Recollections of a Birching

[mr_moon]

Nothing makes my blood race more than the thought of that day, when stretched out over the scullery table, held fast hand and foot by my wicked cousin and sister, my uncle had whipped me seemingly within an inch of Heaven’s gates.

Cousin Juliet and sister Grace, having arrange my downfall and betrayed me to Uncle, gleefully stretched me out like I was some poor witch on the torturer’s rack. My skirts and petite coats were tugged unceremoniously over my back, revealing my flimsy underthings, until these too were unlaced and pulled from their rightful place, exposing my most private parts to my family’s eyes. My face burned with the shame of it, but if I thought this to be the worst of my trials, I was quickly to be proven in gross error.

Uncle lifted up the short handled birch from it’s place in a bucket of water by the stove, kept there, ready and willing, should any of the serving boys or girls need to be chastised by Cook, or Mr. McAdams, the Head Butler. But for a young lady of the house to be so flogged, that was a thing unheard of! If ever we strayed in our ways, it was usual for Uncle to chastise us with his hand upon our night shirts, in the privacy of our chambers, or at a more serious regard we might receive a good few whacks with his riding crop alone in his library, but here, it began to dawn on me, there were probably servants in earshot, or worse!

When the hellish birch finally bit into my naked flesh, tears were already welling in my eyes and streaking onto the sleeve of my dress, as I tried in vain to hide my face, as I could not hide my posterior! The flash of pain caused my eyes to blink open wide and I gasped for breath! I had, on occasion, been the recipient of Uncle’s crop, and a wicked sting it gave too that would leave a girl saddle-sore for a long day, but nothing could have prepared me for the lashing of those thin, wet, wiry fronds.

At the third and forth lash, I cried out in terrible pain and fear! Oh Lord, how long would he make me endure this torment? By the seventh stroke, I began crying out for clemency, to please let me off, that I had learned every lesson it as possible for a young woman to learn! Given the gleeful observations of my brutish siblings, my poor bottom was already a mass of tiny scarlet welts, and I could feel each of them burn like hell fire in my soul. By the twelfth stroke I was a blubbering mess of a girl, defeated and lost. The assault on my poor, naked bottom and thighs continued remorselessly. I lost the ability to count the chastening lashes as they agonised me again and again, and finally stopped fighting my sister and cousin as they pulled on my taught limbs. I lost all fight and self will, and sank into a resigned, blurry haze.

And then the thrashing ceased. I became vaguely aware of my Uncle’s heavy breath as he thrust my birch back into it’s bucket. I was aware of the scullery door slamming shut and his boots on the stone steps outside as he left, hot and angry. And I was aware by siblings were no longer giggling and taunting me at my misfortune. I remember nothing more, before I regained some conciousness in my bed. I was naked, laying on my front, My face was a puffy and fogged from my sobbing, and the mid-morning sun had waned into early evening. I became aware of something cool and damp gentle padding my battered behind and thighs. There was another cloth at my forehead and cheek. Silence. I don’t think Juliet and Grace could find the words to say, so they silently cleaned and softened my scarlet flesh with cool water and bath oil. None of us ever required the birch again at my Uncle’s residence after that day. And that, I think, makes me a little sad.