Lord Drialys - The Beautiful Flagellants of Chicago,Volume one

“Try all you can not to let her bolt at the last moment,” said she, full of anticipatory delight. “I should be so disappointed! I'm already mad with joy at the thought of birching that innocent birdie. What a treat for me! But don't you think, sir,” she added with solemn archness, “that you'll get off any the easier. You'll be flogged worse than ever for having flirted with that dear child!”

At last the long-expected Thursday arrived! The weather was lovely-warm and sunny. I had passed a troubled night, disturbed by creams of enchanting delight. There were no signs of recent corrections on the skin of my buttocks, and my imagination was seething to boiling point.

Miss Rosey seemed quite as excited as I was. She had taken great pains with her dress. She wore a tightly-fitting art-blue frock, trimmed with costly lace. She sported a pretty picture hat, cocked saucily on her front “frizzes", and her delicious little feet were encased in boots of Russian tan, as supple as Suede leather.

My adorable young female preceded me, having left the private hotel a few minutes before I did, and then, in a carriage, we drove to the park. We were not disappointed, for the graceful silhouette of my girlish companion soon appeared to us.

It did not take long to introduce the two girls to each other, and they were good friends at once. My first care was to take them to a first-class restaurant. I chose Bisleti's, where I knew I should find good cooking; sound, real French claret, and all the toothsome sweet dishes that please the weaker sex.

Our meal was gay and lively. We lingered long over it. Our veins were full of hot blood, and I know not who of the trio ws most excited and impatient to begin the sacred ceremonies.

Getting inot our vehicle, we made a stoppage at the house of Miss Rosey's married friend, who, as desired, had prepared the instruments of flagellation-rods and riding-whips. Miss Rosey, sprightly as a gazelle, leaped out to fetch the implements.

“What do you think of my friend?” I asked, alone with delicate winsome Lucy in the carriage.

“She suits me. I like her. She seems quite expert in birching games and somewhat resembles my absent chum.”

“You'll soon be able to sample her skill,” I replied. “I don't think you'll have anything to grumble about.”

Time passed and Miss Rosey did not return. What could she be about in that house? I knew she was not a gossip. Perhaps the rods were not ready, or did not please her, and she was having them re-made?

“Suppose we go up in the elevator, and see what has become of her?” I proposed to Miss Lucy.

“Wait a few minutes more,” said Lucy, “we're all right here-comfortably seated and watching the people go by.”

Her face was flushed. She wsa under the influence of our bountiful repast, washed down by heady wines.

We had been seated in the carriage a good half-hour, when Miss Rosey reappeared at last, lively, merry, very agitated, and her eyes sparkling. She was followed by a young girl carrying a big paper parcel.

Our coachman whipped up his horse. Miss Rosey leant back on her cushioned seat and burst out laughing.

“You'll never guess what I did upstairs in that house! No, it's too funny for words! I've just cut a man's bum to ribbons!”

“The deuce you have! Tell us about it,” I said, vastly amused.

“It's perfectly true,” said Miss Rosey. “I had begged my friend to prepare me some good rods and a riding-whip, thinking that she ought to be a judge of these articles, as her husband is a lover of flagellation. She whips him daily with bundles of birch, which she prepares herself with great care. It appears that when her hubby heard that a flogging lady was coming to fetch birch-rods from his place, he worked himself up into such a state that he swore he should die if he wasn't birched there and then by me. My friend did not want to refuse him this favour, for a reason that she told me later, so she begged me to accede to her husband's wish, and give him a sound correction immediately. I accepted with pleasure. 'I pray you, dearie,' said she, 'flog him till the blood comes. Hit him with all your might and don't leave off till he is well wealed. You'll be doing me a great favour. I want to cure him of the habit he has of desiring to be whipped by every fresh female flagellant he hears of-as if his own wife wasn't sufficient for him!' she had got ready two special tickle-tobies, very ling, and made of tough, resisting branches. They had been all night in vinegar to make them still more formidable.

“The chap was already tied down on a bench when I went in, and my friend, leaving me alone with her liege lord, told me not to spare him. You may guess how I let myself go, enjoying the treat, and rendering a service to my jolly pal. So long as there remained a sound bit of wood on the two rods, I slashed away like a mad thing, putting in all my energy, quite reckless, and tearing all the skin off his backside. His wife came back at the finish, and while I got my breath, gave him, as a wind-up, ten cuts with the whip. She dealt them with real rage. Oh, I've had a royal old time! I'm quivering all over with naughtiness. I feel quite lewd!”

“My dear girl,” said I reproachfully, “if you wear yourself out like this, what will be left for us?”

“Don't you worry,” answered the adorable creature, squeezing my hand in her firm grip. “You'll both be properly treated, I swear it!”

A few minutes more and we entered my discreet flat, which had witnessed my delicious games, when I kissed Miss Rosey's wee tootsies.

The first thing we did was to open the packet containing four splendid rods, long and flexible; a lithe lady's riding-whip, and some silk rope for binding victims. Miss Rosey had taken an extra rod for Lucy.

“Now I'm going to settle accounts with Miss Farman,” said Rosey, with a malicious little wink.

“as for you, my old boy-off you go into the next room, where you'll be locked in. for you to assist at the unveiling of all kinds of pink and white hidden beauties, or to allow you to be a witness of certain subsequent mysterious proceedings would be too indecent. So try and be patient, without a word of complaint. Your turn will come next, and you'll get complete satisfaction.”

The door of communication ws shut in my face. I was at the keyhole at once, but the key, remaining in the lick, prevented me seeing anything at all. I tried to push the obstacle back with my penknife, but wary Rosey, guessing what I was about, scolded me through the door and hung a towel over the key.

All I could do ws to press my ear to the panel. There was a long silent pause to begin with. Then I heard garments rustling and falling, followed by the hissing of the birch and the swish of the twigs on plump flesh. In my mimd's eye, I conjured up the image of the young girl whose lovely round globes were quivering under the ardent contact of the rod. Soon, slight groans and tender signs rent the air. The rode stopped its regular “click, clack” for a few minutes, and then the birching sport went on again.

I gasped for breath as I hearkened to the noise of the elastic branches still continuing, and I fretted childishly, stamping my feet like some caged animal. The rod flogged, crashed, and swept resonantly over a darling invisible rump; while the swish of the birch ws accompanied by tiny shrieks, uttered in a shrill treble. There was a long swooning sigh and then complete silence.

The door opened at last.

“Come, my dear friend,” said Miss Rosey. “You who can appreciate the beauty of a female foot, look at those ravishing baby toes! Kiss them!”

I went in and saw Lucy, half-naked, on the tumbled bed. Her cheeks were suffused with blushes of shame and there were tears in her eyes. Her splendid legs were quite bare, and she had delicate, small feet, short and fat, exactly like those of an infant. My lips pressed every one of her wee toes, rounded and well-shaped, with their nails like pink pearls.