Anonymous - Pearl

rosa, laughing again. — "Ha! Ha! she's just beginning to get sober, a little more will thrash all the champagne out of her; drunken people always accuse others of being drunk," cutting up her bottom, and making the blood run in little streams, so that it soon began to run down her thighs, and drip from the hairs of her pussey; the flagellatrix and her friends are getting quite excited at the spectacle, but not the least in sympathy with the victim, whose sufferings seem to afford them exquisite voluptuous sensations, many of the elder girls being stretched on the floor together, or in other positions of sensual enjoyment.

The victim now screams indeed for "Mercy, Mercy! Oh! Oh! Have pity, Miss Coote. Oh! Oh! I shall faint, I shall die."

rosa, in a state of furious excitement. — "No, no, no fear of your dying, your fat bottom will stand a good deal more yet; you are too obstinate to be let off, the birch will keep you from fainting. Why — why — why — don't you apologize?" giving a terrific undercut between the tender surface of her thighs at every question, making the poor schoolmistress gasp and moan in agony; still her proud spirit refused to do what was required of her.

She is almost fainting, when Rosa, who is getting rather tired with her exertions, calls for a bottle of champagne. "Now, then girls," she exclaims, "she's so plucky we must drink her health again." In response to this call, half-a-dozen young ladies take a bottle each, and at a signal from Rosa, all the corks are fairly discharged at the bleeding bottom, which presents a famous mark, and elicits peals of laughter at the joke, as they drink to "the plucky old girl," who is humiliated more than ever at this unexpected indignity.

Rosa, refreshed, throws away the stump of the birch she has been using, and takes up another heavy swishtail.

"This is something like a rod. Will you, now, Miss Audrey Clementine Flaybum, beg our pardon, and own you were drunk yourself, or must I cut your fat rump in pieces? Aha! That's the vulgar word you would never allow your lips to mention. Perhaps you did not think you had such a thing as a rump yourself, when you used to birch and humiliate us." Whacking away with great earnestness all the while she is lecturing the victim, who screams and shouts in agony as the thundering strokes of the fresh heavy rod crash on her bottom, scratching and tearing the already bruised and bleeding skin in a frightful manner.

Miss Flaybum is almost done for, and really thinks she is going to die, and in an agony of fear and pain forgets the indignity of her position, as well as her firm resolves never to debase herself before her pupils. She screams for mercy.

"Mercy! Oh! Oh! Oh!" she sobs. "Let me go now, dear Miss Coote. Oh! I will beg your pardon. I must have been intoxicated myself. Oh! Forgive me, and I'll never say a word about this. Oh! Oh! Indeed I won't if you spare my life," sobbing in a low hysterical voice.

rosa. — "And you will forgive us all, and thank us for making you sober again? Fie! Fie! Miss Flaybum. You were indeed overcome. Was it not so?" giving a sharp cut right up under her pussey, to keep her from fainting, and steady to her promises.

victim. — "Yes! Yes! Oh! Ah — r—r — re! I'm sorry to have forgotten myself, and — and — I do thank you for correcting me with firmness. Oh! Oh! Have mercy now, let me kneel and kiss the rod."

What a pitiable object she looked, kneeling in front of me, as she kissed the broken stump of the birch, which was now well dyed in her own blood. Such a sight of abject terror and degraded, humiliated pride, as well as the burning shame of all she had to endure; her cheeks were stained with tears, and her face and neck blushing nearly as red as her still exposed bottom; for, to humiliate her as much as possible, she had to kneel with her clothes still pinned up behind.

I don't know what possessed me, but I felt such extraordinary excitement that I hardly knew what I was doing; my only idea being that she was getting off too easily. So, suddenly stooping, I said, "Ha! Ha! Miss Audrey Clementine Flaybum, you know what a good birching is like now. I must look and see how I have pickled your delicate rump for you. I haven't cut it up too much," passing my hand all over the raw lacerated posteriors. "It will be well in a week, although there is a good deal of blood. See, see," wiping my hand all over her face, to her intense shame and disgust, just as she was beginning to slightly recover herself.

This was the last indignity before we allowed her to retreat to her room.

As to ourselves, we were indeed intoxicated with success, so that I shall never forget the goings on of that last night at school, how the girls rushed about to each other's rooms, and revelled in every kind of lasciviousness one with another. Sleep was banished from our eyes, and nothing but the advent of breaking-up day put an end to our orgie of sensuality.

Miss Flaybum was not visible next day, and the only reference she ever made to our memorable scene of retributive justice was an enormous charge for damaged glass in my school bill.

This will end my letter for the present, but, dear Nellie, when I return from my tour, perhaps I can tell you a little more of my experiences.

Your affectionate friend,

rosa belinda coote.

(To be continued.)

THE SPELL OF THE ROD.

When Lucy's fine rump was first bared to the twigs,

She was finely cut up and her flesh torn in shreds;

She cried out for mercy in her dire distress,

Promising amendment as we lowered her dress.

She had been most naughty, and a bad rude girl,

Who presumed the hair on her fanny to curl;

But the birch reached her quim as well as her bum,

The height of her agony was glorious fun.

Her frightened looks, and deep blushes of shame,

Set our hearts pit-a-pit, and our senses in flame;

The old cockolorums our cunnies would grope,

Then tossed us on sofas and had a fine stroke.

So all those slow coaches, who a rise scarce can get,

Come, pay your respect to Our Lady St. Bridget;

She'll warm up your blood till it boils in your veins,

And your penis all his pristine vigour regains.

Let the birch be your love, St. Bridget your saint,

Never flinch from the rod, nor think of a faint;

Swish — swish — let it fall, till the glow of desire,

Will run thro' your senses, and set them on fire.

Ah! then you can fuck! and fuck, ah! so well!

That my Muse quite fails your joys to foretell;

But with oceans of spending, the fuck never ending,

Your ecstasy goes on, for a long time extending.

THE STATE'S NEW DUTY.

An old Ballad upon the proposed Extension of the Contagious Diseases Acts to the Civil Population.

[The memorial to the Government for the extension of these Acts was signed by several Peers, six Bishops, ten Deans and Canons, forty-two Clergymen and Ministers, twenty-four Heads of Colleges and Masters of Public Schools, fourteen Professors of different Universities, nineteen Mayors, ten Chairmen of Quarter Sessions and Boards of Guardians, twenty-nine Sheriffs and Magistrates, &c.]

Vide letter of Messrs. J. B. Cuyenven and Berkely Hill to the Daily News, March 8th, 1871.

It was certain Holy Bishops, Noble Lords and bold M.P.'s,

Deans, Rectors, Heads of Colleges, and numberless M.D.'s,

They met in solemn Council, to discuss in grave debate,

And solve a weighty question, they thought worthy of the State.

It was not Education, it was not Irish Church,

The Ballot and Permissive Bill, were both left in the lurch.

There may be other evils, but said they, the greatest evil is,

That a man can't have a woman, without the risk of Syphilis;

Said they, the state takes measures that tradesmen shall not cheat,