Birching by two strict femmes, October 2010…

September 30, 2015


According to Ovid, in the beginning was Chaos. And Chaos was this shapeless uncoordinated mass – nothing but a weight of lifeless matter, whose ill-assorted elements were indiscriminately heaped together. There was no sun, no moon. Nothing had lasting shape.

A condition you come to identify with after experiencing the unkind kiss of a birch rod. Each stroke fragments identity. After ten strokes your head is in Chaos. You occupy a space before the beginning. You cease to have lasting shape. You are no longer “YOU”.

She says to me, ‘Sex without pain is like food without taste,’ and crosses the room to the couch. Imagine yourself, if you can, handcuffed and firmly secured to that couch. Feel the coarse material on your bare flesh, and the two cushions under your hips raising your buttocks.

The fearful rod (more a bundle of tied twigs) touches your skin, brushes it gently, almost lovingly. She raises it slightly, taps once with the tips, aiming, then raises it shoulder height and strikes. You bite down on the ballgag in your mouth. Clamp in the muffled cry of pain. And even before you can draw in a fresh breath, she strikes again.

‘It marks well,’ the other one says, quietly. She stands, observer to your ordeal, on the opposite side of the couch. Her face is glowing, eager for her “turn” with the rod – which descends in a vicious arc.

The pain is indescribable. Some of the “twigs” splinter with the force of the blows. You are aware in the vaguest of ways of sweat running from your armpits down your sides. You note how bloodless, how white your knuckles have become. Your backside feels on fire. Perspiration beads your forehead, runs in your eyes, blinding.

‘You’ve still got four strokes to go from me,’ she says. ‘That’ll conclude my dozen. Then C will administer her dozen.’

‘With great pleasure,’ the other replies.

The birch rod when it lands seems to spread across your whole backside, the pain so intense you tug against your restraints, your hips twisting. At first you drift in a sea of fire, of pain unimaginable. The swish of the twigs raises blood blisters on tender skin. Tears fill your eyes, but then you are outside of yourself. You are in Chaos.

So much so that you hardly notice when she steps back and the other one takes over.

Your eyes take in this woman, the nick of her sex in a black unruly bush, the swaying breasts. It has no meaning for you. You are apart. You are mere fragments of experience, of pain, lost and unformed. You are unaware of her hard smooth bum and thighs. Or of her yelps of glee each time she strikes your ruined flesh with the birch.

And yet, quite involuntarily, you still try to scream around the gag. A part of you not in Chaos, perhaps, still feels those maliciously cutting strokes. Saliva dribbles over your chin. Time has dissolved into this indistinguishable nothingness. Hot wars with cold, moist with dry, soft with hard. The chaotic mass of your thoughts expand beyond any know reality.

‘He’s almost fainting,’ she says. ‘ Can’t have that. I’ll get smelling salts. He must experience every second of his birching…’

When its over, they caress you. They stroke with gentle finger tips, and lightly kiss your face. Gradually you feel yourself returning to the here and now. You backside is a furnace. She gently applies an anesthetic gel. ‘This will help,’ she says. The other one cuddles close, breasts pressing against you. Her eyes are still excited by what she’s done to you, the power she held over you. ‘Does it hurt?’ she asks. ‘It looks really painful.’

‘Okay,’ you finally manage. ‘I’m okay.’

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