I Remember Her Well

It started on one of those crystal clear February Sunday mornings, when the sky was a vivid pale blue, crisp with frost and not a cloud in the sky.

By eleven in the morning, the winter sun was high enough in the sky for it to stream light into the bedroom that I was sharing with Felicity: darling Felicity with jet black hair cascading half way down her back and green eyes as deep as the winter sky outside.

We had been lovers for six months or more, and life was a wonderful series of adventures and mutual delight.

The room was warm. Felicity had brought in two steaming cups of tea, had a short red dressing gown loosely wrapped around her body. I was sprawled face down on the rumpled sheets, head half under a pillow, slowly waking up after a long night of shared wine, laughter and passionate embraces.

She pushed the blankets down over my naked back and straddled me, facing my feet and started massaging my back down over my buttocks and to the top of my thighs.

"Come on, sleepy head," she said. "Let me ...."

And then she stopped.

"What happened to your bottom?"

"Nothing has happened to my bottom."

"These tiny white lines .... here, here and here" I could feel her finger nails running in parallel lines from side to side. "What on earth caused them?"

"Oh, that was long, long ago. It was nothing."

She bent forward and gently kissed the cheeks of my bottom. "You can tell me," she said, her voice as gentle as the caress of her lips.

But she could see that I really didn't want to discuss the matter in any depth, and it was over a couple of weeks that she slowly pieced together the whole story of my ordeal.

Although corporal punishment had been abolished as a formal method of discipline for boys in military schools for some years prior to my enlistment, the practice had not completely gone. Such discipline had disappeared from the formal regulations, but not entirely from our strange world of junior military academy.

Senior cadets still would beat their juniors, quite illegally mind you, but the officers and staff of the schools had a tacit understanding that provided things did not get out of hand, nothing would be said or done about the practice.

The structure in a military school was similar to that of a boarding school, except that prefects wore the stripes and pips of military rank to show exactly where they stood in the pecking order.

One morning, at Officer's Parade, one young man had stood to attention in front of a visiting General, with a smear of un-wiped metal polish clearly in sight, along the bottom of his bugle, turning its brilliant shine into a dingy smear. The inspecting retinue had stayed in front of him longer than protocol allowed: the Station Commander was almost beside himself with annoyance at the young man. Such a public display of idleness was a disgrace to the entire establishment!

Later that day, the senior Warrant Officer wanted to press charges against the boy within the formal system, but the Station Commander had said, within earshot of the school captain, "No need, Mister Brown, the boys will deal with this one themselves".

That night, the boy was summoned to his peers, who decided that the disgrace he had brought upon them all deserved a school beating. He was bound to a vaulting horse. The three house captains, and the school captain, each in turn delivered six strokes of the birch, and the lad's screams served well to remind all others that military justice is both fearsome and frightful.

Eight years later, that lad still had traces of marks from that beating Quitting the Service at the age of 21 didn't make them go away any quicker. (But, for what it is worth, I can say that there is now not a slightest trace whatsoever left of the affair - at least not in terms of marks on buttocks).

---oo0oo---

She seemed to be fascinated by the incident, and it would constantly turn up in our conversations. The method and minutiae of the ritual was slowly revealed, and she almost became an expert on the procedure.

---oo0oo---

"Would you ever beat me like that?" she once asked.

"No, not like that."

"Not even if I deserved it?"

"No one ever deserves to be beaten like that."

---oo0oo---

"I was often spanked as a little girl. Nothing anywhere near as bad as you got. I wonder what it would be like to be flogged like that."

"It is very grim."

"Perhaps one day you will show me."

"I doubt it."

---oo0oo---

And so it went on. Dreadful but unspecified sins from her past.... A desire to share everything we had experienced no matter how bad .... A determination to undergo such an ordeal, no matter how grim it was at the time ..... And so it went on.

Until the topic had subtly changed from whether I would give her a school beating, in the military academy style, to when I was actually going to do it.

---oo0oo---

"But how can I possibly pantomime the actions involved in delivering four consecutive sets of six? Do you expect me to march about backwards and forwards as if I were four different people?"

"Was the marching about important"

"It gave you three minutes or so of agony between each six, knowing that the pain was going to get a lot worse in the very near future. The waiting was almost as bad as the beating."

The next Friday when I called around to collect her for an evening out together, there was the biggest hour glass I think I have ever seen, stood on the mantle piece. It was over a foot tall, and the "sand" was made of small pieces of colored crystal.

"What's that?" I asked pointing at it.

"I've bought us an egg timer. It's a three minute timer."

---oo0oo---

There is one snatch of conversation that still stands stark in my memory. I cannot now remember the words before or after, but I still feel the tingle down my spine at these phrases which made certain of her fate.

I was trying to talk her out of it again, I think.

"If I hit you - as hard as I can - with a birch rod - in a whipping motion: it will make your bottom bleed - badly."

"Then if it doesn't, we will both know that you chickened out."

With her green eyes burning into my very soul. So that was that.

---oo0oo---

The vaulting horse used in my institution as a birching block became, in her second bedroom, a plank between two dining chairs, with a leather bolster lying along its top.

We tried it out, her fully clothed, just to make sure that it wouldn't fall apart when used as a whipping frame.

She was wearing jeans She lay along the bolster, feet just touching the floor on either side, her wrists against the legs of the chair in front of her, but not tied to them. Not this time.

I ran my fingers up and down the cleft of her bottom.

"Do you see just how exposed you are going to be?"

It was supposed to give her second thoughts.

She closed her eyes, shuddered slightly, and said "Next Friday is the start of a long weekend. Thursday evening. We will do it then. Next Thursday evening".

---oo0oo---

There was a lay-by on a country lane, about a three mile drive from her house, where hundreds of birch trees grew around a small duck pond.

Before setting off, I attached some linen strips to the chair legs, to secure her wrists when we got back. Once we were about to start, I didn't want any long delays.

"What about my legs. Don't you tie my ankles?"

"No need. You cannot do anything with your feet to deflect the next cut."

A long leather strap from a luggage case would hold her waist in place. A bowl of heavily salted water and a flannel would provide a suitable source to wash down between each group of six strokes.

And a large bottle of military style astringent for tending the wounds when the punishment was complete. One of its main ingredients was iodine.

---oo0oo---

We arrived at the lay-by, and I was pleased to see it was deserted. Not that picking birch saplings was necessarily a prelude to pain, for there are many gardening and home- decoration uses for such switches. It just meant we didn't have to take several armfuls, and no one was around to try to guess the ultimate usage when just a few were being taken.

We cut 14 to 16 fairly thick switches, the straightest we could find, each about 3 foot 6 inches to 4 feet long.

"That's going to be a very substantial birch," she observed.

"It is make up two of them, in case the first one breaks up too quickly"

Once again, a closing of her eyes as she gave a slight shudder.

---oo0oo---

When we got back to her place, I divided the saplings into two roughly equal piles, and showed her how to place all the tips together at the thin end, tie the bundle in the middle and then repeatedly tie it the fat end, to make a handle.

She picked on of the up and swished it a couple of times though the air.

"This is really, really going to hurt, isn't it?"

I nodded.

Once again, the eyes closed and a tremor of a shudder running through her body.

"Want to back out?" I asked.

She bit her lower lip and shook her head.

"Once we enter that room," she said, "Nothing that I say, do or threaten to do or say, is to stop the full twenty four. In fact, if I start pleading for mercy or anything like that, take it as a sign that I want extra."

She looked at me with those big green eyes, coolly and calmly, her face set in determination.

"And you are not to ask me at any time during it whether I want it to stop. OK?"

I nodded, and picked up both rods.

We went upstairs.

---oo0oo---

We entered the bedroom, and I placed both birch rods down on top of the dressing table.

---oo0oo---

I then placed the egg timer on the chair nearest the window.

"Strip from the waist down," I said in a matter of fact voice. My emotions were all over the place, for I knew that in the very near future, the young woman that I loved would feel the full force of a military style birching.

And I was not going to give any sign that I did not want this to happen.

She had been the driving force at every stage, and she was the one who got me to promise to take part. 

Plus, of course, that "chicken out" comment ensured that my resolve would not fail.

She removed her shoes and socks, then her trousers and finally her panties. Her white shirt almost reached mid thigh, and at this stage she had not displayed any of her feminine charms - she had wriggled out of her white panties in such a way that she had not given even a glimpse of her pubic hair.

"You have been sentenced to 24 strokes of the birch. Do you have anything to say before punishment is carried out?" I said in my best judicial voice.

"No" came almost as a whisper.

I pointed to the "horse". "Prepare yourself."

She sat astride it, lay flat along its top and then placed her hands in position to be secured. I wrapped the linen strips around her wrist three times, firmly but not so tight as to cut off circulation, and then tied the ends together. And then the other wrist.

Next, the leather strap from the luggage trunk went around her waist and the entire leather bolster and the plank that was supporting it. I buckled it tight. The pressure on the small of her back caused her bottom to raise, barely quarter of an inch, but I remember how very vulnerable that motion had made me feel, when it was my turn along time age. I believe she must have felt the same sensation.

I turned the egg timer over, to start the count down to the moment that the first six strokes would be delivered.

I tucked the bottom of her shirt tail into the leather band across her waist, picked up one of the two birch bundles, and stood by her right ankle. The first six would be delivered with a sort of backward stroke, striping her left bottom cheek first, and finishing up on the right one.

Spread-eagled and bound, she was as exposed as any woman could ever be.

I reached into my pocket and took out a handkerchief, and moved up to be level with her head. "Bite on this" I said, offering it to her. "We don't want to alarm the neighbors". She opened her mouth and took the folded cloth between her teeth. And then turned her stare back to the timer, which was more than half spent.

I moved back into position, and as the timer got to a point where there was just a few seconds left, I placed the tips of the birch switches against the outside of her left buttock.

She flinched.

The sand ran out. And I started the first six.

The noise of the first stroke in that little room was extraordinarily loud - almost as powerful as a car slamming into another in a broadside collision.

And the effects on her bottom were instant and savage. One second she lay awaiting - her two pale orbs, stretched apart by the bolster, and flattened by the angle of her position, a light puckered anus in-between, and the pretty pink lips of her vagina clearly to be seen below: and then suddenly there were half a dozen knife like welts paralleled across the middle of her bottom.

She jerked but made no sound.

Five more times my arm raised, and the birch switches whipped into her tender flesh. I looked dispassionately at what I had done, but inside my head: Good God, I thought. Just six strokes and already first blood had been drawn.

I turned the egg time over, and started the eternity of waiting until it was time for the next six. I glanced at her, and saw that tears were running down her cheeks. I put aside all my emotion.

I took the flannel and soaked into the salt water, and wiped the marks on her bottom with it. Specks of blood had already started to show - as I had expected, for no one had ever taken six of the birch at Thornton without blood being drawn.

And it was going to get much worse before this was over.

A quick glance at the birch rod confirmed that there was no need to change it yet. One or two tips had broken off, and the rest were showing signs of fraying, but there was plenty of service left in it.

I took up position by her left ankle, and reached across to her right buttock with the tips of the switches. This time six to be delivered forehand.

The sand ran out. She glanced quickly over her shoulder at me, and turned away as I started to lift my arm.

The six were delivered with the same speed and rhythm as the first six, but now the skin was starting to break up in several spots, and I knew that she was reaching the worst part of the ordeal. Climbing up a cliff face of agony and pain, and no hint of respite to hand.

Her head shook from side to side violently with each crack, but by determination or by biting on to my handkerchief, no noise was heard in the room except the swish of the rods terminating in the crack of another stroke delivered.

She lay still.

I moved up and turned the timer again. I said nothing, but gave her a look as if to say "OK?" She seemed to understand and although her lips were tightly clenched around my handkerchief, and tears continued to stream down her cheeks, she gave little nod.

Another washing with the brine. This time, a stronger reaction as the salt bit into cuts. The salt was not meant to be part of the punishment, just a cheap and readily available astringent to reduce the chance of infection.

I exchanged the rod for the unused one.

And back into position to deliver another six backhand, from left to right, hitting the left cheek first and drawing the birch across to the right.

This time the three minutes seemed to have passed quite quickly. The sands ran out, and I delivered the third set of six.

She was clearly in deep pain. Each stroke had her whole body writhing and jerking, her legs kicking up and down, and muffled yells from behind the folded cloth in her mouth.

And then the six were over.

Panting heavily, I went and turned the timer over for the final time.

The cuts on her bottom were now quite extensive, and in places the skin had been taken off exposing raw flesh beneath. Applying the brine caused kicking almost as intense as that during the beating.

For a moment, I considered ending it then. She couldn't have had any idea how bad this was going to be, and an 18 stroke flogging at Thornton was feared just as much as a school beating.

But then she looked at me again, determination set in her face, and I could almost hear her saying "just another six. I'm doing ok".

She turned back to watch the last of the sand run out.

The last six was delivered with forward strokes, from right to left, with as much full force as the first six. Any reduction in the pain of each stroke, caused by the slackening in strength from my tiring arm was more than compensated by them landing on raw nerve endings, exposed by the earlier cuts.

Her kicking and writhing was less strident than before. The pain had reached saturation point, and all that was really happening was we were extending the length of time the after-effects would last.

Even so, the birch continued to bite, and she continued to react to each cut.

And then the flogging was done.

She lay still, spat out the cloth from her mouth and sobbed quietly into the leather bolster below her face.

Her bottom was deeply bruised from the impact of each blow, welted by the switches and cut by the whipping action.

I took a fresh piece of cloth and doused it in the military wound lotion. "This will sting a bit, but it will mean no infection" I said. As I washed the cuts and welts she started to tense up and then cried "For God's sake - no more!" Her feet started drumming again.

"Lie still for a moment. It's all done."

She was clenching and unclenching her fists. "Oh, that stings. Oh - it's almost worse than the beating. Oh God!"

I started untying her, and after a little time, helped her to her feet.

"Did you enjoy that?"

"No! Don't be silly!" she snapped, and then relaxed again. "But I am glad to have gone through it." I glanced at her. "But once will be quite enough, thank you. Come one, take me to bed and make me better."

Despite any denials or statements to the contrary, the experience must have acted as some sort of aphrodisiac on her, for that night she came at me and came at me like a tigress in heat. Eventually, I was so spent, all I could do was let her sit astride me and let her use my body to rub herself to another climax. And as she did so, she would take my hands and press my fingers into the welts and ridges on her bottom.

I stayed with her until the Tuesday morning, tending to her and caring for her, and for a time, thinking that we were soul mates.

---oo0oo---

But somehow, that weekend proved to be the turning point in our relationship.

I was not sure if I was supposed to press her to have a second similar session, or ignore that the first one had taken place, or some other course between these two.

And perhaps it was my own doubt and uncertainty that signaled the end to her.

After a couple of months, our dates dropped to barely one a week, and within six months we went our separate ways.

But I shall never forget that slim trim beauty, long black hair, green eyes that could eat into your very soul, who had once talked me into giving her a military birching ...