly flailing hands held behind my back, and secured my frantically kicking legs between his. He began to pull up my skirt and underskirt, and for the first time I began to feel fear and apprehension. I could not remember the last time I had been spanked, but I knew what I was in for now. I yelled at him and threatened to tell the authorities about him but he just laughed and said:

"That's better. Not so cocky now are you, my girl!" My skirt and petticoat were up over my shoulders after some effort. He would have had much less trouble in these days of mini-skirts! Suddenly I felt his hand at my waist and my knickers being lowered.

"No, please, no!" I cried in horror, but it was useless. Down came my knickers, and down came his heavy hand on my bare bottom. It came down with a hard and painful crack. It was not so much the pain as the indignity of my situation that appalled me. That soon changed, for as his hand continued to beat my unprotected bottom, the pain increased to a point where I forgot my humiliation, and all my youthful conceit and arrogance vanished. I begged him to stop but he took no notice. How long the spanking went on I have no idea, maybe five minutes, but it seemed like hours. At last, when my whole bottom felt as if it was on fire, he stopped, pulled up my knickers and set me on my feet with the words:

"I hope that has done you some good, my girl. The next time you are tempted to be insolent remember, at the reformatory you will get a lot worse that that!" I was furious and close to tears, but had just enough sense not to answer back.

At last the long journey ended. Just before we entered the gates of the reformatory that was to be my home for the next three years, he put his hand on my shoulder and said:

"Be sensible. Try to be a good girl and it won't be so bad." Then, to my surprise, he gave a little chuckle and said: "I don't for a minute suppose you will take my advice, and then you'll have to learn the hard way, but you're a lucky girl in one respect."

"Lucky?" I snapped, "How?"

He grinned at me. "You've got the right kind of bottom to go with your impudence, my girl! It's the loveliest, most spankable and shapely rear end I've ever seen," then added, "tough too. It'll take a deal of good tannings and still come up smiling - and I reckon it'll need to unless you quickly develop a lot more common sense."

Inside, I was handed over to a hard-faced grim looking woman who gave me my uniform clothing. I was told to strip naked by this woman and I blushed for I didn't see how she could fail to notice my scarlet bottom. However she gave no sign. I had to don a coarse vest, a cheap corset, a pair of awful and rough cotton drawers, and a grey serge dress.

Then I was told to wait in the corridor. While I waited, I saw a young mistress in breeches and high boots walk down the corridor with a girl about my own age. I learnt later that this was the mistress who supervised the girls' work in the gardens and with the animals. The mistress was carrying a cane. They went into a small room from which I could hear nothing, and five minutes later they re-emerged. The girl's face was distorted with pain and she dug her hands into her armpits. The mistress said sharply, "Brown! Walk properly - hands at your sides! Left, right, left right!" The girl obeyed, though with an obvious effort, obeyed, and started to march smartly.

I began to realise that my reformatory escort had been telling the truth, and had been trying to warn me. Unfortunately the warning still did not sink in and, that night in the dormitory, after the mistress had left and turned out the lights I began to talk. I asked some of the girls how long they had been there, why they were there, how long they had to 'do', and where they came from. All I got was a series of "Ssssh" and one girl whispered quietly, "Be quiet or you'll get us all into trouble!"

"Why?" I asked, and just then the lights came on, the mistress came in and walked over to my bed then looked down at me. She was young, pretty, with a beautiful, shapely figure. She said softly:

"Summers, I know you're new here, and that everything is strange and that you feel resentful and lonely, but you've been told the rules and you won't be told again. You are older than the other girls, and should set an example to them. This is my last warning. The next time you will be punished."

The quiet way in which she had spoken, and her calm manner, impressed me, and I made no more trouble that night. My memory, however, was far too short. The next night, as soon as she'd gone, I got out of bed and pranced up and down the dormitory, mimicking her voice.

"You will be punished," I said, in false falsetto tones. I got the other girls sniggering and laughing, and continued to prance up and down. "You know the rules, Summers," I mimicked. I held up my nightdress in one hand, swayed my bottom and wriggled it in the way the mistress had a tendency to do when she walked. Suddenly, I became aware that the door was open, and that someone - I could not see who -was standing in the doorway.

I stood frozen like a statue in the middle of the room with an idiotic smile on my face. There were stifled, horrified gasps from the other girls. The mistress walked slowly towards me.

"So!" she said, in her soft voice, "it seems that my warning didn't sink in. That's a pity, Pauline, because I was hoping that you would settle down and be a credit to me. Perhaps you didn't realise it, but any major disobedience reflects on me. If my girls misbehave, it makes me look bad and I get into trouble. Of course, nowhere near as much trouble as you, you silly girl. You really are in for it now! Not only have you broken rules and induced the rest of your dormitory to do the same, but you have gone so far as to hold me up to ridicule too. I'm afraid it's going to look awfully bad on your report. I shall have to take you to the office in the morning after breakfast. I can't say for sure, but I shall be surprised if you don't receive a severe caning - six at least - and perhaps seven days solitary on bread and water too."

I felt my heart sink. Six strokes on my hands would hurt dreadfully. I remembered the girl I had seen in the corridor. I ought to have realised from the length of time she was in the room that she must have had at least three strokes on each hand, and from the pain she was in, they were heavy ones. Then there was the prospect of seven days alone with only bread and water, and that really scared me. I had been told, too, that all the girls sent into solitary, no matter how old, were stripped just to vest and knickers for the entire period. What an awful prospect!

I swallowed my pride. "I'm sorry, Miss," I said. "I didn't mean any harm. I didn't mean to ridicule you."

She looked at me for a moment or two and then said, "I don't really want to report you, Pauline, but you must be punished. I'm sure you understand that I'd much rather punish you myself but that requires your consent. Would you accept punishment from me, and say nothing about it afterwards? The other girls won't talk, will you, girls?"

"No, Miss," came the immediate and unanimous chorus.

"Yes, I accept, Miss and I promise not to tell," I gulped, vastly relieved at the prospect of not having to visit the Head in the morning. Somehow I had no fear of this mistress. I believe I would have even taken six cuts on the hands from her without a whimper. I realised that this young woman was not only firm, but fair and just. She would see that I got exactly what I deserved, but not a stroke more.

She said to me. "Very well. Get back into bed. Edwards! Jefferson!," she called to two other girls, "show her what to do." Then she left the room. The two girls scrambled out of bed grinning with excitement. The next thing, my bed was pulled out into the middle of the room.

"Come on - hop in!" I was told. I hopped in and lay back down. "Not that way up, stupid," one girl giggled, "on your tummy. Come on, turn over!"

"What is going to happen?" I asked, although I had a pretty shrewd idea.

"You're going to get your bum warmed," was the giggled reply. I was made to lie flat, my pillow was taken from under my head and inserted under my tummy. Then the bedclothes were pulled right down and another pillow inserted under my ankles. I suddenly became embarrassingly aware of my bottom. At no time an insignificant part of my anatomy, it now, elevated as it was by the pillow, seemed to be much larger than ever, and what was worse, determined to display itself in the crudest, most obscene manner. I tried to squeeze my cheeks in, but due to the pillows under both tummy and feet, found that I had no control over its muscles at all.

"Cor, what a lovely big bum," said one girl's voice. "I bet Miss will give that a few extra strokes!"

"I wouldn't mind having a smack or two at that myself!" said another girl, and suited the action to her words by giving me a mighty slap across my behind.

Then the cry went up, "Look out, here she comes!" The bedclothes were pulled over me and sudden silence fell on the room. The door opened. As the mistress walked in, the light click of her shoes and my own tremulous breathing were the only sounds to be heard. I could not see too well from my upside down world. The sound of the footsteps ceased at my bedside. I turned my head and looked up. She was standing quite still, looking down at me. For a moment our eyes met, and then I recognised the object she held in her hands. It was a birch rod.

I felt a shiver of apprehension run down my spine, and I felt a sensation of goose pimples all over my bottom. This was the dreaded instrument with which bad boys were thrashed, and criminals too. I was to be viciously flogged, like a felon. I remembered the tales I had heard of strong men fainting on the whipping triangle. In spite of my fears, I could not take my eyes off the birch. It fascinated me and she knew it, for she stood moving it gently before my eyes so I would see all of it. Much though I dreaded what I was about to get, it did not look so terrible as I expected. It was at least three feet long and quite slender, being made of several - perhaps a dozen - thin twigs cut from a silver birch tree. Incongruously, there went through my mind the start of a little poem I had learnt as a small child:

'The Silver Birch is a dainty lady.'

Well, her ladyship, dainty or not, and I were about to make an acquaintance. The twigs still had pale green leaves, and it was not bushy, as I had always thought a birch would be. The twigs curved inwards at the top, so that the fattest part was about two thirds up. One end of the birch was bound most neatly with thin white cord, making a handle about ten inches long. Again, incongruously, I admired the workmanship. It was bizarre to think that a lot of loving care and workmanship had gone into making this thing do what it was intended to do most efficiently. I started to think strange thoughts and I admit to becoming a trifle hysterical.

I collected my scattered thoughts just as one of the girls said, "Shall we hold her down, Miss?"

I lifted my eyes and they met those of the beautiful mistress. For what seemed like a full minute we stared at one another and I felt that she was staring deep into my soul. I felt she was offering me friendship, help and understanding in addition to punishment.

She said, quietly as always, "No, I don't think that will be necessary. There won't be any need to restrain you - will there, Pauline?"

In that moment I knew that I would not betray her trust, even if she whipped me to death. I shook my head, gulped, gave a sob and buried my face between my arms.

The bedclothes were drawn gently back, and there was a quick murmur of girlish voices, then a sudden hush. I gripped the bed rails, determined that, however bad the pain, I would not scream.

The hush deepened. There was then a sudden rash of whispering and concerted gasps from nineteen very excited girls, as the first stroke fell on my naked bottom. My whole body jumped, and my breath exploded in a gasp, but a gasp of surprise more than pain. To this day I cannot describe the sensation that engulfed me as the birch struck my bare bottom for the first time. It was painful, yes, but nothing at all like the fierce cutting pain I had expected. It stung as if my whole bottom had been suddenly stung by a bed of nettles. Surely, I thought, this cannot be what the boys go in terror of?

I waited, almost eagerly, for the next stroke to fall. It came with a slight 'swish'. I felt my bottom quiver as the twigs curled around the uplifted cheeks and the sting it left was certainly stronger than the first one had been, but it wasn't awful or unbearable. In fact, it was nowhere near as painful as the spanking the ex-policeman had given me. His words came back to me at that moment. He'd said I had the prettiest and most spankable bum he'd ever seen, and that I was lucky to be its owner. Was there something special about my bottom, apart from its being a bit larger and rounder than that of most girls of my age?

My thoughts were so confused that I hardly noticed the third and fourth strokes, but when the fifth landed I was suddenly aware that my whole behind was very hot and the tingling had become intense. The sixth stroke confirmed my awareness. It stung dreadfully, and I felt my bottom squirming to protect itself, and in protest. The cheeks tried to squeeze together, but because I was so perched on the pillows, they couldn't. All that happened was my spine reacted in a curious way. It sort of rippled, and my bottom moved up and down and kept on doing it. I didn't seem to have any control over it at all.

The next stroke arrived, and I had to cling hard to the bed rail to stop myself from crying out. After that I lost count of the strokes for my poor bottom seemed to turn into a huge ball of fire, and I was panting, gasping and wriggling around frantically. Through a haze of stinging pain, I was dimly aware of other gasps and excited chattering, and acutely aware that my rebellious buttocks were rising and falling with a peculiar regular motion and that, each time they rose, my immodestly opened cheeks received another stroke.

Later, when I witnessed other girls being birched, I was to learn that this phenomenon of the bottom 'offering itself' to the rod was peculiar to a birching, and especially when the birch was wielded by an expert, who, by carefully regulating the weight and timing of the stroke, could induce the buttocks to rise to receive the next stroke.

I was trembling all over and in fearful state of excitement when the whipping finally ceased. Sobbing, squirming, and scarcely able to believe it was all over, I was dimly aware of my clenched hands being prised away from the bed rail and the pillow being gently pulled from under my hips. Something cold and wet was draped across my poor, trembling, scalded bottom, which I was convinced was a mass of raw, open bleeding cuts. The mistress walked back towards the door and, on command, there was a scamper of bare feet on the floor boards, the light went out, and I was left to sob myself to sleep. Oddly enough, sleep was not long delayed.

The next morning, I was the centre of attraction and had to let all the girls in the dormitory inspect my bottom before I got dressed. It then occurred to me that I had not seen it myself and one of the girls obligingly produced a large mirror from somewhere. To my surprise, my bottom was not cut at all. It was smothered all over from my hips to my thighs in dozens of tiny weals, but it was very sore and ached for some time.

Just before breakfast, the mistress called me into her room and asked me how I felt. She said that she was sorry she'd had to punish me, and hoped that I would learn from it. Then she asked me to take my knickers down so that she could inspect my bottom, making me bend over a table so she could examine it. Rather strangely, this made me blush like mad, which seemed silly after all that had happened, although when I turned back I noticed that her face was bathed in a pink sheen too.

That was the only time I ever had a birching, although I had many a bare bottom caning from the same mistress - but that's a story for another time.

Well! That started the new year off with a bang!

Naughty Car!

 Basil Fawlty, of Faulty Towers fame, gives his car a birching after it fails to start.

From the Top Shelf - Ellen's Turn

Last week we saw Ellen's friend Rachel being spanked for climbing into an elm tree to prevent the woodcutters from chopping it down. Ellen is still in the tree, and now it's her turn to be punished.

"Oh you're not going to birch me, are you? You can't! You mustn't! It's wrong and shameful to birch a young girl!" I wailed piteously, all my angry resistance suddenly collapsing...

Clem's coarse features wrinkled into a sadistic smile as he swished the freshly prepared birch to and fro in the air. "That there little friend o' yourn was just plain naughty," he smirked. "But as for you, young Miss, why you're a different kettle o' fish altogether now ain't you! A real tidy little Madam who needs a bit more than a hand across 'er bare bum!"

"Oh no! Please not that! Please spare me!" I blubbered, the tears already running down my cheeks, but my pleas for clemency went unheeded.

'''Old 'er tight now!" Clem told the lad and, reaching forward, he yanked my knickers down to well below my stocking tops. I let out a shriek of horror and wriggled like an eel, but Simon lifted me up into the air and, as he did so, Clem pulled my pants the rest of the way down my legs and removed them completely.

"There now, it wouldn't do for you to start kickin' and a-rippin' these pretty drawers o' yourn like you did with yer skirts, now would it!" Clem drawled with mock solicitude, lifting up and rudely scrutinising my white cotton underpants much to my excruciating embarrassment.

Then he took off his big leather jerkin and draped it across the broadest part of the fallen bough. Comprehending his meaning, the other two men carried me kicking and screaming to the spot and pushed me face downwards over the bough so that my bare bottom was well elevated for the birching it was to receive.

I looked up and whimpered like a puppy to see Clem, shirtsleeves rolled up, brandishing the supple birch aloft and eyeing my naked bottom with a look that betrayed absolute relish. Manifestly the whipping of girls' bottoms was a pursuit dear to his heart, and Rachel and I doubtless were not the first, or the last, to be subjected to such indignities at his hands. You may ask why he had not fallen foul of the law, but these were times when people felt able to take the law into their own hands, especially where women were concerned. Wives, daughters, nieces, scullery maids alike, all were accustomed to receiving good hidings from the men they were beholden to and rarely sought redress through the courts.

"Now then, are ye goin' to take yer birchin' like a good 'un - or do Sim n' Jacob 'ave ter 'old ye down?" Clem demanded fiercely.

I elected to undergo my ordeal without physical restraint. I desperately wished to be allowed some dignity in the proceedings, although heaven knows I had precious little left, being naked from the waist down! Keeping my legs tightly closed, and tensing my buttocks against the impending assault, I shut my eyes and gritted my teeth, vowing to myself that I would endure my punishment as stoically as I could.

I felt the prickly tips of the pliant, swishy birch twigs being rubbed across my quivering buttocks in a rough caress. Clem was taunting me, teasing my flesh, testing me out. He inserted the spiky twigs in between the cheeks of my bottom and slowly brushed them downwards to where the cleft widened out into the sensitive spot at the junction of my legs.

"Oh, please don't do that! Just birch me and get it over with!" I panted, uncomfortably aware that the sensations I was experiencing were causing my bottom to thrust and sway in a most obscene manner, as though it had a life of its own. My greatest dread was no longer the pain but that the birching would carry me against my will into such disgracefully perverse transports of delight that Clem would discover, no doubt to his profound satisfaction, what a wicked, wicked girl I really was!

He started by birching me quite lightly, all over my well rounded buttocks,and even down the tops of my thighs above my stockings. The sensation, I must admit, was not at first unpleasant. My bottom was gradually becoming warmer and warmer, and in addition it began to tingle and prickle delightfully.

Then, slowly but relentlessly, the prickly feeling grew and grew in intensity until it resembled what it must feel like to sit naked in a bed of stinging nettles.

"Oooooohhh Ahhhh Noooooo!" I began to gasp, weaving my bottom from side to side to try and escape the birch's stinging kiss.

"Lord, ain't 'er got a pretty plump little bum!" exclaimed Jacob, who was standing directly behind me and evidently enjoying a grandstand view of my nether personal charms. I cursed silently and bit my lip in mortification... I blushed shamefully at the thought of what the men must all be gawping at, for what had now become a never ending sequence of sharp shooting pains throughout my buttocks was compelling me to endlessly to wriggle and rotate my hindquarters in abandon, to splay my legs open wide and generally perform as if I was doing the breast stroke!.

Now Clem was applying the birch much harder and he landed a hissing sibilant stroke full across the crown of my right buttock. I jerked upwards, shocked by the stinging smart, and gave a howl of distress. While I was yet struggling to regain my self control, the callous ruffian planted a second stroke on that self same spot- then a third, and a fourth and with so much pain imparted that I cried out "Oh please no more! I beg you, no more!" Goaded beyond all measure by the inexorable tattoo beating down upon my drum tight bottom flesh, I writhed and contorted my burning, roseate backside in what must have been to onlookers a series of vulgarly suggestive, yet involuntary, muscular spasms.

"Keep that damn bum o' yourn still, young Missy!" warned my tormentor in a voice hoarse with excitement, "or else I shall be obliged to birch ye on yer legs!"

"Oh you cruel brute!" I wailed, choking on my tears, "How can you do this to a young girl?"

His only answer was to apply two tremendous strokes to the soft underswell of my bottom. I felt as if I had been scalded and wriggled wildly in an attempt to cool it off.

I would prefer to claim that I loathed and hated that awful birching yet I was raised to believe that the written word demands scrupulous honesty. So I am forced to admit that the birching, fierce and painful though it was, nevertheless did engender curiously paradoxical sensations within me.

On a purely superficial level I did hate it, but on a much deeper level I know that I experienced an uncontrollable series of sexual spasms that shook my body from head to toe, though thankfully the three men involved in my birching seemed to attribute my frantic jerkings solely to the cumulative effects of my punishment...

Needless to say, I was by now howling lustily and my cheeks were soaked in tears but eventually Clem, judging that I had at long last had a long and painful lesson, threw down the birch and told me I was free to go. I clambered, trembling, to my feet, retrieved my knickers and hastily put them back on, still weeping and bitterly ashamed. Ashamed that I had revealed my intimate nudity to three strangers and even more humiliated by the perverse gyrations I had performed during my birching.

"Oh my skirt! My underclothes!" I whimpered, pointing to the top of the elm tree where my torn garments hung waving in the breeze.

"I'll fetch them for you, Miss!" said Simon in an unexpected act of kindness prompted either by pity or guilt, I know not which, and he leapt into the branches, returning seconds later with what remained of my clothes.

I think Ellen has learned her lesson. This excerpt was taken from Ellen's Story, and anonymously written novel published by Blue Moon books. Read all the excerpts here:

Ellen's Story
Ellen's Story - The Die is Cast
Ellen's Startling Discovery
Ellen's Civil Disobedience 

From the Top Shelf - Punishment Birch

"How to Make a Punishment Birch" was originally published in The Governess magazine published by the Alice Kerr Sutherland Society. It contains some very useful instructions for those would like to experiment with birching but don't know how to construct a birch.

A properly made birch rod is an instrument of surpassing beauty - and tragedy, since if correctly manufactured, with due regard for the age, sex and physique of the recipient and the gravity of the offence, it will last, if administered with finesse, precisely as long as the apportioned chastisement...and not one stroke longer.

Construction of the rod therefore must be undertaken with all those variable factors very much in mind, though a birch which outlasts the punishment for which it has been specifically created is less grievous a sin against aesthetics than one which flies apart at an earlier stage.

Begin by cutting and selecting the required number of suitable twigs. Choose green (young) twigs if you wish to show mercy, otherwise select switches from the older trees. In all cases trim off all greenery and the lower side shoots from each switch, preserving the general club like profile.

Place the prepared switches on a table and take some moments to study them. Note the spread and direction of even the smallest side twig, and remember that the greater number of these finer twigs that remain within the 'envelope' of the finished rod, the more slowly will the birch move through the air and the lighter and more diffused will be the resulting stroke. This prime characteristic can, to some extent, be cancelled out by the length of the finished rod and the power behind the stroke.

Having grouped the trimmed switches into the perfect punitive profile, secure loosely with string while you prepare the handle. All birch rods should be properly dressed with ribbon- preferably silk- before presentation and eventual use. With the ribbon, begin winding from the base upwards, relaxing the tension as you ascend. This preserves the conical shape. Bisect the free end of the ribbon and knot, then fashion into as elegant a bow as you can contrive.

I think I'll go for a walk and admire the birch trees in the neighbourhood. Maybe I'll bring my secaturs, just in case.

A birch-lover's dream

You will probably recall this post about a set of paddles sold as a wall decoration.

Recently I happened to stumble across the home furnishings store that sold them. I hadn't realized that the store was in my vicinity, but was happily surprised, and made a detour on my way home to drop in and explore.

I didn't see any paddles hanging on the wall but - you won't believe this - the interior of the store was a birch-lover's dream. Bunches of long twigs stood in large vases on the floor. Others were displayed invitingly on top of coffee tables. There were fat bundles everywhere I looked. They came in all colours, lengths and thicknesses; curly, straight, thick, thin - you name it.

I can't imagine displaying so many spanking accessories in my own home. Ron would have something to say about cluttering our coffee tables with six-foot long birch rods. But it was lovely to feel that spanko tingle as I explored the showroom. As I left, I promised the greeter that I would return and bring my husband. Who knows what impulse might strike while he's examining the merchandise.

I looked up the merchant online when I got home, and sure enough, the birch bundles are on the website, curiously listed under "artificial flowers".

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 - Fanny Hill

The first book I downloaded onto my new electronic reader was Fanny Hill by John Cleland. It was free, and I thought there might be some spanking in it. There was.  The language is a bit heavy-going, and I almost missed it, but here it is. 

Fanny, a lady who entertains men in a lascivious manner, has a client who enjoys flagellation. This is her first experience with administering a birching, but she is willing to try anything once.

After a competent preparation by apologies, and encouragement to go through my part with spirit and constancy, he stood up near the fire, whilst I went to fetch the instruments of discipline out of a closet hard by: these were several rods, made each of two or three strong twigs of birch tied together, which he took, handled, and view'd with as much pleasure, as I did with a kind of shuddering presage.

Next we took from the side of the room a long broad bench, made easy to lie at length on by a soft cushion in a callico-cover; and every thing being now ready, he took his coat and waistcoat off; and at his motion and desire, I unbutton'd his breeches, and rolling up his shirt rather above his waist, tuck'd it in securely there...

Stooping then to untie his garters, he gave them me for the use of tying him down to the legs of the bench: a circumstance no farther necessary than, as I suppose, it made part of the humour of the thing, since he prescribed it to himself, amongst the rest of the ceremonial.

I led him then to the bench, and according to my cue, play'd at forcing him to lie down: which, after some little shew of reluctance, for form-sake, he submitted to; he was straightway extended flat upon his belly, on the bench, with a pillow under his face; and as he thus tamely lay, I tied him slightly hand and foot, to the legs of it; which done, his shirt remaining truss'd up over the small of his back, I drew his breeches quite down to his knees; and now he lay, in all the fairest, broadest display of that part of the back-view; in which a pair of chubby, smooth-cheek'd and passing white posteriours rose cushioning upwards from two stout, fleshful thighs, and ending their cleft, or separation by an union at the small of the back, presented a bold mark, that swell'd, as it were, to meet the scourge.

Seizing now one of the rods, I stood over him, and according to his direction, gave him in one breath, ten lashes with much good-will, and the utmost nerve and vigour of arm that I could put to them, so as to make those fleshy orbs quiver again under them; whilst he himself seem'd no more concern'd, or to mind them, than a lobster would a fleabite.  In the mean time, I viewed intently the effects of them, which to me at least appear'd surprisingly cruel: every lash had skimmed the surface of those white cliffs, which they deeply reddened, and lapping round the side of the furthermost from me, cut specially, into the dimple of it such livid weals, as the blood either spun out from, or stood in large drops on; and, from some of the cuts, I picked out even the splinters of the rod that had stuck in the skin.  Nor was this raw work to be wonder'd at, considering the greenness of the twigs and the severity of the infliction, whilst the whole surface of his skin was so smooth-stretched over the hard and firm pulp of flesh that fill'd it, as to yield no play, or elusive swagging under the stroke: which thereby took place the more plum, and cut into the quick.

I was however already so mov'd at the piteous sight, that I from my heart repented the undertaking, and would willingly have given over, thinking he had full enough; but, he encouraging and beseeching me earnestly to proceed, I gave him ten more lashes; and then resting, survey'd the increase of bloody appearances.  And at length, steel'd to the sight by his stoutness in suffering, I continued the discipline, by intervals, till I observ'd him wreathing and twisting his body, in a way that I could plainly perceive was not the effect of pain, but of some new and powerful sensation...

Resuming then the rod and the exercise of it, I had fairly worn out three bundles, when, after an increase of struggles and motion, and a deep sigh or two, I saw him lie still and motionless; and now he desir'd me to desist, which I instantly did; and proceeding to untie him, I could not but be amazed at his passive fortitude, on viewing the skin of his butcher'd, mangled posteriours, late so white, smooth and polish'd, now all one side of them a confused cut-work of weals, livid flesh, gashes and gore, insomuch that when he stood up, he could scarce walk; in short, he was in sweetbriars.

My gentleman had now put on his clothes and recomposed himself, when giving me a kiss, and placing me by him, he sat himself down as gingerly as possible, with one side off the cushion, which was too sore for him to bear resting any part of his weight on.

Being a true gentleman, he offers to birch her in return, and she agrees.

He had then little to do, but to unloose the strings of my petticoats, and lift them, together with my shift, navel-high, where he just tuck'd them up loosely girt, and might be slipt up higher at pleasure.  Then viewing me round with great seeming delight, he laid me at length on my face upon the bench, and when I expected he would tie me, as I had done him, and held out my hands, not without fear and a little trembling, he told me he would by no means terrify me unnecessarily with such a confinement; for that though he meant to put my constancy to some trial, the standing it was to be completely voluntary on my side, and therefore I might be at full liberty to get up whenever I found the pain too much for me...

All by back parts, naked half way up, were now fully at his mercy: and first, he stood at a convenient distance, delighting himself with a gloating survey of the attitude I lay in, and of all the secret stores I thus expos'd to him in fair display.  Then, springing eagerly towards me, he cover'd all those naked parts with a fond profusion of kisses; and now, taking hold of the rod, rather wanton'd with me, in gentle inflictions on those tender trembling masses of my flesh behind, than in any way hurt them, till by degrees, he began to tingle them with smarter lashes, so as to provoke a red colour into them, which I knew, as well by the flagrant glow I felt there, as by his telling me, they now emulated the native roses of my other cheeks. 

When he had thus amus'd himself with admiring and toying with them, he went on to strike harder, and more hard; so that I needed all my patience not to cry out, or complain at least.  At last, he twigg'd me so smartly as to fetch blood in more than one lash... 

But still I bore everything without crying out... You may guess then in what a curious pickle those soft flesh-cushions of mine were, all sore, raw, and in fine, terribly clawed off; but so far from feeling any pleasure in it, that the recent smart made me pout a little, and not with the greatest air of satisfaction receive the compliments, and after-caresses of the author of my pain.

She doesn't think much of being birched, and does not obtain any erotic stimulation from it at the time. Later on, it's a different story.
 

But scarce was supper well over, before a change so incredible was wrought in me, such violent, yet pleasingly irksome sensations took possession of me that I scarce knew how to contain myself; the smart of the lashes was now converted into such a prickly heat, such fiery tinglings, as made me sigh, squeeze my thighs together, shift and wriggle about my seat, with a furious restlessness; whilst these itching ardours, thus excited in those parts on which the storm of discipline had principally fallen, detach'd legions of burning, subtile, stimulating spirits, to their opposite spot and centre of assemblage, where their titillation rag'd so furiously, that I was even stinging mad with them.  No wonder then, that in such a taking, and devour'd by flames that licked up all modesty and reserve, my eyes, now charg'd brimful of the most intense desire, fired on my companion very intelligible signals of distress: my companion, I say, who grew in them every instant more amiable, and more necessary to my urgent wishes and hopes of immediate ease.

So she enjoyed it after all, but spanking would not become a regular occurrence.

I was not, however, at any time, re-enticed to renew with him, or resort again to the violent expedient of lashing nature into more haste than good speed: which, by the way, I conceive acts somewhat in the manner of a dose of Spanish flies; with more pain perhaps, but less danger; and might be necessary to him, but was nothing less so than to me, whose appetite wanted the bridle more than the spur.

Victorian Souvenirs VII

In this week's sketches from Souvenirs of a Boarding School, a naughty satyr chases a nude woman through the woods. Will she trip?



The school principal birches an idle pupil - one of the older girls who should have known better - while the Physics master looks on approvingly.

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.

What did you think they were made of?

This year we planted broom corn (also known as sorghum) in our garden.



Yes, it's really used to make brooms. It's very attractive, grows quite tall, and when ripe it is covered with little seeds of various colours. But I haven't decided what to do with the harvest.




Maybe I'll make a broom for Ron to use when Harry drops by for a pickup game of Quiddich in the air over the back yard.





A wreath would look pretty on the front door.





Or I could simply stand the coloured fronds in an earthenware jar for a simple yet attractive room decoration.





No, I think I'll make a rod, and let Ron try it out on my bottom.

On second thought, striking my body with that rod would knock the little kernels off, and send them flying in all directions. We'll have to conduct our horticultural experiment outside. Oooh!

Roll on, harvest time.

From the Top Shelf - Peeping Tom I

For your titillation, here is another delicious excerpt from Annie and the Society by Evelyn Culver. (Here is the first one.) Annie, a naughty Victorian lady, enjoys both giving and receiving spankings, and with the help and cooperation of Mavis her housekeeper and Bertha her maid, manages to fill the long days while her artist husband is away. Today, the women have an unexpected visitor.

It was another cloudy but very sultry day and therefore ideal for a naked lunch in the garden. We were just finishing our repast when I saw a peculiar movement high up in a nearby tree. I focused my eyes and realized with an angry start that there was a human figure concealed in the branches. Heedless of my nudity, I called to Mavis and Bertha to follow me and ran to the spot. At first I wondered if my eyes had deceived me, for there was no sign of an intruder. Then I spotted an injudicious little movement and we threw stones and large twigs at him until he clambered rapidly down, whereupon we captured him.


He proved to be a comely youth of about my age, with golden hair, blue eyes and of pleasing build. His struggles were plainly halfhearted, presumably because of the distraction of the ample feminine charms jiggling in full view, and this, I felt sure, was to his benefit, because judging from the angry expressions on my servants' faces, it would have boded ill with him had his efforts been more forceful. Both were strong country girls and the two of them controlled him easily.


There then followed a few moments of complete silence. Even the birds seemed to be waiting on events and there was not a breath of wind to rustle the trees... Inspiration struck like a thunderbolt.


"Well. We have a Peeping Tom, girls. A wicked, evil young man. And a tresspasser. Shall we hand him over? Or shall we deal with him ourselves?" His eyes flickered nervously between the enthusiastically nodding faces before him, but I noted that he was quite unable to resist a downward glance at the nakedly bobbing breasts.


"Not very long ago such behaviour would have resulted in a good whipping. Sadly this is no longer the case, but I am sure that prison is an effective alternative." He paled at the thought. "But we shall whip him. Agreed?" Their assent was immediate. I folded my arms across the excited mounds of my bosom and stared at him thoughtfully before continuing. "We could lay one of my riding whips across his bare back. That would undoubtedly teach him a lesson he would never forget. But he has not long left his boyhood behind. Let us then treat him as a naughty boy and birch him. On his bare bottom." His pallor immediately changed to a vivid blush of shame. "But first we shall warm his bottom with our hands. Lay him down on the ground and hold him tight. I shall pull down his trousers."


This was done in a trice and he ended up at full length with Mavis sitting on his shoulders and Bertha holding his ankles. I knelt down by his left hip and thrust my hand between his belly and the warm grass and began to undo the buttons... I wrenched his trousers down, his shirt up and immediately set about his pleasingly rounded buttocks.


I struck him with genuine anger and in no time at all, he was struggling to escape and making it difficult for me to hit his bottom with any accuracy. Not that I minded, for I was not in the least interested in the aesthetic aspects for once, just in punishing him. My hand was soon too sore to continue -- although the crimson blotchiness of his flesh was eloquent testimony to the effectiveness of my efforts -- and I signalled Mavis to take my place. She did so with a more studied and even rhythm, so that by the end of her turn, the discoloration was better distributed.


I then let Bertha finish this opening assault, which she did with mounting ehthusiasm and increasing competence. I had enjoyed watching my friends in action as much as I had administering the punishment myself. I had used the weight of my body to pin his upper parts down, sitting on his shoulders, and his writhing under my naked bottom had proved a most diverting background to the sights of their eager faces, swaying breasts and his quivering rump. So it was hardly surprising that when Bertha sank back on her heels, I turned him over so that we could examine his frontal aspects. Which proved to be of impressive proportions and soon swelled and stiffened magnificently under my firm handling.


It was time to birch him.

I think that's enough for now. I'll let you all take a deep breath or two after that invigorating workout, and I'll conclude the story later.

From the Top Shelf - Maid's Night In

Another excerpt from Maid's Night In, an anonymously written novel about the erotic awakening of a Victorian girl. If you missed the first one, you'll find it here.

Beatrice and her sister have gone to live with their aunt and uncle, who have certain proclivities to corporal punishment. The scene is a formal evening reception. The girls are watching, and Beatrice narrates.

There was quiet again. The music ceased....The Lady Arabella was announced.

"Let her enter and be brought here," I heard my uncle say. There was a sound as if of a heavy table moving...I saw the woman enter. Her coiffure was exquisite. A diamond choker, a swan neck. Her curves were elegant beneath a swathing white gown of satin flecked with red. The collar of her gown was raised slightly, as one sees in portraits of the Elizabethans. She wore a look of coldness and distance. Her lips were full, her nose long and straight. Her eyelids were shadowed in initiation of the early Egyptians.

She made to step back as my uncle reached her. Behind her entered a man of military look, impeccable in a black jacket and white trousers, as waa the evening fashion then. I judged the years between them. She was the younger.

"Not here. It is unseemly," she said.

"No," the woman said in answer to some muttered remark.

"Not here," the woman said again... The chandeliers danced their crystal diamonds. The Lady Arabella was moving forward. As if through water she moved. An older woman moved beside her, a hand cupping her elbow. The older woman wore a purple dress. Her vulgarity was obvious.

"Arabella, my sweet, you will come to dinner tomorrow night? The Sandhursts are coming," her voice cooed.

"I do not know. Perhaps, yes. I must look at my diary, of course."

Arabella' s look was constrained, her lips set. Behind her, the man who had escorted her in was nudging her bottom. It was of an ample size, though not too large by comparison with her stately curves. Her face turned to her escort as if pleading. He shook his head. I saw the table then. It had indeed been pushed forward. Upon its nearest edge was a large velvet cushion. Her long legs appeared to stiffen as she approached it. Her footsteps dragged. Her shoes were silver as I saw from the occasional peeping of her toes beneath the hem of her gown.

There were murmurings, whispers, protestations, retreats. The doors to the morning room opened an closed, re-opened and closed again.

"It is private," I heard my aunt say to others. The room was stiller. I heard a cry from Arabella.

"Lift her gown fully," a voice said. "Hold her arms."

"Not here..." She seemed unable to say anything else. Not here, not here, not here, not here. A rustling sound. Slight creak of wood. A gasp. Plaintive.

"Remove her drawers."

"She was unseemly. Is she not betrothed to him?" It was my aunt's voice. She spoke to the escort. His voice was dry and thin.

"Improper," he replied. The word fell like the closing of a book. "Take them right off. Do not let her kick," he said.

"No! Not the birch!" A wail from Arabella. The modulation of my aunt's voice and the military gentleman's amused me. They were tonally flat--courteous. Would he have her bound, my aunt asked. It was not necessary, he said, but her wrists should be held.

She was bent over the table, the globes of her bottom gleaming. Her garters were white satin, flecked with red. The deep of her grooves--the inrolling. Her breathing came to me, filtering its small waiting sobs. The dry rustling sound of a birch. I had never yet tasted the twigs. It was said that they should be softened first.

"Not bound," My aunt said. Her voice sounded slmost regretful. "Hilda, you will hold her wrists tight. Stretch her arms out."

"Nooooooo!"

The long, sweet aristocratic cry came as the first swishing came. It sounded not as violently as I thought.

"No! Nooooo!" A further cry. Her sobbing rose like violins. A creaking of table. Beneath her raised gown, her underskirt, her chemise, the velvet cushion pressed against her belly. There was comfort. I comforted myself with the comfort.

The sounds went on. The birch swished gently but firmly as it seemed to me. First across one cheek then the other. The bouncy hemispheres reddened and squirmed. Streaks of heat. Was it like the strap?

"Ask her now," the man said. There was whispering, a quavering cry. A negative. Refusal. "Three more," he said. "Her drawers were down when I caught them together."

My aunt tutted. The small dots of her tutting impinged across the sobs, the swishings. They flew like small birds across the room.

"Whaaah! Nooooooo! Wha-aaaaaa!" Arabella sobbed... There was quiet. Her tears shone upon the polished wood of the table.

"Ask her again." The same voice, impassive, quiet. The sobs were unending.

"Have you before?" my aunt asked. It was her garden voice, clear and enquiring. The lilt of a question mark that could not fail to invite.

"Twice, but she resists. What does she say?" he asked.

"I cannot hear. Arabella, you must speak, my dear, or take the birch again." The woman who held her wrists spoke.

"I c...c...cannot. No--yes--oh!"

Silence. "Have her dress," my aunt said at last. "Hilda, see to her hair, bathe her face, she has been good."

The doors to the morning room were re-opened. A flooding of people, a flurry of voices. Enquiries. My aunt would not answer. The deeper voice of my uncle said occasionally, "I do not know,"

...As we reached the bottom of the stairs she began to descend. Accompanying her was the older woman in purple. Their eyes passed across us unseeing.

"And there will be a garden party--for the church, you know," the woman in purple said.

Arabella's eyes were clear, her voice soft and beautifully modulated.

"Of course, I should love to come," she replied. They entered the drawing room together.

From the Top Shelf - Society IV

Today we conclude the tale of Annie, the lady and Bertha, her maid. Here's where we ended yesterday.

"That will do, Bertha. Now it is time for the rod. Stand up."

She clambered to her feet, her skirts fell back down and she stood before me, with her hands still busy rubbing away at her seat... Her bosom heaved with both her sighings and the vigorous actions of her arms.

"How does your bottom feel now, Bertha?" The frantic rubbing had been replaced with a more contemplative soothing, her blushes had faded and her tears no longer flowed.

"Better, Ma'am."

"Right, Bertha. It is time. Move that armchair into the center of the room."

The armchair was soon in place and the implement was in my hand. I swished it experimentally, enjoying both the ominous flexibility and the alarmed look on her face.

"Pardon me, Ma'am, but does it have to be on my bare bottom?"

"Do not annoy me, Bertha. I told you that the birch has to be administered to the naked flesh, and that I have no intention ever of wasting my energies beating dust from your clothing."

"Sorry, Ma'am. Will it mark me?"

"Of course not. Well, not permanently. There will be little weals but it will soon heal completely. Now lean over the back."

She did so, resting her hands on the arms of the chair and straightening her back so that her bottom thrust against the seat of her skirts.

"Excellent."

I carefully placed the birch on the seat of the chair so that it was right before her eyes, then moved behind to lay her bottom bare again, slowly rolling the skirts all the way up to her waist and folding them neatly on her back. I retrieved my weapon, moved to her side and tapped her glowing cheeks with it to ensure that I would strike the full center, and that the tips of the twigs would bite into her buttocks rather than her flank.

With my eyes fixed on the nervously quivering orbs, I raised it with tantalizing slowness (fully aware that her moist eyes were glued to it) and swept it smoothly down. The faint hiss as the bundle of supple twigs raced down through the warm summer air; the thwack of their landing; the ripple in her flesh as they bit into the softness; the jerk of her body; her gasping inhalation; all these thrilled me. I could see the swathe of red left by the stroke, narrow on the nearer cheek, broadening as it crossed her bottom, where the twigs had spread.

I heard her mewing softly and delivered the second with another smooth, wristy sweep of my arm. She squealed at that one and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her face screwed up with the pain. She jerked her hips...she tried to shake the smart out of her hips and her fat cheeks wobbled gloriously. Then, with a little sob escaping from her compressed lips, she stuck her bottom out again, then lowered her arms to project it even more. I hit it again. She wailed, wobbled it about again, proffered it again, and I smacked it for the fourth time, inched my feet backwards to alter the landing position of the tips, aimed at the upper parts of her bottom, just below the commencement of her cleft and whisked again, tempering the power to allow for the relative sparsity of the flesh there.

She almost stood upright and I feared for a moment that her skirts would fall but she caught herself in time, slumped forward and stuck her rump out again, with her knees sagging inwards, presenting a sharply rounded and well-divided target. In a flash, I whipped the rod in an upward sweep and landed exactly where I had intended - on the lower, sitting portions of her bottom.

Her resistance broke and she burst into tears, stood up with her hands nursing her blazing hindquarters and dancing from foot to foot. I dropped the birch and pulled her to me, so that she could sob on my shoulder.

"It is over now, Bertha. I hope that I whipped you to your satisfaction?"

I had expected confusion, so her remarks came as something of a surprise.

"Oh, Ma'am, I really needed that. I was feeling all lazy and dozy. I'm all lively now. Thank you."

I smiled at her choice of words, which described the benefits of a loving chastisement so well. "And how about the birch? Was I not right in telling you that it would not be too punishing?"

"Yes, Ma'am. You were. It stung just right."

"Good. And I hope that you now agree that a spanking is much better delivered to a girl's bare bottom."

She blushed modestly and her agreement was a whispered "Yes".

I hope you enjoyed the birching of Bertha as much as she and Annie did!