Afterword to A Workhouse Flogging

The workhouse scene that we played, as described here, is based on a real girl called Eliza. HH, having a keen interest in the history of Corporal Punishment always has his eye out for an interesting story and came across it on one of his forays. After hearing her poor sad tale we could easily imagine what might have happened to her when the Master returned to his post at the workhouse!

I've made HH promise to write up the full story on his blog so you'll hear more about that.

As for me, well it turned out to be an extremely intense scene. Both because I knew it was a real girl who could easily have been treated that way. I was saddened by her bravery in coming forward and agonised over the futility of it. Imagined her being forced to retract her testimony and endure such a severe punishment.

And also so intense because it was the severest caning I've ever received. By a long shot. Apparently the position was perfect for administering a hard and accurate caning. Jutting out over the horse, locked into position by the foot holes and the rope, unable to wriggle, meant I was a perfect target. HH and Abel could cane as hard as they wished, confident that all their strokes would land correctly. And they admitted they caned me as hard as they've ever caned anybody. Encouraged by my reactions, by carefully monitoring me, by knowing they wouldn't cause any lasting damage, by KNOWING me and TRUSTING me, as I knew and trusted them.

Added to that they used a very severe dragon cane, both whippy and dense. Each stroke whipped the skin, but also left an impression that burned long after the stroke. And with only the briefest of time between each stroke I couldn't recover in time to deal with the next. It resulted in me screaming to deal with the pain.

When I dropped off the horse on the 1oth stroke I was in so much pain I couldn't decide what to do. I don't know if I was reacting as Eliza or Emma Jane. Didn't know if my protests were serious, that I couldn't actually continue. But I took a breath and got back up and the strokes kept coming, just as hard, just as fast.

In reflecting on the scene afterward I was pleased that I didn't get angry at this point. I accepted what was happening. Decided to continue. Dealt with it. And let myself get completely immersed in it. Saw it out to its conclusion. Felt overwhelming relief when it ended.

HH took pictures of me as I stayed in position after the final strokes. One of these was of my face. He ordered me to look straight into the camera and although I had stopped sobbing by now the very humbling act of having to face the camera, of displaying the exent to which I had been broken, tore me up. My face crumpled and I was washed over with fresh tears.

When I was dismissed HH and Abel readied themselves to comfort me, but I skipped out of the room and down to my bed. HH is used to his. I need time to transition from the scene back to reality. Need to check myself. How I feel. Know if I'm ok. Before I can relate to the top. Need to have a chance to let the catharsis set in. Of enduring and surviving.

Both stepped back to the next room, door open, waiting for me to need them. A tough thing for a top to understand and comply with. And shortly afterwards I did need them. And in their arms I cried myself back to reality. Surfaced to safety and comfort and reassurance. Hugged for a long time before moving on to analysing the scene. Each of us processing and healing.

Experiences like these - the emotions and feelings that go with them, the utter immersion in play, the safety of being caught, the indescribable catharsis it brings - this is why I do this thing we do. It completes me.

All the rest of the day and the next those cane strokes burned. I can still feel them now. For the first time I had actual stripes to show in the hours afterwards, and playing later was difficult as my pain tolerance was zero!

This was taken just before I went to bed that night... and yes I did sleep on my tummy!