I have a greedy nature. I truly want to have it all. Then I want more of it. More play, more attention, more laughs, more hugs, more friends, more beatings, more love.
I want to be the best: at work, at friendship, at love, at sex, at life, at this thing we do.
I have an addictive and obsessive personality. Sometimes I cannot be sated. Until I have gorged myself to illness, danced myself to a heap, drank myself into a stupor, played myself to screaming pain, cried myself to choking tears, fought my way through the emotional storms: anger, jealousy, shame.
I want to be all things to all people. Everyone's friend, emergency call out, shoulder to cry on, playmate, entertainer and protector.
And when the pressure gets too much and I want to hide under the duvet and disappear I momentarily think I need that shining Knight to come and rescue me. To tell me what to do, when to stop, when to be calm, how to make better choices, to stop me saying and doing reckless impulsive things, to punish me when I've failed, to take all the responsibility away from me.
But then who would I be? I wouldn't be me. And more than anything I want to be, need to be me - greedy, little me.
Monday, April 26
Tuesday, April 20
It's good to say it...
This blog means so much to me, more than I think I can really convey. I get a wonderful sense of achievement when I read over my words. Get a thrill at a particular post that I consider to be well expressed. Enjoy the generous comments I receive. Yet I am guilty of censorship. I sell you my version of Emma Jane, the good bits. The introspective thinker. The playful brat. The nice thoughtful girl. Rarely do I let go. Never do I publish anything in haste or in the true heat of emotion. Nothing on here is raw. It's all as polished as can be.
The ability to write with both clarity and depth of emotion is one that Casey Morgan exudes in spades. As someone going through a difficult time, the bereavement of her husband and kinky partner, her posts are often raw, sometimes difficult to read or heart breakingly sad, painful almost. Yet so full of honesty and courage that I am amazed.
And I have to force myself to comment on her posts. Force myself to think of something worthy to say to her. To show her how much I appreciate her writing. How I admire her courage. And how I wish I could take away even a little bit of her pain if I could.
And she shouldn't apologise for what she writes on her blog. Nor should she apologise for the gaps in between writing. As I said on a recent post of hers:
If you admire real honesty and courage stop by and say so too.
The ability to write with both clarity and depth of emotion is one that Casey Morgan exudes in spades. As someone going through a difficult time, the bereavement of her husband and kinky partner, her posts are often raw, sometimes difficult to read or heart breakingly sad, painful almost. Yet so full of honesty and courage that I am amazed.
And I have to force myself to comment on her posts. Force myself to think of something worthy to say to her. To show her how much I appreciate her writing. How I admire her courage. And how I wish I could take away even a little bit of her pain if I could.
And she shouldn't apologise for what she writes on her blog. Nor should she apologise for the gaps in between writing. As I said on a recent post of hers:
Sunday, April 18
36 flights and one boat trip later...
Today I celebrate the first year anniversary of my first trip across the water to meet the UK kinksters! When I didn't know anyone at all but took a chance and booked a last minute flight over, nervous and unsure but going anyway.
365 days of knowing my UK friends. 365 days of being part of their kinky scene. 365 days of being free and happy in further exploring my kink. 365 days of commuting for my kinky social life. 365 days of Lowewoods, reformatories, chilled our gatherings and parties. 365 days of being welcomed and cared for. 365 days of very special friendship.
36 flights across the water. That's 36 check-ins, 36 security queues, 36 trips to and from Dublin airport, 36 trips to and from the host airport. 36 wanderings around said airports waiting for my flight. 36 take-offs and landings. (It would have been 38 flights if Swine flu hadn't scuppered another weekend of mine!)
1 hastily arranged boat trip (very Irish immigrant) and skoda combo and a wing and a prayer I make it back tomorrow!
19 flutterings of excitement and anticipation. 19 packings of of obligatory 30 pairs of knickers,19 ecstatic hellos and 19 goodbyes (some more sad and teary than others). 19 uncomfortable flights home on hard airplane seats.
1 contented, lucky, hyper, crazy, in-love-with-life Emma Jane :)
365 days of knowing my UK friends. 365 days of being part of their kinky scene. 365 days of being free and happy in further exploring my kink. 365 days of commuting for my kinky social life. 365 days of Lowewoods, reformatories, chilled our gatherings and parties. 365 days of being welcomed and cared for. 365 days of very special friendship.
36 flights across the water. That's 36 check-ins, 36 security queues, 36 trips to and from Dublin airport, 36 trips to and from the host airport. 36 wanderings around said airports waiting for my flight. 36 take-offs and landings. (It would have been 38 flights if Swine flu hadn't scuppered another weekend of mine!)
1 hastily arranged boat trip (very Irish immigrant) and skoda combo and a wing and a prayer I make it back tomorrow!
19 flutterings of excitement and anticipation. 19 packings of of obligatory 30 pairs of knickers,19 ecstatic hellos and 19 goodbyes (some more sad and teary than others). 19 uncomfortable flights home on hard airplane seats.
1 contented, lucky, hyper, crazy, in-love-with-life Emma Jane :)
Wednesday, April 14
Crushed
With my last two posts being about very hard scenes in terms of punishment and pain, I like to remind both you and me that I am really a headspace player and not actually a masochist. Pain without context doesn't work for me. And the more powerful the context, the deeper and more intense the reaction on my part.
And the first scene we played over Easter was such an example where the context was everything. Very light on pain, but very emotionally intense.
In the scene I was the school hockey captain. Haron was the captain of the Cheer leading squad and we were both senior prefects. (Haron was actually supposed to be my vice-captain but I had to demote her, she was far too cute to be a hockey player.)
We had just returned from an away match at Chillingham Academy that we had won 3:2, putting us on top of the league. As hockey captain I was very pleased with the result. The only fly in the ointment was that Mr Jenkins our games master had caught us attending an after lights out party organised by our hosts. Made worse by the fact we were enjoying a few illicit vodka and cokes when he burst in on us.
Our hosts had already been dealt with by their Headmaster and we were now waiting to be summoned in to visit our own Headmaster, Mr Higgins.
When the time of our appointment arrived we were duly scolded, first by Jenkins and then by Higgins. Our protests that it would have been rude to decline the invitation were met with some anger. Things didn't get any better when they figured out this may nit have been out first time at such a gathering and that we had bought the alcohol ourselves.
Still I insisted in feeling righteous and proud of our achievements, we had won the match after all, surely that was the most important thing. When a caning was pronounced I was sullen and determined to show that a few cane strokes couldn't get to me. I was the hockey captain after all!
Haron took 6 from Jenkins first. From my position against the wall they sounded like real stingers and I shuddered in sympathy. As we switched places I gave her hand a quick squeeze and then replaced her over the table. Knickers down and skirt up, bottom exposed and vulnerable. The 6 cuts were duly delivered, making me wince and hiss as each burned down. But I stayed in position determined to show no weakness.
Another 6 for Haron, this time from the Headmaster, sounding just as hard and painful. And then over again I went. Another 6 strokes rained down, but this time I didn't even flinch. With each stroke I was imagining that hockey match. A great pass I made, a well-timed defensive tackle, shooting the winning goal, the roar of victory.
Triumphantly I rose when permitted, re-arranged my clothing and faced the Headmaster for his final few words, feeling every bit the victorious Hockey Captain.
And then he crushed me. Told me he was proud of me for winning the match, was always proud of my achievements on the field. But he was ashamed that I had let the school and myself down so badly, failed in setting a good example to the younger girls. As his lecture continued I fell apart, crying from the shame of having failed in my position, feeling every bit the humbled Hockey Captain.
And the first scene we played over Easter was such an example where the context was everything. Very light on pain, but very emotionally intense.
In the scene I was the school hockey captain. Haron was the captain of the Cheer leading squad and we were both senior prefects. (Haron was actually supposed to be my vice-captain but I had to demote her, she was far too cute to be a hockey player.)
We had just returned from an away match at Chillingham Academy that we had won 3:2, putting us on top of the league. As hockey captain I was very pleased with the result. The only fly in the ointment was that Mr Jenkins our games master had caught us attending an after lights out party organised by our hosts. Made worse by the fact we were enjoying a few illicit vodka and cokes when he burst in on us.
Our hosts had already been dealt with by their Headmaster and we were now waiting to be summoned in to visit our own Headmaster, Mr Higgins.
When the time of our appointment arrived we were duly scolded, first by Jenkins and then by Higgins. Our protests that it would have been rude to decline the invitation were met with some anger. Things didn't get any better when they figured out this may nit have been out first time at such a gathering and that we had bought the alcohol ourselves.
Still I insisted in feeling righteous and proud of our achievements, we had won the match after all, surely that was the most important thing. When a caning was pronounced I was sullen and determined to show that a few cane strokes couldn't get to me. I was the hockey captain after all!
Haron took 6 from Jenkins first. From my position against the wall they sounded like real stingers and I shuddered in sympathy. As we switched places I gave her hand a quick squeeze and then replaced her over the table. Knickers down and skirt up, bottom exposed and vulnerable. The 6 cuts were duly delivered, making me wince and hiss as each burned down. But I stayed in position determined to show no weakness.
Another 6 for Haron, this time from the Headmaster, sounding just as hard and painful. And then over again I went. Another 6 strokes rained down, but this time I didn't even flinch. With each stroke I was imagining that hockey match. A great pass I made, a well-timed defensive tackle, shooting the winning goal, the roar of victory.
Triumphantly I rose when permitted, re-arranged my clothing and faced the Headmaster for his final few words, feeling every bit the victorious Hockey Captain.
And then he crushed me. Told me he was proud of me for winning the match, was always proud of my achievements on the field. But he was ashamed that I had let the school and myself down so badly, failed in setting a good example to the younger girls. As his lecture continued I fell apart, crying from the shame of having failed in my position, feeling every bit the humbled Hockey Captain.
Saturday, April 10
Early morning alarm!
It's long been a rule that when I visit HH I have to get up at a reasonable hour in the morning. Despite the fact that I might be very tired or indeed very annoyed, HH insists on waking me up in the most cruel ways. And when I inevitably get grumpy at this unwelcome start to the day, I get into even more trouble.
Except for my recent visit over Easter, where I was so deeply asleep that the spanking was long over before I was conscious enough to reach a state of grump. In fact I didn't reach that state until lunch-time. And how very odd it must have seemed to the others to witness me descend into sudden grumpiness.
Now just in case people think HH is a horrifically cruel man I must confess I had gone to bed early the night before and we had all agreed that we would rise and shine at 8am to leave the house early enough to get through all of the days activities. (You know: eating crumpets, visiting a grand country house, drinking Pimms, beating me etc.)
But the thing was it took ever such a long time for me to fall asleep that I felt quite justified in switching my alarm off. So I slept right past the appointed rising hour. Right up to 8:50 where an alarm in the shape of HH and his wooden paddle burst into my room.
Waking up suddenly I looked at him very sleepily, observed the paddle in his hands and closed my eyes again. Even as he put me across his knee lecturing about everyone else being up since 8 waiting around for me etc., I was still half asleep. So much so I made no protest as the paddle smacked down on me. At one point I tired to close my eyes and have another snooze, but that proved impossible with the painful attention my bottom was receiving.
And when he did pause and it seemed that we were done I obviously hadn't woken up fully as I then started to complain that I couldn't have woken at 8 seeing as my alarm had been turned off. The next volley of smacks, duly administered for having been the one to turn the alarm off in the first place, were much more painful and I was relieved to be finally allowed up.
After an all-too-short cuddle from HH I gave my bed one last longing-look and made my way downstairs where Abel and Haron gave me lots of hugs and sympathy. Alas HH had very little sympathy for me at all, but he did let me have another hug. Unfortunately he caught on very quickly that I was actually trying to sleep standing up whilst hugging him. And so the day started.
Oh well, one day he might learn it's best to let me sleep in. Or equally I might learn it's best to just get up on time. Who knows which of us will break first!
I do like this pic that Abel took at the time though, I feel very like a little girl in it...
Here's a close up of my poor bottom, startlingly pink for that time of morning!
Except for my recent visit over Easter, where I was so deeply asleep that the spanking was long over before I was conscious enough to reach a state of grump. In fact I didn't reach that state until lunch-time. And how very odd it must have seemed to the others to witness me descend into sudden grumpiness.
Now just in case people think HH is a horrifically cruel man I must confess I had gone to bed early the night before and we had all agreed that we would rise and shine at 8am to leave the house early enough to get through all of the days activities. (You know: eating crumpets, visiting a grand country house, drinking Pimms, beating me etc.)
But the thing was it took ever such a long time for me to fall asleep that I felt quite justified in switching my alarm off. So I slept right past the appointed rising hour. Right up to 8:50 where an alarm in the shape of HH and his wooden paddle burst into my room.
Waking up suddenly I looked at him very sleepily, observed the paddle in his hands and closed my eyes again. Even as he put me across his knee lecturing about everyone else being up since 8 waiting around for me etc., I was still half asleep. So much so I made no protest as the paddle smacked down on me. At one point I tired to close my eyes and have another snooze, but that proved impossible with the painful attention my bottom was receiving.
And when he did pause and it seemed that we were done I obviously hadn't woken up fully as I then started to complain that I couldn't have woken at 8 seeing as my alarm had been turned off. The next volley of smacks, duly administered for having been the one to turn the alarm off in the first place, were much more painful and I was relieved to be finally allowed up.
After an all-too-short cuddle from HH I gave my bed one last longing-look and made my way downstairs where Abel and Haron gave me lots of hugs and sympathy. Alas HH had very little sympathy for me at all, but he did let me have another hug. Unfortunately he caught on very quickly that I was actually trying to sleep standing up whilst hugging him. And so the day started.
Oh well, one day he might learn it's best to let me sleep in. Or equally I might learn it's best to just get up on time. Who knows which of us will break first!
I do like this pic that Abel took at the time though, I feel very like a little girl in it...
Here's a close up of my poor bottom, startlingly pink for that time of morning!
Wednesday, April 7
Beating back the demons
I was buoyed up and flying after my birching scene. Yes it hurt, yes sitting down was painful, but it had been all worth it and I was invincible.
Secure in the knowledge that my own birching had passed, I happily joined HH and Abel in restocking their birching supplies. Whilst out gathered new birch to be used on other (more?) deserving girls Abel also picked up a supply of supple ash switches. In some curiosity I admitted that I'd never been switched before and expressed an interest in trying it. Having just survived a birch rods made of several switches, how bad could one single, if slightly thicker switch be?
That evening I found out.
I was quickly taken out of my relaxed mood when HH started off by using the switching as a teaching opportunity. He carefully showed me two switches of equal length and bade me observe the differences between them. Pointed out how one was completely smooth, with all the buds and thorns removed. Cautioned me that if I was ever sent out to fetch a switch I was to return with one prepared in this way.
The idea and the humiliation of being sent out to prepare my own switch made me feel quite weak and I was 'Yes Sir-ing' without a thought. I also obediently lowered my trousers and panties and bent over the bed in position when told to do so.
Abel took up the switch first and I stood ready, all set to beat the switch just as I had the birch. But to my shock the first stroke was horrendously painful causing me to yelp and jump out of position. The second was no better and provoked the same response. I felt like I was being cut with a knife.
Whether this was because of the earlier birching, or whether the switch was just so whippy or whether Abel was using his full force, I wasn't sure. But I couldn't begin to comprehend how much it hurt. HH took my hands and held me down while I kicked and yelped through a quick succession of strokes. I had taken more than a dozen and tears were already filling when he paused.
HH then took up the switch and used it fractionally lighter, but still causing me to wince and kick. I didn't feel at all brave. Where was that girl gone to? Who was this quaking mess barely 30 strokes in?
I wasn't pleased with myself and when Abel requested that I look at him, I disobeyed and kept my head firmly down. Not wanting to show him how much I was hurting. How much they were getting to me. And herein lies the stark irony of it all: I didn't want this much pain. I wanted them to ease off, but I couldn't communicate this because then they'd think they'd beaten me. My twisted logic of that moment astounds me even now!
Of course the proper thing to do here was to signal to the tops that I was beyond my comfort levels. That I needed a break, or wanted them to back off. But I was angry that the pain was getting to me and defiance made me react in the opposite way.
When Abel told me I'd be punished for disobeying his request I looked him full in the eye and said some very impolite things, about him and his switch. My words may have been bad, but my tone conveyed the utmost level of insolence and hatred.
In response he calmly told me to kneel on the bed and that he was going to make me sorry. That we'd been here before and my insolence wasn't going to be tolerated. It's difficult to make defiant movements when your trousers and panties are twisted round your ankles but in one movement I was on the bed in position conveying the utmost in 'I don't care what you are going to do to me'.
Somewhere in my head a little voice was shouting that this was a very bad idea. A quieter voice was whispering that I was out of line and I should be ashamed of myself. Unfortunately the loud angry thoughts shut them out. I buried my head in the bed and braced myself for the inevitable onslaught.
12 quick strokes rained down. I didn't move or react in anyway. But the pain was horrific and I could feel the switch breaking off with each stroke. Once he stopped I collapsed on the bed and sobbed from the pain.
This time when he asked me to look at him I quickly obeyed and was crying that I was sorry before he could even ask for the apology. And I was sorry. Not just because it hurt so much, but because I truly felt so bad for what I said. And the loud angry voices were silent allowing the voices of reason to break through.
Then I was ordered into position once more and a final 12 hard strokes were applied. Now he had my attention he wanted to drive the lesson home. I cried the whole way through. And when the birch disintegrated completely I didn't feel any sense of achievement this time. Nor was I flying with adrenalin. I felt nothing only shame and pain. Like I had been properly disciplined.
The thing about my discipline kink is that it can't be contrived. I can't act up to be punished; that's just a fun game. Real discipline comes from having done something I absolutely regret, something I'm ashamed of and need to be absolved of.
Real discipline leaves me feeling sorry but forgiven, pulled back from the brink, relieved to have it over with. So I didn't fly afterwards. But I needed and was given cuddles and comfort. Told I was still cared for. Reassured that even when I'm out of control the toppy types still are. That my demons can be beaten back.
Abel and I talked and hugged for a long time afterwards, honestly communicating about what happened. Both of us having no regrets about what had happened, but the same real desire not to have to repeat it. It's a place I've been before with HH and we also talked it over afterwards.
Of course this isn't an experience I could have with just anybody. It takes a hell of a lot of trust in someone before I can let go to that level. Before I can emotionally commit to a scene to the extent I'm beyond safewording. That I can disappear safe in the knowledge that the toppy type will catch me. And it's the same for them - they have to be secure in knowing they can effectively discipline me. That I will take it.
---
Below is a before and after of the switch, an implement I've just found I have a whole lot of respect for!
Secure in the knowledge that my own birching had passed, I happily joined HH and Abel in restocking their birching supplies. Whilst out gathered new birch to be used on other (more?) deserving girls Abel also picked up a supply of supple ash switches. In some curiosity I admitted that I'd never been switched before and expressed an interest in trying it. Having just survived a birch rods made of several switches, how bad could one single, if slightly thicker switch be?
That evening I found out.
I was quickly taken out of my relaxed mood when HH started off by using the switching as a teaching opportunity. He carefully showed me two switches of equal length and bade me observe the differences between them. Pointed out how one was completely smooth, with all the buds and thorns removed. Cautioned me that if I was ever sent out to fetch a switch I was to return with one prepared in this way.
The idea and the humiliation of being sent out to prepare my own switch made me feel quite weak and I was 'Yes Sir-ing' without a thought. I also obediently lowered my trousers and panties and bent over the bed in position when told to do so.
Abel took up the switch first and I stood ready, all set to beat the switch just as I had the birch. But to my shock the first stroke was horrendously painful causing me to yelp and jump out of position. The second was no better and provoked the same response. I felt like I was being cut with a knife.
Whether this was because of the earlier birching, or whether the switch was just so whippy or whether Abel was using his full force, I wasn't sure. But I couldn't begin to comprehend how much it hurt. HH took my hands and held me down while I kicked and yelped through a quick succession of strokes. I had taken more than a dozen and tears were already filling when he paused.
HH then took up the switch and used it fractionally lighter, but still causing me to wince and kick. I didn't feel at all brave. Where was that girl gone to? Who was this quaking mess barely 30 strokes in?
I wasn't pleased with myself and when Abel requested that I look at him, I disobeyed and kept my head firmly down. Not wanting to show him how much I was hurting. How much they were getting to me. And herein lies the stark irony of it all: I didn't want this much pain. I wanted them to ease off, but I couldn't communicate this because then they'd think they'd beaten me. My twisted logic of that moment astounds me even now!
Of course the proper thing to do here was to signal to the tops that I was beyond my comfort levels. That I needed a break, or wanted them to back off. But I was angry that the pain was getting to me and defiance made me react in the opposite way.
When Abel told me I'd be punished for disobeying his request I looked him full in the eye and said some very impolite things, about him and his switch. My words may have been bad, but my tone conveyed the utmost level of insolence and hatred.
In response he calmly told me to kneel on the bed and that he was going to make me sorry. That we'd been here before and my insolence wasn't going to be tolerated. It's difficult to make defiant movements when your trousers and panties are twisted round your ankles but in one movement I was on the bed in position conveying the utmost in 'I don't care what you are going to do to me'.
Somewhere in my head a little voice was shouting that this was a very bad idea. A quieter voice was whispering that I was out of line and I should be ashamed of myself. Unfortunately the loud angry thoughts shut them out. I buried my head in the bed and braced myself for the inevitable onslaught.
12 quick strokes rained down. I didn't move or react in anyway. But the pain was horrific and I could feel the switch breaking off with each stroke. Once he stopped I collapsed on the bed and sobbed from the pain.
This time when he asked me to look at him I quickly obeyed and was crying that I was sorry before he could even ask for the apology. And I was sorry. Not just because it hurt so much, but because I truly felt so bad for what I said. And the loud angry voices were silent allowing the voices of reason to break through.
Then I was ordered into position once more and a final 12 hard strokes were applied. Now he had my attention he wanted to drive the lesson home. I cried the whole way through. And when the birch disintegrated completely I didn't feel any sense of achievement this time. Nor was I flying with adrenalin. I felt nothing only shame and pain. Like I had been properly disciplined.
The thing about my discipline kink is that it can't be contrived. I can't act up to be punished; that's just a fun game. Real discipline comes from having done something I absolutely regret, something I'm ashamed of and need to be absolved of.
Real discipline leaves me feeling sorry but forgiven, pulled back from the brink, relieved to have it over with. So I didn't fly afterwards. But I needed and was given cuddles and comfort. Told I was still cared for. Reassured that even when I'm out of control the toppy types still are. That my demons can be beaten back.
Abel and I talked and hugged for a long time afterwards, honestly communicating about what happened. Both of us having no regrets about what had happened, but the same real desire not to have to repeat it. It's a place I've been before with HH and we also talked it over afterwards.
Of course this isn't an experience I could have with just anybody. It takes a hell of a lot of trust in someone before I can let go to that level. Before I can emotionally commit to a scene to the extent I'm beyond safewording. That I can disappear safe in the knowledge that the toppy type will catch me. And it's the same for them - they have to be secure in knowing they can effectively discipline me. That I will take it.
---
Below is a before and after of the switch, an implement I've just found I have a whole lot of respect for!
Tuesday, April 6
The Tale of Prisoner 967
I'm just back from a wonderful weekend with very dear friends HH, Abel and Haron. We had a lovely time of seeing old castles, browsing bookshops and antique places, resting and chatting, cooking, eating and drinking Pimms and wine! As one might expect there were a fair few beatings thrown in for good measure and back home today in Dublin I find myself in a state of wonderful sated bliss.
As I write my bottom throbs ever so slightly and when I shift on the spot my jeans scratch against the more tender areas. I'm so contented right now that I'm finding it hard to write up the scenes themselves. Yet I feel I must; it would be too darn selfish of me not to share! Not to mention that in a few weeks time I'll begin to wonder did it ever happen at all.
It being Easter and finding ourselves in the the full bloom of Spring, it was obviously time to be birched. Now this was only my third time to experience the birch but again I was reassured of several things: One it hurts like hell; Two it does very little damage compared to the actual amount of pain it imparts; Three it's one of my favorite implements.
Added to the fun of being birched, I also had the pleasure (or torment) of being triple topped. Greedy little so and so that I am this was immensely delightful. It was also immensely painful!
So below is the tale of my third birching, or the sorry tale of Prisoner 967. I've edited the story in parts for easier reading but the scene and context was pretty much as is. The only difference is that we actually naturally concluded the scene after about 150 strokes. My bottom was showing signs of superficial damage as is normal in a birching and the Tops felt I'd had enough.
However I was still buzzing and not at all played out. I really wanted more and didn't feel too damaged to continue. So after a quick hug and a sanity check, over the bench I went again for another 50 or 60 strokes. Until I was truly screaming for mercy and ready to finish.
Floating on a high of adrenalin and pain, gooey to my submissive core and stupidly pleased with myself that the three birches (as you can witness for yourself) were even more broken and dishevelled than I was, we finally concluded matters!
Thereupon I was gently taken down and hugged and comforted until I was myself again.
---
I was Rosie O'Grady sentenced to two years in Her Majesty's prison for extortion. Only three months in and the wing warden Officer Temple has already taken a strong dislike to me. And things just got a whole lot worse when I semi-accidentally gave one of her guards a black eye as he man-handled me back into my cell.
Not having a kindly view of me in the first place, Temple immediately dragged me off for a night in solitary. Despite my protests she stripped me completely naked and locked me up alone. Taking my clothes off with her, she bade me enjoy my night in the punishment cell, laughing that I'd get what was coming to me in the morning.
Once she left me, my bravado fell to the wayside. I shivered, naked under the thin blankets and tried not to think of what was going to happen. I'd heard stories from the other girls, witnessed the state of them after an official punishment. My stomach churned nervously.
The room was eerie in the dark with cuffs and chains hanging from the ceiling and the large whipping bench taking up the middle of the room. It was a long time before I drifted off to an uneasy sleep. After a restless night (30 minutes in reality, but enough to make me terrified) I woke up to the clanging of my cell door. Paralysed with fear I stayed under the blanket until I was dragged out of the bed by Officer Temple. Shivering I tried to cover myself but was ordered to stand up straight, hands by my side.
She wasn't alone. Bad enough to have brought Governor Jenkins with her, she was also accompanied by Officer Higgins, known throughout the prison as the Punishment Officer. He towered over me looking both pompous and menacing in his full prison uniform.
Once Temple had laid out the charges against me, of assaulting one of her guards, I tried to defend myself. But my protests that he ran into my elbow were met in vain. The Governor silenced me with a sharp slap across the face and I cringed back suddenly very afraid.
On his orders I was strapped face down over the whipping bench. Still utterly naked I felt exposed and vulnerable as he told me what was to happen.
'First Officer Higgins will birch you first,' he said quietly. 'Then Office Temple will take up a fresh rod with which to also birch you, before I take up a third and apply that. And I'm sure by the end of this you'll be a very sorry girl indeed and you won't be giving any of us any more trouble.'
Even in my heightened state of fear I noted that there was no actual sentence. No fixed number of strokes to try to survive. Higgins took up the birch, giving me a look at it before he moved into position at my side. It was what I'd heard called a spray birch, made of multiple switches and leaves and twigs. It would easily cover my entire bottom in one stroke, scratching my flesh as it went. As he tapped it experimentally against my skin, I braced myself, pushing back against the straps that held me down.
The first stroke landed, but was bearable. So was the next. And the next. Painful but not unduly. I felt some relief; I could survive this. But it soon gave way to fear as the strokes built on each other. After 20 I was in real pain as my whole bottom became red hot.
Each stroke felt harder and harder, and pieces of the birch flew around the room, leaving the remaining ends even sharper. Each time it felt like needles were scratching into my skin. At 60 I couldn't count anymore. Inside my head I prayed for brief respites. Higgins was cold and clinical, pausing every so often to let the strokes sink in, giving me hope of it being done with, but then lashing down 10 or 20 in quick succession.
I'm not sure how many I had before I started sobbing in earnest, twisting against the straps but unable to deflect any of the pain. It was surely over a 100 before Higgins stopped and I lay limp on the bench trying to catch my breath.
Then it was the turn of Temple. She took up the birch and stood in front of me. Lifting my head up roughly by my hair she revelled in my predicament. Waving the birch she laughed as she explained that I had long been a thorn in her side and now she was going to be one in mine.
She was using the second birch, a manx one, made of a series of long thin switches. I felt the difference immediately. Sharp shooting pain landing on one concentrated part of my bottom. They felt like several canes landing at once and the pain didn't abate at all between strokes. I took the first 12 in quiet defiance, needled by her teasing, but hung my head low for the second dozen and prayed my nightmare would soon end. Before she concluded she gave me a quick, but sharp flogging on my back, leaving it stinging in unison with my bottom. I was now beyond pride and just wanted my ordeal to be over.
But there was still the Governor to come. Taking up the third birch he got straight down to business. Another manx birch, each stroke was severe in its own right, but horrific in succession. He wasn't impressed by my display of defiance to Temple and I was soon sobbing as he continued his determined assault.
Until there was too little of the birch left, not fit to make the impression he sought. Taking up the spray birch he continued once more. Whipping me with full force until I screamed for mercy. We had surely passed 200 when he paused. Higgins gave another 6 hard strokes. Then Temple finished matters with a final 6.
Released, I stood shakily on the ground as I was given my final warning. Sobbed my apologies and promised not to give any more trouble. And in a final act of humiliation Temple then paraded me naked and weeping back to my cell where all the other inmates could witness my shame.
As I write my bottom throbs ever so slightly and when I shift on the spot my jeans scratch against the more tender areas. I'm so contented right now that I'm finding it hard to write up the scenes themselves. Yet I feel I must; it would be too darn selfish of me not to share! Not to mention that in a few weeks time I'll begin to wonder did it ever happen at all.
It being Easter and finding ourselves in the the full bloom of Spring, it was obviously time to be birched. Now this was only my third time to experience the birch but again I was reassured of several things: One it hurts like hell; Two it does very little damage compared to the actual amount of pain it imparts; Three it's one of my favorite implements.
Added to the fun of being birched, I also had the pleasure (or torment) of being triple topped. Greedy little so and so that I am this was immensely delightful. It was also immensely painful!
So below is the tale of my third birching, or the sorry tale of Prisoner 967. I've edited the story in parts for easier reading but the scene and context was pretty much as is. The only difference is that we actually naturally concluded the scene after about 150 strokes. My bottom was showing signs of superficial damage as is normal in a birching and the Tops felt I'd had enough.
However I was still buzzing and not at all played out. I really wanted more and didn't feel too damaged to continue. So after a quick hug and a sanity check, over the bench I went again for another 50 or 60 strokes. Until I was truly screaming for mercy and ready to finish.
Floating on a high of adrenalin and pain, gooey to my submissive core and stupidly pleased with myself that the three birches (as you can witness for yourself) were even more broken and dishevelled than I was, we finally concluded matters!
Thereupon I was gently taken down and hugged and comforted until I was myself again.
---
I was Rosie O'Grady sentenced to two years in Her Majesty's prison for extortion. Only three months in and the wing warden Officer Temple has already taken a strong dislike to me. And things just got a whole lot worse when I semi-accidentally gave one of her guards a black eye as he man-handled me back into my cell.
Not having a kindly view of me in the first place, Temple immediately dragged me off for a night in solitary. Despite my protests she stripped me completely naked and locked me up alone. Taking my clothes off with her, she bade me enjoy my night in the punishment cell, laughing that I'd get what was coming to me in the morning.
Once she left me, my bravado fell to the wayside. I shivered, naked under the thin blankets and tried not to think of what was going to happen. I'd heard stories from the other girls, witnessed the state of them after an official punishment. My stomach churned nervously.
The room was eerie in the dark with cuffs and chains hanging from the ceiling and the large whipping bench taking up the middle of the room. It was a long time before I drifted off to an uneasy sleep. After a restless night (30 minutes in reality, but enough to make me terrified) I woke up to the clanging of my cell door. Paralysed with fear I stayed under the blanket until I was dragged out of the bed by Officer Temple. Shivering I tried to cover myself but was ordered to stand up straight, hands by my side.
She wasn't alone. Bad enough to have brought Governor Jenkins with her, she was also accompanied by Officer Higgins, known throughout the prison as the Punishment Officer. He towered over me looking both pompous and menacing in his full prison uniform.
Once Temple had laid out the charges against me, of assaulting one of her guards, I tried to defend myself. But my protests that he ran into my elbow were met in vain. The Governor silenced me with a sharp slap across the face and I cringed back suddenly very afraid.
On his orders I was strapped face down over the whipping bench. Still utterly naked I felt exposed and vulnerable as he told me what was to happen.
'First Officer Higgins will birch you first,' he said quietly. 'Then Office Temple will take up a fresh rod with which to also birch you, before I take up a third and apply that. And I'm sure by the end of this you'll be a very sorry girl indeed and you won't be giving any of us any more trouble.'
Even in my heightened state of fear I noted that there was no actual sentence. No fixed number of strokes to try to survive. Higgins took up the birch, giving me a look at it before he moved into position at my side. It was what I'd heard called a spray birch, made of multiple switches and leaves and twigs. It would easily cover my entire bottom in one stroke, scratching my flesh as it went. As he tapped it experimentally against my skin, I braced myself, pushing back against the straps that held me down.
The first stroke landed, but was bearable. So was the next. And the next. Painful but not unduly. I felt some relief; I could survive this. But it soon gave way to fear as the strokes built on each other. After 20 I was in real pain as my whole bottom became red hot.
Each stroke felt harder and harder, and pieces of the birch flew around the room, leaving the remaining ends even sharper. Each time it felt like needles were scratching into my skin. At 60 I couldn't count anymore. Inside my head I prayed for brief respites. Higgins was cold and clinical, pausing every so often to let the strokes sink in, giving me hope of it being done with, but then lashing down 10 or 20 in quick succession.
I'm not sure how many I had before I started sobbing in earnest, twisting against the straps but unable to deflect any of the pain. It was surely over a 100 before Higgins stopped and I lay limp on the bench trying to catch my breath.
Then it was the turn of Temple. She took up the birch and stood in front of me. Lifting my head up roughly by my hair she revelled in my predicament. Waving the birch she laughed as she explained that I had long been a thorn in her side and now she was going to be one in mine.
She was using the second birch, a manx one, made of a series of long thin switches. I felt the difference immediately. Sharp shooting pain landing on one concentrated part of my bottom. They felt like several canes landing at once and the pain didn't abate at all between strokes. I took the first 12 in quiet defiance, needled by her teasing, but hung my head low for the second dozen and prayed my nightmare would soon end. Before she concluded she gave me a quick, but sharp flogging on my back, leaving it stinging in unison with my bottom. I was now beyond pride and just wanted my ordeal to be over.
But there was still the Governor to come. Taking up the third birch he got straight down to business. Another manx birch, each stroke was severe in its own right, but horrific in succession. He wasn't impressed by my display of defiance to Temple and I was soon sobbing as he continued his determined assault.
Until there was too little of the birch left, not fit to make the impression he sought. Taking up the spray birch he continued once more. Whipping me with full force until I screamed for mercy. We had surely passed 200 when he paused. Higgins gave another 6 hard strokes. Then Temple finished matters with a final 6.
Released, I stood shakily on the ground as I was given my final warning. Sobbed my apologies and promised not to give any more trouble. And in a final act of humiliation Temple then paraded me naked and weeping back to my cell where all the other inmates could witness my shame.
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