The Dominant Male

the lurid welts he had already raised.
    ‘Naaaoooooww..! Please, sir! No more, sir, ah, oh, ah, I cannot bear it. Oh! Ah! Please remit the rest, sir. I will do anything…’
    It was not, thought Comfort bitterly, much of an offer. Hope had plainly been eager to do anything before the first stroke of the cane. However, the young men looked at one another.
    ‘Ten strokes for the cane then,’ said Richard Ellington. ‘Let’s see if the birch can beat it. You girl, unbuckle this squealing slut and be quick about it.’
    Get on with it. Please get on with it. Comfort was in Hope’s place, right over the pommel horse, resting on her corseted belly with the strap so tight on her back that it was as much as she could do to wiggle her behind. The men were in no hurry to continue, it seemed. They made the blubbing Hope get on her knees and kiss the feet and cane of Algernon Metcalf, to thank him for her correction. Then they had her stand to attention with her hands behind her head and legs apart as they examined her welted bottom with the rapt attention of true connoisseurs. Comfort could not see, but judging by Hope’s yelps of pain they felt and pinched as well as looked at Metcalf’s handiwork.
    Comfort was glad enough that Hope held the men’s attention. Her legs apart she knew her nakedness was on display and even if she was not quite gushing like that little trollop Hope she knew that she was wet enough to invite lewd and shame-inducing comments. Still, fear of the birch was greater than fear of more humiliation. She knew that she was going to get it and, going by what she had just witnessed, it would be laid on with will and skill. Comfort had always found the birch a particular trial and something told her that this was going to be the sorest trial of all.
    At last the men left Hope to her sniffling. She sensed Ellington pick up the birch and heard his footsteps on the tiles as he approached. Comfort swallowed hard.
    ‘Try not to squeal, girl,’ his voice said, close behind her. ‘You know the consequences!’
    Comfort let out a startled wail as the cold, wet birch twigs brushed her bottom and then another gasp as he used the rod to stroke up, between her legs.
    ‘Get on with it, Dickie. You are supposed to be birching her not frigging her. You can always do that later. Let’s see what your antediluvian Etonian implement can do.’
    Comfort felt quite giddy, her heart racing as she waited, and then she caught the rustle of birch twigs hurtling through the still air and a sort of crackling, then instantly her bottom was on fire. Christ , it hurt! She screwed her eyes tight and ground her teeth to stop a shriek escaping. Then he struck again.
    ‘Hooooouuuuw—’
    ‘Be silent, girl, that was merely a tickle.’
    It burned. It stung. It felt as if she had sat down on a wasp’s nest. It had been some time since she had last felt the birch rod but she did not remember that being half as intense as this. It was impossible, unbearable; it could not have been more intense if her bottom had been boiled.
    Again he struck, the birch rod snickered into her tender bottom and she could not stop a wail of pain escaping. She clenched her fists and ground her teeth and shook her head and wriggled her bottom as much as she could within her bonds, as if this might, somehow disperse the fire that seemed to be blazing on her buttocks. Slowly, very, very slowly, the pain began to subside, but just as it had become almost bearable, Ellington struck again.
    It was too much. Her will, her very self, disintegrated. She was nothing any more except a bottom made of pain. How long did that pitch of agony continue? A month? A week? A minute or two? After some time she was aware of a girl begging and shrieking, and then that she was squirming like a gaffed pike on the pommel, fruitlessly fighting the bonds that held her down. Stern men’s voices were saying something, giving orders to someone.
    ‘Now stop that caterwauling, and that wriggling, Missy. What a fuss over a few little pats with this birch rod.’
    ‘Pats, my hat! That rod is a stump, most of the twigs are scattered. Look at that bum, you brute. No wonder the poor girl is squealing like a stuck piglet!’
    ‘Well, perhaps more than pats,’ Ellington conceded in a self-satisfied tone. ‘But she broke after only seven to your girl’s ten. You have to admit that the birch has won the day.’
    Her bottom felt as if it had been skinned. Hope had unbuckled her and