Yolanda Celbridge


This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Version 1.0

Epub ISBN 9780753538432

This book is a work of fiction.
In real life, make sure you practise safe, sane and consensual sex.

First published in 1999 by Nexus
Thames Wharf Studios
Rainville Road
London W6 9HA

Copyright © Yolanda Celbridge 1999

This Nexus Classic edition 2003

The right of Yolanda Celbridge to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988


ISBN 0 352 33858 X

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, St Ives PLC


Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

By the same author

Prologue Shamed

1  Fresh to the Birch

2  Nude Flowering

3  A Mistress Disciplined

4  Wringing Wet

5  Pink Panties

6  Maid in Frillies

7  The Naked Truth

8  Stable Lads

9  A Birthday Treat

10  Prometheus Bound

11  Tug of War

12  Strict Teatime

13  Stage Direction

14  Gala

Envoi An English Gentleman

By the same author:


























I shivered helplessly, not just at the prospect of being flogged, but at being alone and naked and completely in a strong Lady’s power. She uncoiled the whip from her belt, and cracked it in the air, and I moaned it was a fearsome implement, fully six or seven feet long. Then she flogged me on the bare bottom.

I twisted my head to plead with her for mercy, the tears streaming down my face, but she announced that I was not to look at her. I glimpsed that she had her leather coat open, and her hand was between her thighs, at the crotch of her grey uniform skirt, moving gently as she whipped me.



I have always been an English gentleman, even though I did not set foot in England itself until the age of seventeen. Shortly after that I began to learn the taste for a woman’s whip. It is a false commonplace that human males constantly struggle for power. In secret, they struggle for submission – to the female. Any man who ignores or resists enslavement to women is a fool, and no gentleman.

I was born in Italy: in the port of Trieste, which was then part of the Austrian Empire. When I was little, we moved to Tarvisio, in the Dolomites or Karawanken Alps, where the lands of the Italians meet those of the Germans and Slovenes. It was quite a confusing place to live, with all the political changes at that time, during and after the Great War. That was why we moved there: my dear father was a smuggler, to put things bluntly. He trafficked in anything, and sometimes in people, or false passports, or any sort of contraband that would travel by a variety of means: motor-car, bicycle, cart or even donkey.

At school, I was called ‘donkey’ because of my large penis, and in fact I was skilled at navigating the mountain passes with a mule laden with goods. However, throughout my boyhood, my penis excited interest in our boyish games, not least because, as well as its large size and girth, it is endowed with a curious birthmark, right underneath my prepuce, on my glans, which was in the shape of a crescent moon. At any rate, I was the one most often called upon to ‘perform’ in tests of manly prowess, and never disappointed, so that I acquired the extra nickname – ‘cup of cream’.

My father said that my birthmark meant I was descended from a certain English knight, Sir Rogier de Prince, who had navigated these terrains on his way to the second, or third, crusade. Certainly, my sandy hair and fair complexion set me apart from my fellow-Italians. Hence my name became Italianised to Ruggiero Principe, although my birth certificate has me ‘Roger’, and I am properly known here in Surrey as Roger Prince.

My father was a fervent Anglophile, and helped many of the English officers who escaped from prison camps, or else were engaged on secret missions, during the closing stages of the Great War – the Kingdom of Italy fought with the British, opposing the Austrians, so that although technically Austrians, our loyalties lay with England. After the war, the territory of Trieste reverted to Italy and the defeated Austrian Empire was dismembered. It was then that my mamma tragically passed away in the influenza epidemic of 1918.

I always thought his story of my birthmark was mere fancy – my papa explained that it was passed on alternately to male and female – especially the part about inheriting great lands in England, but I came to believe it because I wanted to: the English officers we entertained were sterling fellows.

One way and another, we became quite rich, and had a villa on Lake Como, and a house in Venice, and so on. I always preferred the Alps – there is something so English about the Alps – all those maiden ladies with their water-colours, and earnest mountaineers with their woolly breeches! So, when the Great War was over, it seemed quite natural and thoroughly desirable to me that our new prosperity should despatch me for a year at Eppingham, one of the foremost English public schools, to complete my secondary education, at the age of seventeen. Afterwards it was assumed I should proceed to the University of Oxford.

Shortly before this, my father explained that there were certain financial matters he had to attend to, and he would have to absent himself for some time. Misunderstandings, was all he would say, and, in my innocence, I took him at his word. My affairs were provided for, with a trust fund administered by a firm of solicitors in Egham, Surrey, from which I should derive an income sufficient to my needs. We said goodbye, the villas in Venice and Como were sold, apparently to some Austrian Lady of Italian origin, and my father said he hoped I should realise my true nature as an English gentleman, for there was nothing left for either of us in Italy, and I should not expect to hear from him thereafter for a while.

It was with mixed feelings that I left on the train to London, via the English Channel. Excitement and uncertainty, surely, and also regret, for I had led a very happy childhood and adolescence, even though my acquaintance with the female sex was as yet minimal, except for the numerous fragrant Ladies my father had the custom of entertaining.

But there was one incident and the one unhappy memory of my childhood: though I was already sixteen, and a grown-up young fellow when it happened, it was most humiliating. And it is germane to my story, as the reader shall see.

I say that I did not learn the taste for being whipped by women until after my time at Eppingham; there, indeed, I was cruelly beaten, though not, unfortunately, by the sweet cruelty of women. But this one experience did lead me to taste a woman’s whip, and for a long time I felt bitter at my humiliation, foolishly bitter!

It was shortly after the Armistice, and everywhere in Europe was turmoil, not least in our already confused little corner. No one knew which territory was going to belong to whom, and there were officials and troops in strange uniforms, militias and lawless bands, so that everything was uncertain. Nevertheless I continued to do my plodding work of transportation.

I was pulling a handcart on a familiar, isolated mountain pass, in deep snow, when I was accosted by a customs patrol wearing unfamiliar uniform, and speaking a language I thought was Slavonic. The handcart was not heavy, and I thought it might contain papers, or perhaps rolled-up paintings of old masters, but certainly no brandy or tobacco. At any rate, I was rather frightened. They wore heavy greatcoats against the cold, but I perceived that one of them was a female, though all I could see were her eyes under her fur hat. They took me to a hut of recent construction and hence unknown to me or I would naturally have taken another path. The Lady seemed to be in charge, and dismissed the others.

She was sheathed in a military greatcoat of black leather, with a fur hat and a scarf, yet I was not unaware of the supple curves of her body beneath, nor of her delicate female fragrance under the sweat and grime. Her eyes stared, piercing me, and they seemed angry and soft at the same time …

It was warm inside the customs shed from a stove. I assured her, truthfully, that I was ignorant of my cargo, and offered the usual bribe of the gold thaler I carried for that purpose, but she spurned it very righteously, and in anger. She barked in fractured Italian that I was to strip completely. I was terrified; she had a gun, and also a heavy whip coiled at her belt, like a horsewhip, beside the ungainly canister of an army gasmask. So, trembling in fear and shame, I obeyed. She left the hut to inspect my cart, leaving me naked.

When she returned, she said my cart was full of valuable papers, and would be confiscated, and I should be flogged as a spy, only my youth excusing me harsher chastisement. She said this quite casually, as though a naked flogging, administered by a female to a male, were quite natural. I was ignorant of any sort of beating, but did not plead for mercy, despite my horror of pain, since it seemed this was mercy. I shivered helplessly, not just at the prospect of being flogged, but at being alone and naked and completely in a strong Lady’s power.

She ordered me to stand against the hot stove, which was painful enough in itself, and spread my legs. She proposed to beat me on the buttocks. She uncoiled the whip from her belt, and cracked it in the air, and I moaned – it was a fearsome implement, fully six or seven feet long. Then she flogged me on the bare bottom.

The first stroke cut me raw, and I gasped and squealed. The second was worse, and the third ten times that. I danced and wriggled, clutching the stove, as she told me not to move from my place, or more severe punishment should befall me. I could not imagine any punishment more severe, or any worse shame.

My head swam with pain, each lash of that fearful whip making my bare bum smart in horrid searing agony, such as I had never imagined could exist, let alone be applied to my body. I tried to count the strokes with stuttering teeth, but could not. The whip whistled in the air with dreadful meaning, and cracked mercilessly on my bare buttocks, snaking even more painfully, and with practised skill, down over the backs of my thighs.

I twisted my head to plead with her for mercy, the tears streaming down my face, but she barked that I was not to look at her. I glimpsed that she had her leather coat open, and her hand was between her thighs, at the crotch of her grey uniform skirt, moving gently as she whipped me.

At length I heard her pant louder and more hoarsely, and gulp as much as I gulped in my maddening pain. The whipcracks grew fiercer and more rapid, and I danced in my agony, squealing as the skin of my buttocks felt flayed from me by her lashes. I heard her cry out repeatedly, very softly, as though she was trying to stifle her own cries of pain, and then, with a gasping deep breath, she told me my punishment was over, and that I had taken five dozen strokes with that whip on my bare flesh.

I saw her look pointedly between my legs, a thin smile creasing her lips; I looked down, aware of a throbbing sensation that was not pain, and saw to my horror that my penis had risen, and had stood erect and clearly visible to my chastiser throughout my whipping! This increased my humiliation.

I was told to dress, and despatched red-faced and whimpering without my cart. It was now extremely uncomfortable to walk. My father was philosophical about the matter of my cargo – I did not admit I had been whipped – but I cried myself to sleep with bitter resentment at my humiliation. To be flogged – and by a woman! To smart so much under a female’s whip seemed the greatest outrage to my male person.

And yet, when my smarting had subsided to a warm glow, I had to check myself from finding the sensation actually pleasant. I felt my ridged, puffy bottom and inspected myself in the mirror; I had taken a full sixty strokes with a real whip, more than many judicial punishments, and had taken it like a man! My buttocks were fearfully scarred and wealed, and dark mottled crimson streaked with ugly purple and black welts.

Yet, as I embarked for England still blushed with the marks of my punishment, I could not help feeling a certain pride in my endurance. I remembered the female aroma of the cruel Lady, the smell of her leather and her sweating boots, and the strange way she had rubbed herself between her thighs, as though my flogging had given her pleasure: and came to the conclusion that my beating had served some purpose, and that perhaps she had been merciful after all.

I shall not dwell on my time at Eppingham, near the pleasant town of Esher – suffice to say that in my year of education there, I received, and administered, beatings far more savage in spirit than my whipping by the mysterious customs Lady. My father had warned me that beating made an English gentleman – he was right, of course, but it is not beating from coarse and vengeful schoolboys that civilises a male. Because of the Great War, there was quite a shortage of senior boys, so that despite my inexperience, I was rapidly made a prefect.

But I was obliged to start off as the lowliest of ‘new oiks’, despite being nearly of university age. I was made to wear short trousers, and do ‘fagging’ duties, at which any imperfection was rewarded by the cane. Caning, official or unofficial, was frequently on the bare bottom or, if not, on thin shorts or pyjama bottoms pulled tight, which amounts to much the same. I took my beatings with a certain haughtiness, smug that my naked bottom had endured much worse, and from a female …

It was not the pain of the beatings I minded, so much as the humiliation of being beaten by other males, who I knew to be just as wicked and grubby as myself! We were beaten constantly, for the slightest misdemeanour, and with studied, casual indifference, as though our squirmings under the cane – which could be a dozen strokes or more – were of no account. I thought wistfully of my whipping in the Alpine shed, and how there had been a simplicity in the vengeful flogging I took from the female in leather – which did not entirely quench my thirst for some unspecified and unlikely revenge on her person. Yet even in her cruelty, she had somehow cared about me enough to thrash me.

Only once was a female involved in punishing me, and it was the headmaster’s daughter, a pretty thing of sixth form age, usually glimpsed only from afar, who had caught me picking wild flowers which she insisted were ‘hers’. She was (rightly) the apple of her papa’s eye, and (again, rightly) could do no wrong; nothing would do but that I must be flogged, and that she must witness the punishment.

I was caned on the bare by the head prefect, the biggest and strongest boy in the school, and was given two dozen strokes with a four-foot yew cane; that sly and lovely slip of a girl watched bright-eyed as my naked buttocks shuddered at every stroke, licking her lips and counting them off. There is something about the cane, sinister and fearful: its slow, hissing malevolence raises ugly weals, yet with malign, almost ladylike precision, unlike the more painful yet somehow more generous lash of whip, tawse or even birch.

I squirmed and jerked as I was caned, my bare skin scorched at each stroke and smarting abominably, with a lump rising in my gorge and tears welling at my eyes. It was undoubtedly the worst caning I had taken at Eppingham. Yet I was aware of the pretty girl’s eyes on my squirming bum and, to my horror, I felt a stirring as my penis rose! I could not help it – the dreadful pain seemed only to inflame my penis further. More specially, it thrilled me that a woman had ordained my punishment, that a woman was watching my naked flesh quiver under the cane.

When the two dozen were well delivered, there was silence, broken only by my gasping sobs. And then the pretty young girl spoke. Her eyes were on my shamefully stiff penis, until decency obliged her to avert her gaze. She was flushed and trembling.

‘Disgusting!’ she murmured. ‘Give him the beating over again, please.’

As I lay in my bed that night, wretched and sullen at my humiliation, I could not help rubbing my raw bottom, and thinking of her … and my penis rose to full erection. I fell asleep almost happy, that she had wanted me punished, and to watch my agony, and that somehow my beating had given a Lady pleasure.

That was just before the middle of the Easter term and my year at Eppingham; a few days later, I was called to the headmaster, who was in company of the head prefect who had caned me. Most jovially, he told me that as a reward for my good behaviour and stiff upper lip and so on, I myself was henceforth to be a school prefect! We shook hands, and my caner said, ‘No hard feelings, eh, old chap?’ and, smiling, I agreed. To my amazement, I had no hard feelings, and I blurted that I had been glad of my caning!

Thereafter we became quite friendly, and vied with each other in the number of earrings we could dish out to the junior boys, and the seniors as well – fellows with whom, weeks before, I had been comparing welts and brutalities, and now found myself administering the same cruel chastisements.

I was glad that my period of authority was so short, otherwise my enjoyment of caning others might have grown unseemly. I did take pleasure in caning, I must admit, and the feeling of power as I reddened a quivering bare bottom, but always I was dimly aware that there was something improper in my harshness: not that my fellows at school were undeserving of bare-bum caning, but that it was seemly and proper for them – as for me – to receive it from a Lady’s hand.


Fresh to the Birch

I was to spend the summer before going up to Oxford at Virginia Lodge, the home of Major Dark, an old friend of my father’s from the Great War. It was near the pleasant town of Virginia Water, at the boundaries of Berkshire and Surrey, an area which is sufficiently far from London to be the country, yet sufficiently near to be metropolitan. I should attend to my studies and be treated as one of the family, helping as needed in tasks on the estate.

As I waited for the motor-car to pick me up from the railway station, I had ample time to observe the Ladies of the town, without exception true flowers of English womanhood: wide faces and lips, rosy complexions, and blessed with a firm, thrusting ripeness in both bottom and breast. Or so it seemed to my young male eyes! They had blonde hair for the most part, curled and teased and bobbed; and as I watched the movement of their haunches, those ripe orbs swaying under satin, silk and muslin, I thought, as I still do, that there is nothing so delicious in this world as the ripe bottom of an English Lady.

Thus my pulses were already agreeably racing on. that hot June day as the Dark family arrived in their gleaming Bentley to collect me, and I first set eyes on Miss Florence Dark. It would be wrong to say that Miss Dark was the first true love of my life, since the word ‘love’ has all sorts of soppy connotations. Rather, I was struck by a thunderbolt. Miss Florence Dark seemed to unite in her person all the beauties of Virginia Water, and of English womanhood in its entirety. She did not glance at me from her seat in the rear of the car; my adoration of her person was enhanced by the woeful certainty that she would never return it; that she gave not a fig for me, and was here as a chore of politeness; that the most I could hope for would be to act as her adoring errand-boy, if permitted.

I sat beside her on the drive back to Virginia Lodge. Her perfume, her nearness, the perfection of her creamy skin entranced me, and I felt a delicious, hopeless tickling in my manly parts. Her bosom swelled ripe and full; her croup matched her breasts impeccably, leading to powerful thighs and dainty slender feet. Her blonde tresses cascaded disdainfully over her wide cheekbones and strong brow, and her broad, full lips were set in an expression of stony indifference as she stared out of the window, away from me. She wore a suit of beige cotton, with white stockings and a white cotton blouse, buttoned severely to the collar, and her feet were shod in heavy, sensible shoes with a lovely golden buckle which looked like a little riding crop on a horse’s saddle.

Her mother was similarly attired, though in sensible grey. She had lustrous raven hair, and a slightly tan complexion, with a pert, elfin beauty, very supple and fluid in her gestures, and seemed very young to be Miss Florence’s mother.

I paid a clumsy compliment, that it was hard to tell mother from daughter, and Mrs Dark beamed in delight, though Miss Florence’s stony expression did not change. Major Dark grinned too; he was a leathery, dapper man with an easy military manner.

‘See, Flossie,’ cried Mrs Dark. ‘Our young man is flirting already!’

‘He may be your young man, Mummy, but he is not mine,’ she replied frostily. ‘And please do not call me Flossie. It makes me sound like some sort of serving-maid.’

She sniffed, and stared out of the window away from me, as though the most interesting object in the world were a thousand yards distant.

Major Dark laughed, and said there was little danger of her being mistaken for a serving-maid, as you couldn’t get them nowadays.

‘O, Daddy!’ said Miss Florence, crossing her legs with a delicious swishing of cotton, and an equally delicious curl of her lip.

We passed through the pleasant rolling countryside, dotted with woods and mansions, and eventually, at the end of a winding, secluded lane, came to Virginia Lodge itself. The driveway took us past flower gardens, ponds and orchards, to a charming house that seemed part Elizabethan, part Jacobean, part Georgian, and much else I am sure, a testimony to our English genius for modesty and improvisation.

A pretty, if tousled, young Lady, who was addressed as ‘Grubb’, greeted us with a sullen curtsy and took charge of my meagre baggage. Major Dark explained that Grubb was a general factotum, who lived on the estate and ‘did’ for them.

‘Hard to get male hands,’ said the Major, mischievously, ‘and I’m not sure I’d want them, given female aptitude for drudgery.’

‘O, really!’ cried Mrs Dark gaily, pretending to be cross, and Miss Florence’s Ups opened for a fleeting second in a heavenly sneer of amusement.

Grubb curtsied again, half-turning to reveal the ripe pears of her shapely and very large buttocks. She reminded me delightfully of the Ladies I had observed in Virginia Water, though a slightly more dishevelled version. Her face was smudged, her wide lips curled in an exquisite pout, framed by a rumpled mane of blonde hair streaked with pale fire by the sun. Her breasts were as massive as her rump, and the magnificent udders and croup might have seemed disproportionate in another female, except that her superbly muscled body carried their beauty quite effortlessly, even as they seemed threatening to burst from her sloppy, skimpy dress, that left her brown legs bare above heavy boots. She seemed like a mare, coquettishly proud of her animal beauty yet unsure how a Lady should present it properly.

I was shown to my room on the first floor, reached through a maze of corridors and alcoves whose cobwebs spoke indeed of a dearth of servants. My room had a small four-poster bed of carved rosewood, a table, chair, water jug and wardrobe, porcelain chamber pot, and a bare board floor with an exquisite Persian rug. The bathroom was at the end of the corridor and, after my ablutions, I dressed for dinner. I was pleased to find the company dressed also, and that Major Dark paid me the compliment of wearing his military medals.

Mrs Dark was sumptuously dressed in a gown of dark crimson, with a low flounced front that left her pert breasts deliciously exposed, and pressed together by a subtle, unseen corselage into a lovely peach with a deep cleft. She was gay and flirtatious; her daughter cold, yet I was pleased – thrilled, to be truthful – that she had replaced her modest day clothes with a skimpy black silk cocktail dress, with narrow shoulder straps criss-crossed on a deeply plunging back, proving that her superbly thrusting breasts were unsupported by corselet or brassiere.

The magnificent breasts were much exposed, their cleft narrow like her mother’s, but in no need of any support, so fully did they crowd the thin silk of her bosom. The hem came very high above her knees, revealing generous thigh, in black silk stockings. When she shifted in her chair, with her thighs exposed to my full view, I even spied a hint of bare skin, and the gleam of a golden garter strap in the curious shape of a crop and horse’s saddle. I was ravished by the ease and indifference with which she moved her buttocks and crossed her legs, as though my anguished, longing gaze were of no more importance than a poodle’s. A simple pearl choker adorned her swan’s neck, and her blonde tresses were arranged in a chignon, with a few stray hairs tenderly kissing her brow and gleaming cheekbones, which were slightly rouged. How I longed to be one of those wisps of hair!

We dined on a handsome roast beef, with superb claret, and when the Ladies had retired to leave the Major and me alone with our port (served by Grubb in a fetching French maid’s uniform, several sizes too small for her) we got to exchanging rather ribald anecdotes, and the Major reminisced about the ‘old days’. After a while, he said that I must not mind Flossie and her ways.

She was nearly twenty-three years old, which, to me at eighteen, seemed vastly mature in years. The Major told me with a sigh that she still pined for one Greville, her sweetheart, who had been posted missing in Flanders in 1918. She refused to believe he would not return, and kept a guest room exactly as it had been on his last leave. Meanwhile, Miss Florence devoted herself to charitable works in the neighbourhood, and was out and about on her bicycle most days. He said that I must humour her a little, and perhaps my presence would draw her out in time from her self-imposed spinsterhood.

‘I am away a lot on business,’ he said. ‘I try to get her to go to London, and get into Society – parties, and so on – but she won’t go. So please bear with her, old man.’

The Major also explained to me that Dido – Mrs Dark – was not Florence’s mother, but his second wife, hence the congruence of their ages, and this might have something to do with Miss Florence’s attitude.

‘Dido – Mrs Dark – was my nurse, you see, during the War in Mesopotamia, and afterwards, when I was convalescing back in Blighty. So fortunately her training enables her to take young Florence in hand when she is headstrong – so there is no reason why your stay here shouldn’t make you as happy as it makes us, old man.’

I retired in high spirits – for an English gentleman to address another as old man betokens the fondest intimacy. Thereafter I settled into an easy routine at Virginia Lodge. Mealtimes in the day were informal, or not fixed at all. There were few tasks for me to do, since Grubb jealously guarded her competence at them all. The Major was usually away on his affairs; Miss Florence was out on her charitable tasks in the neighbourhood, and I would watch her with longing as those proud long legs pumped so gracefully at her bicycle pedals, carrying her away from me without a backward glance!

Mrs Dark, however, was at home most of the time, as her passion was flower-gardening. She was always summoning me, or having Grubb summon me, to inspect some new blossom, upon which I had to deliver dutiful and enthusiastic judgement. One day she announced that she had planted a bed of Alpine flowers in my honour, and her twinkling eyes could not prevent her blushing faintly as she plucked a big red rose and put it in my buttonhole.

‘The Alpine flowers will not blossom for a while, so in the meantime, you may have an English rose, Roger.’

I gravely informed her that the rose was not half as beautiful as its donor, and her blush turned fiery, as she acknowledged my clumsy compliment with a radiant smile.

Generally, I thought my life quite contented, and yet I secretly burned with desire to be noticed by my frosty, adored goddess, Miss Florence. How I envied her very bicycle, under the pumping of her thighs and buttocks, so sweetly swathed in her cottons, as I watched her depart every morning! As distraction, I immersed myself in study, aided by the Major’s excellent library, the mark of a scholar and gentleman; or in walking rather aimlessly in the estate, each day discovering some new treasure: a folly, a grotto, a flowerbed, arbour or pond.

The land, imbued with her magical presence, became sacred to me, and every bee and flower were my fellow-worshippers at her shrine. One pleasant discovery, right at the edge of the estate, was a secluded lake, fringed with weeping willow and rushes. I made bold, on that hot day, to strip completely naked, and plunge into the fragrant waters, disturbing fish and birds and water-spiders with my splashing. The pleasure of swimming unencumbered by clothing is an exquisitely sensual one, and the caress of water on the nude body can easily come to seem the caress of a woman, so I closed my eyes as I swam and dreamt of Miss Florence – naked also, and our limbs entwined in the water! – and I must confess that, at these impure thoughts, my member rose to full rigidity, caressed by the flowing waters as though by Miss Florence’s hands or thighs or breasts, and I felt a delicious unbearable tickling in my ball-sac.

It was not long before, to my surprise and delight, my ball-sac gave up its cargo of manly fluids which had seethed within me these long weeks. It was as though I had made love to nature herself, or the water of life, and, though still virgin at that time, I felt that I had experienced something of a defloration. Thereafter I made my pilgrimage to the lake every day to pay my lustful homage to my imagined goddess, Miss Florence.

However, the more sap is drained, the more it rises. I was as passionate as ever, despite my daily aquatic relief. One day, I ventured into the shed where Miss Florence kept her bicycle, and was pleased to discover, amongst the bric-a-brac that even included a gasmask from the Great War, a set of dumb-bells, dusty from lack of use. I polished them up, and set myself to exercises, to burn off my lustful energy. Very soon, I found that my wiry frame began to expand with a respectable girth of hard muscle. In my vanity, I hoped that Miss Florence, at dinner, would make some remark! But she sat in her plainest, most modest frock, and took no notice.

Mrs Dark did, however, and found excuses to brush past my swelling biceps or even breast-muscle, with a little ‘hmm’ and a twinkle in her eye. I drew some solace from the fact that Miss Florence had tantalised me that once, with her breathtaking costume of our first dinner, since it persuaded me that, however dimly, she had thought me worth the teasing. It was Dido who shone at our little dinners, always in the most graceful yet daring gowns and décolletages. The Major confided over our port that he was well pleased with my presence, as it gave Mrs Dark ‘a bit of zing, old chap’, without elaborating on this mysterious comment, as though ‘old chaps’ would automatically understand. I nodded gravely.

In the fervid heat of that summer, I dreamed day and night of Miss Florence, and I saw her everywhere I went. I became obsessed with the things she had touched, or used, and of her purposes in doing so, and with what part of her sweet, sacred body. Everything at Virginia Lodge seemed imbued with her aura. And as for her clothing, it was the stuff of fantasy! Grubb had her lair in a ramshackle collection of outhouses some distance from the lodge, and I would make my way there and peek at the pennants of Miss Florence’s gorgeous underthings fluttering to dry in the breeze: silks of black, white, navy or even scarlet, which tempted me to purloin them and carry them off to my own lair for my improper act of worship.

My attack on the weights grew more and more strenuous. I worked up fearful sweats, and took to exercising completely naked, imagining myself some Greek god in combat with the cold metal. After I was thoroughly lathered, I would don my sports clothing and scurry to the lake, to strip anew and perform my act of obeisance to the welcoming waters. Once or twice, in my fevered imagination, I thought I heard footfalls, or even glimpsed the flicker of a watching eye, but put it down to the heat and exhaustion. Major Dark and Miss Florence were after all about their business, and Dido’s flowerbeds were far distant from the secluded lake.

One day, my schedule was running rather late. I had become engrossed in a book, and when I got to my exercises, the sun was already waning. It was nearly teatime before I was prepared to visit my lake, and I had just embarked on a final session of the punishing weight drill, when the door of the shed opened and a shaft of light fell across my sweating muscles. Panting, I had not heard the intruder approach, and dropped my weights with a fearful clang when I heard the cool fury of a Lady’s voice:

‘So this is what dirty little boys get up to.’

I turned round and saw that it was Miss Florence! Her breast was heaving, both from the exertion of her cycling and her rage at finding me in my immodest state, and her face was a livid red. Hastily, I reached for my shorts and shirt to cover myself, reflecting that since I had been facing the window, she would have seen no more than my bare buttocks. However, in reaching for my clothes, I was obliged to turn, so that there was no concealing from her my naked organ slapping against my thighs. I began to babble my lame excuses, as though I, not she, were the intruder, but her lip curled in angry scorn, which thrilled me more than she could have imagined.

‘You worm,’ she hissed. ‘Touching my things …’

She stood with her arms akimbo, contemptuously surveying me.

‘A smutty, smutty worm,’ she murmured, her eyes wide and more serene as she enjoyed my abject embarrassment. ‘How utterly pathetic you are. I suppose you do this all the time. Playing with yourself, I imagine, like a filthy little schoolboy.’

‘No, Miss Florence,’ I managed to gasp. ‘I was only exercising. I didn’t think anyone would come.’

‘You know what happens to worms,’ she said casually, and then ground her heel round and round in the sawdust.

‘These weights belong to Greville,’ she mused, with a faraway look. ‘I should have polished them myself. Well, since you have done so, I suppose you may use them. Just make sure you bathe properly before dinner. You stink as all schoolboys do!’

With that, she parked her bicycle against the wall and, in a flounce of skirts, was gone. Panting and ecstatic – she had noticed my existence! – I looked at the bicycle that had so recently borne her precious body.

My organ rose rapidly, to aching stiffness, and I reached out timorously to touch the handlebars she had held, the pedals her dainty feet had trodden, the seat still warm from her pumping thighs! My member was so stiff I thought I should burst. Gingerly, I pressed the tip against one of the pedals, but the cold metal did nothing to dampen my ardour. Then, trembling, I pressed my lips to the bicycle seat, and began to kiss and lick the leather, still damp and fragrant from her panties and crotch. I drew the bicycle towards me then and pressed the saddle to my ball-sac, moaning in my fevered excitement.

Suddenly I was bathed in a shaft of light – the door opened wide – and Miss Florence stood once more before me! This time there could be no excuses.

‘Why, you filthy, filthy brat!’ she hissed.

There now seemed little point in trying to hide my monstrous erection, which threatened to wilt in my terror. She grabbed me by the earlobe, and dragged me most painfully to the workbench, where she thrust my head down, with my bare bottom thrust in the air. I made no attempt to struggle or resist, and my organ stood stiffer than ever in my shame! There was a sheaf of bamboo poles beside the workbench, and with a swish she pulled one out, and whipped the air with it right beside my head.

‘I am going to punish you, sir, for your disgusting behaviour,’ she said coolly. ‘I shall cane you, sir. It shall hurt dreadfully.’

‘I am sorry, Miss!’ I squealed.

‘Not as sorry as you’ll be after your caning, nor when I tell Mummy and Daddy about your disgraceful behaviour.’

‘No, please!’ I cried, in genuine distress. ‘I shall gladly accept your punishment, Miss, but I beg you not to tell a soul! It is too shaming!’

‘I am going to cane your bare bottom,’ she said with relish, ‘and you will be obliged to show the welts to the Major, and to Mummy, and I dare say to the serving girl, to compound your humiliation. I take it you have been caned bare before?’

‘Yes, Miss, ‘ I moaned miserably. ‘At Eppingham they were very strict.’

‘Not half as strict as I shall be,’ she snapped. ‘And why is that horrid thing of yours still standing, like some hideous maypole? Reduce it at once, boy!’

She slapped my ball-sac with the tip of her bamboo.

‘I regret … I cannot, Miss,’ I moaned.

‘Does a beating always excite you, then?’ she said with scornful curiosity.

‘Never before, Miss. But I have never been beaten by … by such a beautiful Lady before.’

‘Don’t think you can flatter me, worm!’ she cried furiously, and swished her cane in the air again. ‘On second thoughts, I shan’t cane you just now. I am too angry with you, and won’t let you have the satisfaction of a beating in anger. I shall wait until I can beat you impassively, with the disdain you deserve. No, in fact, I shan’t cane you at all.’

‘Miss?’ I said, uncomprehending. ‘Does that mean you accept my apology?’

I was unable to keep the disappointment from my voice. The thought of my naked buttocks squirming under my goddess’s pitiless cane made the seed stir in my balls, and I thought for a moment that I should swoon and spurt just at that dreadful, ecstatic thought!

‘I have no choice but to accept your apology, however worthless and insincere, and your promise to accept my punishment.’

‘I do promise, Miss. Please cane me!’ I cried. She grinned, a beautiful vixen.

‘No, I shan’t cane you. The cane is too good for you, boy. I shall birch you, on your naked bottom,’ she whispered. ‘A man’s punishment for a smutty boy. It shall be when I decide. You must live in fear until then, and that anticipation shall be a delicious part of your punishment. And since I shall birch you in all tranquillity, I shan’t be swayed by your pathetic cries for mercy, into giving you any. Have you ever been birched?’

Miserably, I admitted that I had not.

‘It is much worse than the cane,’ she said slowly, with gloating in her voice. ‘You will beg me to stop, as Mistress Birch caresses every naked inch of your squirming, clenching bare bottom. And I shan’t, not until you are reduced to pitiful squealing jelly.’

I began to wonder if my desire to submit to the cruelty of my goddess would extend to tolerance of the birch, a word which struck terror into my heart.

‘To make your punishment more piquant,’ she said, ‘you shall fashion the birch for your own backside. I take it you have some idea what a proper flogging birch looks like?’

I nodded, with every appearance of wretchedness, but with my pulse racing in joy!

‘You know where the birch grove is – there will be some fine new branches just now. So, in a few days, I’ll administer your punishment. Mummy will be busy at the rhododendrons and fuchsias, and Daddy will be abroad on business, so I’ll take you in the summerhouse by the lake. We shall be quite private.’

I jumped as I felt her fingers touch the bare skin of my bottom!

‘Hmmm …’ she said. ‘I think you can take a good solid birch. Let us say eighteen rods, not a prissy dozen. That way I can birch you till you weep, and in the summerhouse there will be no one to hear. Bring me the birch when you have fashioned it, boy, and if it is not hard enough for my liking, you’ll have to make it over, and make two birches, for your cowardice will earn you a second birching, the very next day! A proper birching, you see, quite exhausts one instrument. And if you are brave, well, I might forget to tell Mummy and Daddy about your filthiness.’

She paused in the doorway.

‘You really think me beautiful?’

‘O, yes, Miss, yes!’

She smiled thinly.

‘Then your birching shall be that much harder …’

With that, she flounced her gorgeous tresses and stalked away without a backward look. In an ecstasy of passion, I rushed naked from the shed, not caring who saw me, and protected from immodesty only by my shirt clutched on my swollen member. I hurried to the lake and plunged in, and the first touch of the water – I imagined it her birch-twigs, caressing my organ! – made me spurt almost at once.

That night I could hardly sleep, and lay awake with pounding heart and rigid penis, listening to the excited chirping of the crickets, which in my fevered brain seemed more intense than usual. To be punished, at the hands of my goddess is – my Mistress, as I now permitted myself to think of her! To be humiliated, birched on my bare bottom to sobbing helpless agony! I could imagine no greater terror and no greater happiness.

The next day, and the days that followed, our routine continued as imperturbably as always. Miss Florence took no notice of me at all, any more than she ever did, and I took great pride and satisfaction in the gravity of my demeanour, so much that Dido remarked on it. I explained that I was studying hard; in reality, I was in the birch grove, my trembling fingers selecting the hardest, juiciest branches for my own chastisement. But I made two birches: one, a veritable bush of twenty rods, four feet in length, I secreted in the birch grove, and presented my Mistress with another, a pitiable thing of only a dozen of the thinnest, feeblest rods.

‘Please, Miss, I don’t think my bottom could take any more – bare, I mean,’ I whimpered.

As I had surmised, she became angry and said I had been warned, and had now earned two birchings. Then I fetched my real birch and duly presented her with the fearsome engine, my throat dry as I wondered if I had bitten off more than I could chew – but delirious with the joy that I should have my Mistress to myself for two sets of punishment! She swished the birch with a rushing, crackly sound, approved it, and told me to make a second like it.

Yet always a doubt nagged me – I knew I could take the cane, but the birch was an unknown quantity. And my Mistress was right – this dreadful anticipation did give a nuance of delight to my impending punishment, though perhaps not exactly as she intended. She could not possibly imagine that a young man craved a birching from her on his naked bottom – or could she …?

The day came; early in the morning, I made my way on her instructions to the little summerhouse. She was not there to greet me as I had hoped; rather, there was a note in her handwriting, in lilac ink.

‘You shall attire yourself fittingly for your humiliation,’ was all it said.

I looked around me. The summerhouse was sparsely furnished: a simple wooden ping-pong table, assorted chairs, and a sort of chaise-longue, on which was laid out a suit of clothing. It proved to be a schoolboy’s uniform, neatly pressed and cleaned but somewhat dusty. I frowned, not sure what to make of this – it was clear she wished me to dress as a schoolboy for my chastisement. With a grimace, I stripped naked and began to put on the uniform, which fitted well enough, though it was a trifle small. There was a grey flannel shirt, a striped tie, blazer and school cap, and, to my puzzlement, a pair of short flannel trousers that came far above my knee.

There were no panties, which made rueful sense to me, since I knew she intended to administer the birch on the bare. I slipped on the shorts over my naked buttocks, where they fitted very snugly, although the bulge of my manhood was only accommodated with some discomfort. I trembled and blushed, feeling superbly humiliated: not only did she intend to birch me bare, but I was to be shamefully garbed as an ‘oik’, as we at Eppingham used to refer to junior boys. I worshipped my Mistress all the more for this subtle cruelty!

I heard her steps coming through the undergrowth, and then the crisp clacking of her shoes on the stairs. For an instant, my mind confused the sound with the cricket’s chirping that I heard nightly. Then she appeared, icy and serene, her eyes and lips glinting in a Mistress’s vengeful beauty. I leapt to my feet and stood trembling before her, head bowed and hands meekly behind my back.

‘Take off your cap in the presence of a Lady!’ she snapped, putting down a leather cricket bag.

I obeyed. She looked at the birch, which I had placed carefully on the table, and picked it up, stroking it with long, slender fingers tipped in green nail-polish.

‘It’ll do,’ she said.

Somewhat to my surprise, she was not wearing her usual sensible daytime apparel, but was all in white, in a school Mistress’s gymnasium or tennis kit. Her long, muscled legs shone bare and creamy, and ended in thick white cotton socks, adorably fluffy, I thought, with laced canvas rubber-soled tennis shoes. At her waist bobbed a short pleated skirt that covered her thighs scarcely halfway, and above this her narrow waist was swathed in a tight white blouse, damp with her perspiration so that, to my horrified delight, I could clearly see her bare breasts shimmering through the thin wet cotton. The imprint of her nipples jutted like gorgeous red strawberries on top of the luscious pastries of her teats, their fullness unadorned by any corselage or other support. The top two buttons of her blouse were carelessly open, revealing an expanse of ripe curved breast, and her hair swept back in a bushy, businesslike pony-tail.