“We haven’t been out for a picnic for a long time. The weather’s lovely. What do you think?” asked Robert, yesterday.
What comes to mind at the mention of a picnic? Birds singing? Sun shining in the countryside? A wicker basket and a spread of sandwiches, snacks, drinks, and perhaps wine?
That was the image that used to spring to my mind, but now I have other ideas. It’s my own fault. I wrote my first discipline related story, ‘Jonathan’s Introduction to the Cane and Tawse’ over five years ago, and in one scene Jonathan spills wine on Mrs McKay, resulting in a bare bottom birching.
The first image that sprang into my mind was birching his bare bottom while he was bent over the trunk of a fallen tree.
“What a good idea,” I replied, “I know just the ideal place.”
Although my stories are fiction, I usually have a vision of a real location in my mind while I am writing, and this had been the case when I had written the picnic birching scene in my story about Jonathan. Robert proof-reads all my stories, so he is familiar with them all, but as far as I was aware, he didn’t know the location I had had in mind for the birching scene.
An hour later, with our picnic basket in the boot of the car, we set off for the Sussex countryside. Robert had put together our picnic basket, but just before we had left I had slipped a few additional items under the pack of sandwiches.
“So where in Sussex are we going?” he asked, as we turned out of the drive.
“Do you remember a walk we went on about five years ago? We found a secluded bluebell wood surrounded by farmland. There was a small clearing in the wood, with some wild grass and a few fallen trees. I mentioned at the time it would be an ideal place for a picnic.”
“No, I don’t,” he replied.
“Well, while you were making the sandwiches I managed to find it on Google Earth, so that’s where we are going.”
It’s still possible to escape from people in England, as long as you are prepared to walk some distance from the nearest car park. We found our secluded clearing and apart from the birds and bees, we had the place to ourselves. It was much as I remembered it, and I was delighted to see that the fallen trees were still where they had been and the birch tree I remembered was still there. I laid our ground sheet down close to a large log, then offered Robert a sandwich, keeping the sandwich box to my side. We enjoyed our food to birdsong.
“Do you remember the birching scene in “Jonathan’s Introduction to the Cane and Tawse’?” I asked, after we had been relaxing for about half an hour.
“Yes, of course.”
“I based it here. That’s the birch tree Jonathan would have cut the switches from.” I said, pointing at the tree.
“Oh,” he said, sensing danger. “It’s just as well we didn’t bring the secateurs,” he joked.
I reached into the picnic basket, then handed the secateurs to him, with a smile on my face. I was delighted to see him sit up stiffly with a look of fear spreading across his face.
“You can’t birch me here,” he protested, “Somebody might see us.”
“I doubt it, Robert, but I’m happy to take a chance. Besides, they might enjoy watching your bare bottom dancing to the tune of the birch you are about to make for me.”
“But I haven’t recovered from the last caning,” he pleaded. I could see he was starting to panic.
“Yes you have,” I replied, still smiling. “I had a good look last night while you were asleep. Now go to that birch tree and cut me five switches. I want them about two and a feet half long and I want them to have enough weight to bite nice and deep into your bare bottom, but at the same time, flexible and whippy enough to curl around your bottom cheeks.”
Robert remained sitting, with the secateurs in his hand, looking at me in despair.
“I have a specific number of strokes in mind for your birching, by the way,” I said, still smiling, “But if you don’t start cutting those switches in the next ten seconds I will be delighted to increase that number by another dozen.”
Robert knows only too well that I do not make idle threats. He was on his feet within a second, then ran to the birch tree.
“Make sure they are nice switches, Robert,” I called after him, “Because if I deem any of them unsuitable I will choose alternatives myself. You would be most unwise to give me the opportunity to do so.”
There’s something quite special about watching a person preparing for their own punishment. As Robert carefully selected, then cut the switches I bathed in his mental turmoil. He knew I would expect him to select only switches that would really hurt when applied to his bare bottom, but his temptation would be to select switches that were a little more lenient, but that risked me rejecting them, then choosing something far more severe. Quite a balancing act for him. I watched with amusement as he made his choices, then nervously approach me with his offering. I took the five switches from him, still smiling.
He watched me as I carefully examined each one in turn, flexing each, then swishing them through the air to get a feel for their weight and flexibility.
“You normally make it a rule to give twenty-four hours notice,” he complained. “You’ve broken your own rules.”
I looked up at him with some irritation. I got the feeling he was warming to the idea of a thrashing, so was now goading me to make me angry.
“Let’s remind ourselves about the rules, Robert. Quote me RULE 1.”
“Mistress is always right,” he replied.
“And RULE 2?”
“If Mistress is wrong, see RULE 1.”
“I think that takes care of your complaint, Robert. Now cut me some proper switches,” I said, tossing the ones I was holding aside. “These pathetic lightweight twigs are next to useless. Cut me some with bite.”
Robert swallowed, and I saw fear in his eyes, but he was seriously up for it and I intended to make sure he got it. The next five switches he presented me with were beautiful specimens. They would bite really deep into his bare flesh.
“These will do,” I said, after flexing them. “Bind them into a lovely birch for me.”
I reached into the picnic basket, then handed him a roll of duct tape and a pair of scissors. He knew what to do, he’s made them before. He bound the thick ends of the switches tightly together with the tape to form a firm handle, then bound them again just over a third of the way further down from the handle. This second binding is to prevent the birch rods from splaying apart too much during use. Nervously, he handed me the completed implement.
“This is perfect, Robert,” I said, giving it a swish through the air. It hissed. Robert shuddered. It was a heavy implement, but I’m quite strong. I was confident I could do it justice.
“Wouldn’t it be better to do it at home,” he suggested, looking around. “I’m frightened somebody might see us.”
“I will do it at home,” I replied, “If it survives the birching I’m going to administer here. And if it doesn’t survive I’m going to cane you at home. So you have a lot to look forward to. Now strip.”
Reluctantly and slowly, and nervously looking around, Robert began to remove his clothes. Eventually, he stood before me naked. His eyes dropped to look at the formidable implement of his creation. The implement that was about to bite into the bare flesh of his bottom.
I ordered him to lie along the top of a fallen tree trunk with his knees forward, either side and to hug the trunk with his arms. The position left his bare bottom wonderfully exposed. It seemed to be saying ‘birch me hard’. I intended to accept the invitation.
“I have a number of strokes in mind, Robert,” I said, as I stepped over his head with my left leg to straddle him, “We are going to play a game. I want you to guess the number. If you guess too low you will receive three strokes, and if you guess too high you will receive two strokes. When you guess the number correctly, then that is what you will receive, plus I will add a stroke for each wrong guess. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss,” he whimpered.
I adjusted my stance to line the birch up along the line of his gaping bottom cleft. I don’t think I have ever thrashed him from this angle. With the strokes delivered from over my shoulder, it promised to be a very interesting prospect.
“Your first guess, please, Robert,” I said as I rested the birch switches on his right bottom cheek. “And, by the way, if I catch you looking up my skirt I’ll add a dozen strokes.”
“Yes Miss. Twelve strokes, Miss.”
“Wrong,” I said, as I raised the birch.
The birch hissed as I brought it down with all my strength, then watched in fascination as the switches fanned out to bite into a pattern across his right buttock. It was Robert’s turn to hiss. As he drew his breath in sharply through clenched teeth, I raised the birch again, to bring it down hard across his left buttock. He gasped in pain as I raised the birch again to bring it down venomously into his gaping bottom cleft. He squealed. It must have been excruciating. Instinctively, his legs shot back so he could clench his bottom cheeks. It was, of course, too late to save the flesh within from the fire of the birch, but it was a forbidden action.
“Put your knees back where they should be at once,” I ordered. “If you do that again I will add strokes.”
Hesitantly, trembling, his knees slowly parted, then dropped either side of the trunk to once again leave his bottom cleft helplessly and perfectly exposed. Already, his bottom and upper thighs were sporting a multitude of red weals. It seemed that I had stumbled upon a deliciously spiteful and sadistic way to present a bottom for discipline. I started thinking I might incorporate something like this in my next book.
“Your second guess, please.”
“Wrong again,” I said, cheerfully, as I raised the birch.
Robert squealed as the birch bit deep into first his left, then his right bottom cheek. Of course he had no idea, yet, if he was to receive a third.
As the third stroke cracked down into the flesh around and into his gaping bottom cleft, he shrieked in agony. His legs shot back as his bottom clenched shut.
“Present yourself for punishment immediately, Robert,” I said, firmly. “You were warned not to do that. The last stroke will be repeated.” He whimpered as he hesitantly offered himself for the birch again.
He squealed again, as the birch found the sensitive, burning flesh of his gaping cleft. His legs looked as if they might shoot back again as he writhed in agony, but he just managed to control himself. What a shame.
“Your third guess, please.”
“Twenty-four,” he sobbed.
“Correct, Robert. Well done. So that’s twenty-four, plus two for wrong guesses, making twenty-six. You must stay in position for all twenty-six if you want to avoid extra strokes. Is that quite clear?”
“Yes, Miss,” he sobbed.
The birching began with sadistic enthusiasm. He writhed and squealed deliciously as the birch bit into his right cheek, then left cheek, then his gaping bottom cleft. I maintained this sequence of strokes throughout. He really struggled to keep his knees down, but managed almost until the end. But I was delighted when his will power failed him as a particularly savage stroke impacted beautifully into his bottom cleft. He was soon persuaded to present himself again, and I awarded him another six strokes, promising him another twelve on top of that if he clenched again.
He squealed and writhed like a cut worm as the final strokes were administered with absolute maximum venom, but his knees stayed in place. I was a little disappointed as I was in my element. I adored this method of birching and would have loved to administer another dozen. However, the birch had been slowly disintegrating, and was past its best. I made a mental note to have Robert make up two or three birches next time we went for a picnic.
“I didn’t realise how much I like picnics,” I said as we packed our picnic basket, “We must do it again, soon.”
I had Robert assemble the whipping bench when we arrived home, then I soundly caned him. I don’t need to give Robert a reason to cane him, but I did. He had made too much fuss during his birching, and also I wanted transform the lattice of weals that ran in and parallel to his bottom cleft into a lattice of crosses, by laying thirty-six weals at right-angles to them with the cane. My word, what a sore bottom he now has.
I shall definitely be incorporating ‘tree truck hugging’ in my next book.