Under the rod

The day of my first birching dawned and we ended up playing a lot that day so it was left until the evening. At that stage we'd been playing for a few days and done some very intense scenes, including the penultimate one which was probably my most intense scene of all (more of that to come). Therefore, neither of us intended the birching scene to be intense, at least not from an emotional or head space perspective.

After dinner HH made me refer to Zille's blogpost on how to make a spray birch, feeling that was the type our switches were suited to. A new departure for him and he mused a lot about whether it would be a worthy implement. More humiliation for me as I sulkily tried to figure out how to transform the bundle of leafy switches into a birch rod. To be fair he was very patient with me and after much fussing we managed to make a decent rod that he was happy to beat me with.

I was quite nervous as we discussed the scene in advance, having no idea what to expect. Could I take it? Would the first rod I ever made break in half? Would the fact I already had a very sore bottom impede play? Would HH go too easy on me and I'd end up unsatisfied from the experience? (That of course was a really foolish thought!)

As it was not intended to be an intense scene the backstory was short and to the point. I was Matthews (we didn't even give her a first name), sentenced to the reformatory for two years for recurrent theft. As with all inmates I was to be birched on arrival.

Officer Higgins was succint in his introdcution to reformatory life, merely warning me this was the type of punishment I could expect so it would best to behave myself. I was silent and cowed, not wishing to earn extra punishment. When he told me to remove my jeans and knickers and lie over the whipping bench I silently obeyed.

He asked if I wanted to be restrained and I declined, finding it too claustrophobic at the best of times, even more so with a new implement. I also like the challenge of staying in position; it helps me focus.

I lay face down on the padded whipping bench, arms stretched forward with my hands on the bars underneath, feet across the edge and my bottom raised by a pillow. The seconds passed by slowly as I tried to calm my nerves. I was too conscious of the newness of the situation to get into character. It was certainly EmmaJane lying there, not really Matthews at all. 'Just another beating, just another beating', my internal mantra.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him lift the birch and tried to brace myself. A few taps across my bottom before the first stroke lashed down. I pride myself on being as quiet as possible during my beatings, only crying out when it gets too much for me, which is usually well into a punishment.

In this case I cried out from the first stroke. It landed on the seat of my bottom with the twigs splaying out over my thighs and I felt burned all over, yelping in shock. Then I felt ok until another stoke landed to a corresponding yelp and that horrid burning sensation once more. Again followed by some relief until the next stroke.

It wasn't long until the slow burn kicked in, and I felt less and less relief between strokes. There were very few I took in silence and I was frustrated at the intensity of the pain. I was undone by my screaming and how much it was hurting and at one stage I kicked my legs down on the bench in a complete tantrum. This didn't go unnoticed by Officer Higgins. He quickly lashed down 10 hard strokes in a row, giving me no time to recover in between and making me scream in agony.

For the rest pf the birching I clutched the edge of the bench and forced myself to stay down, exhaling the pain with each stroke. But I couldn't absorb it, couldn't distill the intensity. It wasn't long before I had tears in my eyes, which flowed with each nasty stroke across my thighs.

I had no idea how many he intended to give me but I was roughly counting in my head. Hoping that each milestone reached would mean he'd stop. I hung on until 24, then 50 and then howled through each subsequent set of 10. He made me count the final 10, hardest of all but easier to take knowing I'd soon be finished, crying through each one.

In the end I got roughly a 100.

When he stopped I was ordered into my reformatory uniform, wincing as I pulled on the tight white knickers. My skin felt on fire, hot and sore all over. But very soon afterwards it was bearable and on inspection my skin was barely marked. I was amazed that something could hurt so much and yet only leave little red dots to tell it's tale!

I am in awe and think it's going to an implement I'm going to love and hate in equal measures. At the time it feels like the worst pain in the world. That you couldn't possibly take another stroke, especially when delivered quickly. Yet when it's finished it dulls straight away to a soothing, tingling burn. Yummy.

Worth all the hassle and humilation of having to make the bloody thing in the first place!