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Authors: Jean-Philippe Aubourg
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ever wished for anything for my trade which I could not obtain on this side of the Channel I should contact him immediately. When I saw you and discovered you were to be my new charge, I did just that.’
Miss Prior stood and came out from behind her desk. ‘You are such a lovely girl, Catherine; your complexion is so fresh, almost continental. It would be such a shame to mark it with nothing more than the cane or birch. It cries out for the soft leather of the French whip.’ By now tears were in my eyes. This woman was so cruel! She had not yet laid a hand on me and already I was distraught.
‘I wrote asking for a martinet to be sent to me,’ she went on, apparently oblivious to my distress. ‘In Paris, I used the family’s own implement. Needless to say, I could not bring it with me on my return, but my former employer was as good as his word, and this arrived within a week.’ She stretched the whip in front of me, her hands gripping each end gently. ‘It is brand new, Catherine; made just for your bottom!’ She said this with such relish, as the tears began to roll down my face. Then came the instruction I had been dreading. ‘Turn around and prepare yourself for its first kiss.’
I turned, reaching behind for my skirts and petticoats, then lifted them clear. I bent forward as I threw them up over my back and rested my breast on the desk. I felt Miss Prior’s fingers on the strings of my drawers. They loosened and the garments fell. There was no fire in the school room and my legs became covered in gooseflesh as they were exposed to the chill.
I heard Miss Prior take up her place on my left-hand side. Her clothing rustled, then, without warning, I felt a sharp pain in my exposed bottom, a series of stings all over it rather than the intense burning of a cane stroke. I gasped in shock. I had not been prepared. Unlike the cane, there was no warning tap across my seat, as Miss Prior took aim. She had simply whipped me.
She did so again, across the fullness of my bottom, the pain a little more bearable now that I knew it was coming. She went on at regular intervals, the tails of the whip apparently capable of covering almost all my poor bottom at each visit. Miss Prior was evidently not to be troubled by the problem of aiming, as she was with the cane.
She continued to flog me without mercy, as I gnawed at my fingers to stop myself from crying out. At first I believed it to be less painful than the cane, a gentle burning rather than the intense sting centred along one thin line, but as my punishment grew I learnt the secret of the martinet. Miss Prior was not wielding it with any great force or strength, but the accumulation of the strokes, covering as they did almost my entire nates, soon became unbearable. I sobbed my heart out, my bottom and legs swaying and shaking, but never so much as to spoil Miss Prior’s aim. Such was the power this beautiful woman now held over me.
I have no idea how long she whipped me for; only that by the time she stopped I was crying floods of tears in my pain and shame. Indeed, I barely realised she had stopped, my mind being such a blur of emotions, and not having the familiar swish and whistle of the cane to remind me each new stroke was coming.
Miss Prior left me to compose myself, possibly sensing how confused I felt. Indeed, I was confused. The pain and humiliation of my punishment were such that no human being could have tolerated more, I am sure of it, much less one of the gentler sex, but I also felt pride. Yes, Connie, I was proud of myself for having taken it. I thought of how Miss Prior must have whipped the two French girls in just the same manner, and wondered if they had made as little fuss as I had. I pictured them in a school room just like this, bent over side by side on twin desks, their dresses, the height of Paris fashion of course, thrown up carelessly about their heads. Or had Miss Prior flogged them at bedtime, in the room the sisters shared? I saw one
Miss Prior stood and came out from behind her desk. ‘You are such a lovely girl, Catherine; your complexion is so fresh, almost continental. It would be such a shame to mark it with nothing more than the cane or birch. It cries out for the soft leather of the French whip.’ By now tears were in my eyes. This woman was so cruel! She had not yet laid a hand on me and already I was distraught.
‘I wrote asking for a martinet to be sent to me,’ she went on, apparently oblivious to my distress. ‘In Paris, I used the family’s own implement. Needless to say, I could not bring it with me on my return, but my former employer was as good as his word, and this arrived within a week.’ She stretched the whip in front of me, her hands gripping each end gently. ‘It is brand new, Catherine; made just for your bottom!’ She said this with such relish, as the tears began to roll down my face. Then came the instruction I had been dreading. ‘Turn around and prepare yourself for its first kiss.’
I turned, reaching behind for my skirts and petticoats, then lifted them clear. I bent forward as I threw them up over my back and rested my breast on the desk. I felt Miss Prior’s fingers on the strings of my drawers. They loosened and the garments fell. There was no fire in the school room and my legs became covered in gooseflesh as they were exposed to the chill.
I heard Miss Prior take up her place on my left-hand side. Her clothing rustled, then, without warning, I felt a sharp pain in my exposed bottom, a series of stings all over it rather than the intense burning of a cane stroke. I gasped in shock. I had not been prepared. Unlike the cane, there was no warning tap across my seat, as Miss Prior took aim. She had simply whipped me.
She did so again, across the fullness of my bottom, the pain a little more bearable now that I knew it was coming. She went on at regular intervals, the tails of the whip apparently capable of covering almost all my poor bottom at each visit. Miss Prior was evidently not to be troubled by the problem of aiming, as she was with the cane.
She continued to flog me without mercy, as I gnawed at my fingers to stop myself from crying out. At first I believed it to be less painful than the cane, a gentle burning rather than the intense sting centred along one thin line, but as my punishment grew I learnt the secret of the martinet. Miss Prior was not wielding it with any great force or strength, but the accumulation of the strokes, covering as they did almost my entire nates, soon became unbearable. I sobbed my heart out, my bottom and legs swaying and shaking, but never so much as to spoil Miss Prior’s aim. Such was the power this beautiful woman now held over me.
I have no idea how long she whipped me for; only that by the time she stopped I was crying floods of tears in my pain and shame. Indeed, I barely realised she had stopped, my mind being such a blur of emotions, and not having the familiar swish and whistle of the cane to remind me each new stroke was coming.
Miss Prior left me to compose myself, possibly sensing how confused I felt. Indeed, I was confused. The pain and humiliation of my punishment were such that no human being could have tolerated more, I am sure of it, much less one of the gentler sex, but I also felt pride. Yes, Connie, I was proud of myself for having taken it. I thought of how Miss Prior must have whipped the two French girls in just the same manner, and wondered if they had made as little fuss as I had. I pictured them in a school room just like this, bent over side by side on twin desks, their dresses, the height of Paris fashion of course, thrown up carelessly about their heads. Or had Miss Prior flogged them at bedtime, in the room the sisters shared? I saw one
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