Pink Ribbon

 

(Written by: China Hamilton)

In springtime, the woodlands by Pauline’s remote cottage were a pure delight.  It was a period of time that so aroused and attracted Pauline.
It was the time she eagerly awaited throughout the long winter, as it was the opportunity for her to collect the materials she needed.  Pauline was a very normal and very sexual young woman: she, however, had developed one very peculiar fascination!
The silver birch!  Besides its natural beauty, for centuries it had been prized for its very special young branches.  Indeed the name has passed into the folklore of corporal punishment quite uniquely.  Victorian literature abounds with the mention of its name, and explicit descriptions of its popular and often sexual connotations.  It was, in fact, its mention in an earlier eighteenth century novel that had first caught Pauline’s attention.
She had been in her late teens, and as she read a particular and detailed description of its playful use between two girls, she had found herself becoming noticeably aroused.  Therefore, whenever this word appeared, she experienced the same thrill, the same thoughts.
Pauline started to search out texts that featured this instrument, and she was very pleased to finally encounter a book that contained a detailed account of its virtues and its precise construction.  She found this attention to detail fascinating and exciting.  It was as if this little bundle of twigs held some magical properties to stimulate, sexually stimulate, in a very special way.
Curiosity soon demanded actual experimentation, and after a number of years, the making of birches became deeply significant to her sexuality.  She established her own rules to which she adhered strictly.
She could only, for instance, make them from April to June, when the twigs were at their very best.  Also, she always wore a pair of traditional Victorian knickers with their separated legs and completely open crotch, when she was involved with the making or handling of a birch.  Such lovely intimate underwear, along with a little lace-trimmed chemise, seemed to Pauline to be essential.  To know that these representations of the great birching era were caressing her skin quite altered her whole persona.  Because of this requirement, she had amassed a significant collection of beautiful knickers, and such clothing bought from numerous shops that specialised in traditional underwear.  To this collection were added long buttoned boots and, of course, black stockings and garters.

 

Today, beneath her long skirt and jacket, Pauline wore the undergarments of which she was so fond.
She speculated, as she often did when wearing these knickers, as to the punishments that may have been experienced by their original owner.  Perhaps they had belonged to a young wife who had been poorly equipped to perform her household duties.  She imagined the girl being taken to weekly account for her shortcomings by a loving but strict husband.  The young comely wife would be kneeling on a stool in the bedroom, waiting on Friday evenings, dressed only in these actual drawers, stockings and boots.  The footfall on the stair, the hands parting the division in her knickers, and the sound of the twigs swishing in the air as her husband prepared to instruct her!!!  Such thoughts made her squirm and her juices oozed into her much-loved knickers!
On one arm, Pauline had slung an old garden trug, and in her hand she held a pair of secateurs.
She became absorbed with the task before her.  Her bright dark eyes searched the lower branches for just the right twigs.  It was always a challenge to find birch twigs that were straight and long and free from bends that weaken them.  Long, but not too thick.  With care she cut them to a rough length and laid them with reverence in her trug.
Slowly, and without hurry, she collected seven such twigs of roughly equal length.  On this occasion she had decided to make a rather long instrument.  Seven twigs held their old numerical power and were the correct number if the device was not to become too fat, and thus lose its beautiful and demanding proportions, and its so flexible “swish”.
It was only when she had finished and was turning to return to her cottage, that she noticed that she was being watched.  It was a man, perhaps in his mid thirties, respectably dressed in casual country clothes.
"I am intrigued", he said, by way of introduction.  "I don’t normally stare but I’m fascinated by what it is you are doing."
Pauline found an embarrassed smile, for he was warm and unthreatening with a natural and gentle play of good humour.  She continued walking until she reached where he stood on the path.  She indicated the twigs in her trug.  "I’ve been collecting birch twigs to make a broom."  She had thought quickly for some explanation, but dropped her eyes as she faced him in a way that was an appealing mannerism of hers.
His smiling eyes did not register his acceptance of this piece of information, but he made no further comment.
"Are you from around here?  I don’t remember seeing you before", Pauline asked.
"Yes, as a matter of fact I am, or rather have just become.  I took over the ‘Mill House’ and moved in a few days ago.
This is my first trip out to explore my new surroundings, and after meeting you I rather approve - at least I assume you are local?"
"Oh yes", she answered. "That cottage just over there."  She indicated the small thatched house that could be seen through the trees.  "These woods are rather like my back garden."
After a moment’s pause in the conversation, she continued, feeling very bold.  "Would you like to come back with me for a cup of coffee, that is if you’re free at the moment."
"That would be delightful", he answered.  "I can assure you I am completely free."
On arrival at her cottage, she had rushed about to clear spaces on the large kitchen table and apologized for all the mess.  She then set to work to make coffee.  He made soft and warm conversation about this and that, and when she turned round she found him fingering one of the long birch twigs.
"Not much of a broom.  I would think you would need far more to sweep anything up?" he mused. "Now", he continued, "if one was to put your little bundle together like so…..."
At this, he gathered up the seven twigs and gripped them as they formed a handle, "then you would have quite a different object".  To emphasize this statement he swished the bunch through the air to make a satisfying and suggestive noise. 

"Oh don’t look embarrassed - but I’m right aren’t I? It’s to be a rather fine…"  Here he paused for effect and made another little swish, "Birch?"
Pauline brought the cups down on the table with a bang and eyed the bunch still held in his hand.
"That’s very perceptive of you - yes that’s what I intended to make of them." There was a touch of bravado in her voice.
"Then don’t let me stop you - I would very much enjoy watching you.  I can sit and drink my coffee and you can show me how you put them together."

 

 Pauline had never shared her little hobby with anyone.  It had always been deeply private, something she kept very much to herself.
When she made a birch she kept it hanging on a little hook by her bed.  Always when she entered her bedroom she would see it there, and on some evenings she would feel the powerful urge and put on a selection of her Victorian underwear and stand in front of the enormous framed mirror that stood on the wall by the end of her bed.  First she would just look at the scene before her, as though she was looking at a stranger, the mirror acting as a detachment from reality, her eyes fixed on the birch in her hands.  Her fingers would run up and down its length, noting the little details that were essential to its proper construction.
Each of the long twigs had had the side shoots clipped off to about half an inch in length and cut carefully so as to leave a pricking point.  The handle was bound in pink silk ribbon tied with the traditional bow and up to about half its length there were a number of other bindings in the same ribbon.
Slowly she would undo the pearl buttons at the front of her chemise so that her plump, young breasts would start to peek out.  Then she would turn the material back to reveal them fully.  In her mind she was responding to some instruction from a person in the room - behind her.
With slow and measured movements she would bring up the twigs and brush them over each nipple in turn.  This action would cause her teats to stand up and become sensitive.  Time and time again, she would repeat this movement, feeling the thrill that ran from their ends to her smooth, hairless, and very sensitive vagina.
After a while she would turn round and look at herself over one shoulder.  Then, with one hand, she would pull aside the slit in her long, white drawers and see the full curves of her buttocks with their dark and deep division.
Now Pauline would cause the birch to run up and down the firm, round skin, the sharp little off-shoots would scratch at every pass, tiny thrills of anticipation, clear awareness of the potential of its inherent and sinister design rippling through her whole body and mind.
After this she would raise her arm a little and administer a stroke or two to one of the exposed cheeks.  She was always excited by the sensation of the noticeable sting, and her imagination would immediately run to envisaging what it would feel like if it were harder, very much harder.  Questions flowed through her thoughts as to how she would react, and her feelings of eager desire would grow and grow.

 

She turned to face him.  "Why not", she answered.  She would show this man, with his smile and his curiosity, what a beautiful birch she could make.  She would share with him her secret.

 

She took up her sharp, garden knife and stretched out a hand to him for the bundle he held.  He handed it over and Pauline delicately set to work to trim the sticks.
"You’ll stay to dinner?" she asked, and she looked up to fix his eyes with hers.
"Will you have finished making your little toy before then?" he asked.
"It will be ready very soon, if that’s what you’re asking," she answered, reaching for some pink ribbon.
"Yes, that’s exactly what I’m asking.  I have developed quite an appetite - it must be the country air."
"Oh, I doubt if it’s that," she said, as she started to neatly bind the handle.  "I hope you like the colour?"
"It couldn’t be anything else," the man said, "except perhaps bright red", and Pauline smiled an inviting smile.
"Very red", she answered.
It was soon completed.  She turned to him, holding out the finished birch.
"It really needs an expert hand, to make proper use of it", she said challenging him. "Perhaps you have some experience?"
He took it from her.
"Young ladies who make such things are inherently naughty, in my experience, and they should be shown the error of their ways", he answered, with just a touch of edge to his voice.
For the first time, Pauline felt how real this all was, and found herself dropping her eyes to avert his stare.
"Perhaps I should go upstairs with you?" she asked.
Without waiting for an answer, she got up and went up to her bedroom.  She was conscious of his following, of his being behind, the birch in his hand.  Now so committed, she removed her dress without further hesitation, and revealed what she was wearing underneath.
"Oh dear", he murmured, looking at the intimate underwear that she was so blatantly exposing to him.  "It’s far worse than I thought.  You have quite an exceptionally naughty mind, and it is very much time that you were shown that such secret thoughts carry with them a price."

Pauline was completely captivated by this stranger.  It was like a dream, like a play.  He was also very serious and she felt strongly that she must make the choice to comply.
"Shall I open my knickers at the back, or shall I pull them down completely? "she said, tugging saucily at her knickers.
"For what is demanded by this occasion, your knickers down is the only answer.  I will have a full area presented for my necessary attentions, a deliciously full area!"
Blushing a little, she undid the tie at the waist of her knickers and pushed them down till they halted on her stocking tops.
"A tight bottom is always needed for the birch", he continued, and gestured towards the antique dressing table stool.  "That’s ideal.  Kneel upon it, and then reach down to grip its front legs."
Pauline did as she was told, and knelt on the stool.
As she reached down to hold its legs, her bottom rose up, tightened, parting her bum-cheeks.
"Part your knees to each side of the top to steady yourself", came the further instruction.
As she did this, she was only too aware that she was showed both a fully rounded effect of her bottom, and also a clear view of her rich, vibrant vulva framed at the top of her thighs.  He approached her and felt the skin of her bottom with a confident hand, even running his fingertips into the deep cleft of her bottom.
"Someone as naughty as you will need quite a lot of hard work, don’t you agree?  Do you think you can bear such demanding attentions?"

"Yes", she found herself answering.  "It’s probably time I found out the true value of the toys I make, and how imprudent it is of me to have such naughty thoughts."
"Thirty six strokes, serious but not too harsh, should warm you nicely I think", he advised her.  "Don’t make too much noise or wriggle too much or we’ll have to add some extra for disobedience, and curing a naughty girl's disobedience is something I enjoy very much!"
He removed his jacket and methodically rolled up his sleeves.  All the time she worried, her arms tired from supporting her weight, her bottom high and very, very vulnerable.
She was aware of the noise, even before the birch struck.
It was unlike anything she had ever imagined in her little games.  It was real, and it was real burning pain.  She tried to keep the control in her strong pride as his orders demanded, but a cry broke from her lips.
"For that outburst, we shall start again", he said.
When the birch landed again, it was the same spot on the full area of her right cheek.  This time the pain was more intense, but fearfully, she choked back her cry.  In her mind she prayed that the next would not return to that burning spot.  But it did.
"Please", she begged through her growing tears, "not the same place.  Please not on the same place."
"I can stop if you want me to, but if I continue, you will take it in any way that I decide", he answered.
He must be allowed to continue.  It already hurt so much, but she wanted it as badly as the other sensations she enjoyed, unlike any she had known before, were making their demands.  She must let herself be birched, let the sensations flow and be enjoyed, experienced.  Let them mix with the dreadful pain.   Learn to grow up.
"I’m sorry, please birch me however you think I should be punished", she told him. "Please."
"Then you must be reminded not to beg, not to plead."
"Four special strokes, undercuts, to your most tender area, will aid this lesson. Are you ready", he asked.
"Yes", she said with conviction.
"Then lift your bum higher and stretch it tighter", he told her.
Pauline did this, using her arms to push her bottom up and outward.  She sensed him changing his stance.
The first of these punishing cuts came so that twig ends fell at the very top of her right thigh and the thickness of the rod took care of the rest.  
It hurt so much that she flung back her head and her ass writhed uncontrollably.
For that he added another stroke.  Four more similar strokes fell.  Now her bottom adopted an involuntary rhythm, rising to meet the rod, to let it kiss her with its burning bite.  He met each such delightfully immodest thrust with skilful enthusiasm.
When he had delivered the undercuts, he continued to beat the drum tight centre of each cheek.
All the time she rocked her body to seek the descending birch, stretching herself fully apart so that its searching twigs could find the tender parts, and send exquisite pain surging through her.
When she cried too loudly, he did not count the stroke.  When her hand had reached round uncontrollably to protect herself, he had punished that with six further undercuts which brought her to an orgasm of pain and a drenching wet pleasure.
In the end, the destruction of the birch, its broken twigs scattered everywhere, called a halt to the punishment.  
She painfully stood up, he closely inspected her punished rear, feeling the heat of his efforts and the raised wheals.  She found herself touching herself where she was still full of desire and need.  
For this wilful act, he sent her out to the forest to gather twigs for another birch.  Pauline knew that he was right of course, she would need further lessons, many, many more.  She had never known such pain before and never such pleasure.  Her imagination was also awakened: in time, also the cane, the strap.  She hesitated - perhaps a little whip?
Her education was just beginning, as it had for so many young women throughout history.