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birch in the boudoir introduction birch in the boudoir Chapter 1 birch in the boudoir Chapter 2 birch in the boudoir Chapter 3 birch in the boudoir Chapter 4 birch in the boudoir Chapter 5 birch in the boudoir Chapter 6 birch in the boudoir Chapter 7 birch in the boudoir Chapter 8 birch in the boudoir Chapter 9 birch in the boudoir Chapter 10 birch in the boudoir Chapter 11 birch in the boudoir Chapter 12 birch in the boudoir Chapter 13 birch in the boudoir Chapter 14 birch in the boudoir Chapter 15 birch in the boudoir Postscript

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Birch in the Boudoir



My dearest Lizzie,

How differently must we think of my Uncle Brandon after my adventures today! You might easily believe he had owned Greystones - Miss Martinet and the girls included - and that it was a private seraglio with Miss M. as a duenna!

After breakfast my hostess led me across the sunlit lawns to the brick stable with its white cupola and clock.

"We have two groups of girls at Greystones," she said proudly, "first, the more refined young ladies who are taught sewing or embroidery, and second, the young women trained to be stable-girls."

"Oh, aye," says I to myself, "buxom young trollops well made for vigorous riding and saddle work!"

"Before you proceed to deal with our young ladies," went on Miss M., "you must first prove yourself with these saucy Amazons. That was always your uncle's rule."

"Was it, by Jove!" I said. "Then I shall strive to be worthy of it!"

To speak well of Uncle Brandon is to win Miss M.'s heart. Do you suppose, my sweet, that she had such a lech for the old fellow as to supply him with young fillies to ride at Greystones?

"I shall put two young women in your charge at first - Maggie and Noreen," said she. "They need nothing less than a man's absolute authority. For that reason, your dear departed uncle wished you to aid our good works."

I smiled at the old fellow's singular notion of good works. A moment more and we entered the main stable door, viewing a well-kept interior of red tiling, white-painted rails, and neatly piled straw. Miss Martinet pointed out Maggie and Noreen to me, marking the beginning of my remarkable acquaintance with them.

I will not burden you with more than the briefest description of the two girls. Maggie was to prove a casual and careless young slut compared with the staring insolence of Noreen. What shall I say of Maggie? Her golden-blond hair hung straight and loose to her shoulders and was parted on her forehead in a long fringe. She was twenty-three years old, I learnt, the pale oval of her face marked by features which were firm and perhaps a little crude. Yet you would admire her blue-green eyes and the lashes which she darkens so skilfully. Maggie is a bewitching combination of the brazen slut and the innocent child. She is firmly built, though not tall. Her lack of height gives her a coltish, almost stocky appearance. Yet her thighs are taut and her hips firmly covered without being fat. Her breasts are softly hung and Maggie's bottom-cheeks have the trim maturity of womanhood. Though she wears no wedding ring, I'll wager that Maggie's cunt has been well ridden.

Noreen, by contrast, has an impudent stare and a resentful manner. This pleases me, rather, for it will offer ample pretext for discipline! Noreen is a trollop of nineteen with no claim to refinement. Would you picture her to yourself? You may do so easily. Imagine quite a tall, firmly made girl, her dark-brown hair worn straight and lank to the level of her collar and cut in a level fringe on her forehead. Add to this a set of strong, fair-skinned features and brown eyes of lazy malevolence. Men who like a well-made filly to strap between the shafts of love's chariot would stiffen at the sight of Noreen in her tight working pants and singlet. Firm young breasts and straight back are damply outlined by clinging blue cotton. Now observe her from the waist down: her belly is quite flat, her pubic mound a gentle swell. Her thighs are taut and lightly muscled, as if from work or exercise. Noreen's bottom is certainly quite big-cheeked but without any surplus fat.

"Deal firmly with them, Mr. Charles!" said Miss Martinet softly. "Be worthy of your Uncle Brandon! Remember, you are absolute master here. Not a word shall be heard against you from these girls!"

There were two grooms and several stable-boys to assist me in my task, which seemed to be no more than doing as I liked with the two girls! A room had been set apart for me at one end of the stable, and it was well appointed with a humidor of cigars and a decanter of fluid which looked, smelt, and tasted like the finest old malt! From this point of vantage, I settled down to watch Maggie through the open door.

The young blonde was laying out the saddle harness for inspection by the grooms. In doing this she was also in the public view. On that side the stable wall is the boundary of the Greystones estates, the windows looking out onto the road, though securely set in stone and not to be opened. Men and women who stroll past can watch Maggie at work.

Perhaps it was this which made Maggie such an exhibitionist. First she found a black wig in a cupboard and fitted it over her own blond hair. It was not an improvement, though she paraded in it, her jaw slack and her tongue running on her lips. Taking it off at length, she ducked her head and shook it to and fro vigorously, her blond hair flying then settling at last into place.

The stable lads began to play with her. "Want a good gallop, Mag?" they called, as they seized her. "Take your pants right down, then!"

She replied to them banteringly in a voice which was surprisingly soft and lilting. She tried to escape by climbing over the harness rail. Her legs were too short arid the boys caught her as she was astride it. One gripped her wrists and pulled her down so that she was lying forward along it as she straddled.

All this was done in play, Lizzie. Yet you may imagine the faces of the men who were passing by and who now pressed close to the windows to observe these proceedings. Because Maggie lay forward, astride the rail, the men outside the window could stare at the weight of the soft young breasts hanging like delectable fruit in her tight, blue singlet. The wooden rail showed her pouched love-lips through the straining tightness of her denim trousers. Taut but maturely filled out, the firm cheeks of Maggie's backside faced these spectators. There was such wrestling between her and the stable-lads! One of them stole a kiss from her lips, another smacked her arse playfully several times through the tight, thin denim.

In the end it was Maggie who freed herself. Then, chewing insolently upon some sweetmeat in her mouth, she went to the stable-boy who was her favourite and took him by the hand. Now, it seemed, she was ready to pay any price for true love. She led the youth behind a screen which stood conveniently at one end of the stable. I heard the undoing of her waist and the whisper of Maggie's knickers being pushed down to her knees and then to her ankles.

"Lie down and let me play with it first, you wicked boy," she said teasingly in her soft Celtic lilt. "None of the schoolgirls can do it as well as I, can they?"

"Head to tail, Mag!" he gasped, "please! Let us lie head to tail!"

"Ah!" whispered Maggie, "you rascal! If I do that you will make me take it in my mouth!"

"Do it, Mag!" gasped the lad again, "do it all the same!"

His long sigh of contentment suggested that the coltish young blonde, with her curtains of light golden hair, had obeyed him in this matter.

"I must kiss you between the thighs, Maggie!" he murmured, "while my fingers stiffen those strawberry nipples on your white breasts. Was that nice when I kissed you there, Mag? Ah, how that makes you shudder - the tip of my tongue running in the love-slit between your thighs. Lie still, Maggie, and let me do it again. What a soft little cry! Anyone would think I had put you to the torture!"

I listened in stupefaction, my dearest Lizzie. Was this the way in which our English reformatories were run, I asked myself? Small wonder that such young whores as Maggie took their sentence with equanimity.

"Now your backside, Maggie!" sighed her adorer. "Did you see how the men admired you through the window each time they had a view from the rear as you bent over in your tight riding jeans? What would they like to do to you, Mag, if they had you as a slave girl? Suck softly, Maggie! Run your tongue about the cherry top! Now let me press your pale seat-cheeks apart and admire what lies between. Ah, yes, Maggie! If you were my slave girl, I should be pitiless in threading my shaft into that tight, dark hole as well. That frightens you a little? The thought of it makes you stiffen? To tell you the truth, Mag, the thought of it makes me stiffen too!"

So the lover's aria continued behind the stable screen. As I listened, I looked out across the green, sloping lawn towards the hedge which marked the steep fall of the cliff to the waves. It was the only side on which Greystones might seem unprotected. Yet no young damsel had ever been hardy enough to attempt a descent by that route. Nor, of course, had any randy swain ever managed to climb up by that way to woo his beloved in her reformatory bed! As I looked across the lawns and saw the pier and bandstand of Pinebourne glittering in the sun beyond, I could not help wondering what the respectable burghers of the town would feel if they knew the truth of the reformatory regime of which their law-makers were so proud.

Just then the grooms returned. Maggie, who had not nearly completed her chores, was sentenced to be chastised for her dilatoriness. When the first groom came to tell me that Maggie was made ready to be caned for idleness, I could hardly find an answer! Imagine how eagerly the men who had watched at the window while she worked at the harness display would have taken this opportunity!

I could scarcely believe that it was my own voice saying, "Ah... yes... indeed. To be sure. Perhaps, though, on this first occasion, you would be good enough to deal with her for me."

A broad smile crossed the groom's face. All the passion which he had pumped into Maggie's mouth, the love with which he had spangled her thighs and backside, did not restrain his zeal for chastising her. We went into the main part of the tiled stable, where a padded leather bench stood at the centre of the floor. Maggie was stripped to her singlet, made to kneel at one end of the bench and lie forward along it. Her discarded pants and knickers (a pair of stretched cotton briefs) lay discarded on the table. They had tied her blond hair in a short pony-tail, and I was pleased at that. It enabled me to watch more clearly her blue eyes and fair-skinned features. I nodded to the groom, who made the preparations required by the Greystones regulations. Maggie's wrists were strapped to the far end of the bench, her waist buckled down, and her legs belted tightly together just above the knees.

All this will sound so severe, Lizzie, that you will scarcely credit how much pleasure there was for Maggie in her punishment. Yet such was the truth, as I discovered when I made my inspection of her before she was bamboo'd.

I squatted down behind her and studied the area which offered itself as a target to the groom. Maggie's buttocks, firmly and fully presented by her posture, were stretched hard apart. Both the rear pout of her vaginal purse and her anal cleft were in full view.

I teased our blond shop-girl gently. "You've been making love, haven't you, Maggie?" I stroked her down the length of her cleavage, between the fair-skinned sturdiness of her buttocks, tickling the rear of her vaginal pouch and finding it moist. She was far away by now, her mouth open a little, and her blue-green eyes blank, as if she could not hear.

Can you guess the truth, Lizzie? Any of the other shop-girls punished in this manner - Pat or Jennifer or the rest - would have trembled at the ordeal. Maggie, however, was a lover of that delight known to us as "Birch in the Boudoir." Even a prison caning was the occasion for her pleasure. It is true, is it not, that certain girls, like the slave, Janina or the Grecian nymph, Sarita, have found pleasure under the rod of their Turkish masters? Maggie was a worthy novice!

Already I could see that her pale, firm thighs, in all their stocky power, were squeezing rhythmically together. It was impossible to prevent, except by ordering her legs to be strapped apart. To tell you the truth, my curiosity was so great that I could not bear to do that.

"No wonder the men watched you as you set out the harness display, Maggie," said the first groom, "if you were misbehaving like that!"

But the young shop girl had no shame, Lizzie! I vow she continued with the thigh-squeezing and the buttock-clenching as if she could not have stopped it for dear life.

The groom cut the air with a trial swish of his bamboo. Our young blonde masturbatrix stopped, frozen in a moment of apprehension, and then resumed her labours of self-love.

"Thirty strokes across your bare bottom, Maggie," I said softly, and I nodded to the groom to begin the punishment with the long supple bamboo.

How the first stroke of the cane rang out across the firm, pale cheeks of Maggie's bottom! She gasped, cried out, but never ceased to squeeze her love-lips hard between her thighs. Again the cane lashed across her seat, and again. She gave a soft cry but it was hard to say whether pain or pleasure drew it from her. The groom was quite pitiless with her. Believe me, any true disciplinarian who had watched Maggie displaying herself at the window would have approved that. Six times the cane raised a weal across the cheeks of Maggie's bottom - and twice across the backs of her thighs. She cried out with the hurt and with the pleasure of her own thigh-squeezing at the same time. In truth the vicious prison bamboo was a smarting agony across the bare cheeks of her backside. Only the swelling balloon of pleasure in her own lions enabled her to endure it with such insouciance.

After the first fifteen strokes, the groom handed the cane to his colleague for the rest.

"Almost at the summit of your climb, Maggie?" asked the second man. "I shall let you get there before I cane. Then fifteen wicked strokes across your backside, with no distractions!"

Mag cried out again, begging him to bamboo her in her present state. But he waited until her thighs seemed to beat quickly in their squeezing, like soft white wings. He stood, undid her legs, and strapped them again with knees wide apart. Then he caned the impudent blonde shop girl without compunction.

I was conscious that the lads she had romped with earlier had their eyes pressed to every chink and keyhole in the place. Under the second groom's attentions, Maggie screamed and her green eyes brimmed over. Unlike his predecessor, he was a moralist and no libertine. His righteous anger brought thin ruby trickles from the new weals across her bottom-cheeks.

At last Maggie lay limp and gasping, her behind blushing and marked by swollen stripes.

I stroked her blond hair, calming her. "Come to my room tomorrow morning, Maggie," I said gently. "You'll be tanned now until the grooms are satisfied with you. Tomorrow, I'll treat you to some softer discipline of my own."

Was it pleading or was it gratitude she showed? Maggie, the randy young bitch, brazenly licked my fingers in anticipation! Had she much to be grateful for? It depends which groom was the harder to satisfy. Was she given to the gentler of the two? He would surely allow her to ride the rubber dildo while his rod merely stimulated her passion. But Maggie the young shop girl with her golden-blond hair touching her collar and fringed on her forehead, might well provoke a gentle, affectionate lechery.

Yet the other groom seemed more fiercely provoked. Was it by the rather hard, crude features in the pale oval of her face, or the blue-green eyes with their mascara'd lashes? Did her slight stockiness, the firm young thighs and buttocks, move him even more?

With the first lover, Maggie might play out an amorous comedy. If the second was allowed to take her into the fateful room, a darker drama would ensue. It represents a more sombre scene, shadows falling on a fixed block where Maggie kneels strapped over it, securely gagged. Only her short, black singlet clothes her. I fear the tale must be one of Maggie's wadded screams and flooding tears, her bottom bruised and swollen by weals which will not fade for a week. Even then, I suspect, this wielder of the pony-switch knows no pity.

I wonder which of my suppositions is correct? Perhaps neither. Perhaps, indeed, I malign the second fellow. Yet there was a certain look in his eye. Not that I think him alone in his inclinations towards such a young woman as Mag!

Now, my dearest Lizzie, I send this, my second letter, to you. As of this moment, you will not have received one. But, when you do, how sweet your replies will be to your own adoring,