Anonymous - Birch in the boudoir

"Take your time, sir," he said courteously, "we need not resume our journey just yet. If I may be so bold as to suggest, Vanessa's bum-cheeks will be more responsive if bare. I feel sure that would be the wish of a teacher at her school."

I was, you may imagine, flabbergasted by the suggestion. Though I had paid the officers of the law handsomely, I had never supposed I would be given this last liberty of taking revenge upon the little minxes who had brought me to this present pass. Yet, my dear Lizzie, you may believe that I was not slow to seize the opportunity.

Half-expecting them to stop me, I undid the riding jeans and tugged them awkwardly to her knees. Vanessa twisted a little, but the constable's hold of her shoulders was strong and secure. Vanessa's knickers were, indeed, the tight, schoolgirl kind of white cotton. I lowered these too, noting how she tensed against the intrusion of ringers inside her pants! I was more than a little nervous, never having had to deal with an adolescent girl pupil before. I craned my head down and examined the slight adolescent heaviness, the almost muddy pallor of Vanessa's fourth-form bottom! To prevent wriggling, I drew off my belt and strapped her legs together just above the knees, then trussed her ankles with another lent by the inspector. Her light-haired young cunt was just peeping between her thighs. There was no point-and indeed no time-to lecture the delinquent on her offence. I warned her briefly.

"You know you're going to have your arse thrashed, Vanessa. For what you've done, you must be hurt, and, believe me, you will be."

Can you imagine it, Lizzie? Such stern words from one whose life has been passed in pleasure. Ah, but life was pleasant no longer! I will not weary you with Vanessa's desperate pleading, the reasons advanced why she should not be whipped, her inability to endure it on her bare bottom, her urgent need to let her fountain gush, her promises to be good, never to offend again. Urged on by the officers of the law, I touched the ash switch across her squirming seat-cheeks, took aim, and thrashed hard.

For the next ten minutes, it was dance time for Vanessa, or at least for the adolescent puppy-fat

cheeks of her muddy-white bottom. Her thighs are still quite slim, and I took care not to execute judgment upon them. Yet the taut elasticity of Vanessa's fourth-form bum-cheeks was severely dealt with. It is hard to judge, I suppose, when whipping the bare backside of a fourteen-year-old high-school girl on the frontier of sophistication and feminine beauty, whether to treat her as a young woman or a little girl. Had she not committed a woman's crime? Thinking of this I cast restraint aside and thrashed the slim switch across Vanessa's bottom-cheeks!

How she screamed! Yet I guessed the sly minx was acting a part. There were as yet only two raised and burning stripes across her innocently immature bum-cheeks-both marks low down-which convinced me that they had taken effect well. I resolved to ignore her hysterics, the wild promises of repentance and amendment, the shrill imploring of those, now miles away, who might save her from her fate. I would judge only by the state of Vanessa's arse-cheeks.

When I stopped, and looked at the inspector, he gave me a quizzical glance and directed my attention to Vanessa's behind, as if to say, "Finished already? Come, now! Please continue!" I think there were three rather stiff members in that woodland glade at the sight of Vanessa's backside being tanned! So I gave her a last bout, first stooping to her ear.

"Since I shall soon be within prison walls, Vanessa, and since you will have helped to put me there, I want you to know that I am enjoying thrashing your bottom very much indeed. Now, much worse this time!"

When it was over, Vanessa was allowed into the trees for a weep, a gulping of final tears, and a release of bladder water. I was gratified that she preferred to complete the journey in the van without her pants on and sitting sideways on her hip.

So we came safe, in the arms of the law, to the prison ferry at Portsmouth. The young female delinquents were taken aboard. Before I started down the gangway, the two constables saluted me smartly, congratulated me again on the striping and bruising of Vanessa's bottom, and thanked me for my "great generosity" to them. The inspector came aboard as my escort.

It was now dark, yet I was surprised how gaily lit the prison ferry seemed to be. It had the size and look of an ocean-going steam-yacht. The inspector escorted me to a comfortable chair in the forward saloon and commanded a hock and seltzer for me from a warder who looked for all the world like a mess steward. I began to hope that my sentence might be served in such agreeable conditions. I asked the inspector the name of this prison hulk.

"Do you not know, sir?" said he, "it is the steam-yacht Brandon."

You being less of a duffer than I, Lizzie, will have guessed the truth ere now. My wily Uncle Brandon had seen just such a difficulty as mine and had laid his plans. Not only did he enjoy the Greystones girls but contrived to ship many of them to lands where harem beauties are bought on the auction block! Thus he had made his fortune and, with the cargo I now possessed, he put me in the way of making my own. As for the inspector, Uncle Brandon had bought him as a mere constable. The zealous officer had, many a time, acted as master of ceremonies on these occasions.

I vow, Lizzie, to tell the story of ray escape thus far exhausts me. Forgive me, my dearest, if I now take a fond leave of you and lay my head for the night on the pillow of a fugitive.

And so the morning comes and finds me refreshed again. I have husbanded my energies in order to tell you the most comical thing that ever happened to me. Whoever the fellow was who said that life at sea is worse than confinement in prison would eat his words if could see me now.

On our first day out, I cast an eye upon the girls to see which should divert me between the sheets during our voyage. I was rather taken with Julie, nineteen years old. Do you recall her? She it was who sucked old Silas Raven while he watched Vanessa do her naked dance in Miss Martinet's music room.

I chose a morning when she was ordered to don her singlet and working trousers for deck-washing. How well one could observe her now. Unlike Vanessa, a little girl with a woman's appeal, Julie is petite and slim-a woman in child's shape. With tall heels on her shoes, she is still diminutive. Her golden-blond hair is worn in a loose sweep from her high crown, lying on her back to the top of her shoulder blades. A somewhat sulky little face is marked by rather a crude nose and weak chin, hazel eyes with darkened lashes.

She is, to talk colloquially, what is known as a penis-teaser. The blue denim of the working trousers is worn tight and smooth as a skin. One views, as if she were naked, the slender thighs, which, even at their tops, are scarcely thicker than a man's upper arm. She has that taut belly and backward jut of hips which is characteristic of girl children rather than young women. Her breasts are small and her bottom, though its cheeks are quite slim and tightly rounded, has a soft, feminine fatness in proportion to her other curves.

Thus I watched her. To speak the truth, the tight denim trousers were not entirely smooth. The straining of the skin-tight denim caused sheaves of creases across the backs of her knees and, indeed, across the backs of her childishly slim upper thighs. The tight seam under her legs visibly parted her love-lips. I have read somewhere of girls who can frig themselves by the tightness of such clothes. Did Julie masturbate on the cord seam as she walked? When she bent over, her bottom-cheeks became two tight, distinct rounds with a deep and widely open arse-valley between. What a sight the denim trousers had not impeded the view!