by Norland Hughes
Eyes that missed nothing watched the ritual preparations unfold. Professor Lavinia Arkenstone, Principal of Barham College and the head of its tiny exclusive secret sorority, stood resplendent in her scarlet cloak by the side of her most precious of disciples, Daphne Fairchild. Daphne was about to play the unenviable starring role in a rarely undertaken ceremony. Lavinia had insisted that the full requirements of the leaving ritual (which only she knew of course) should be followed. The lifting of Daphne's white satin gown to expose her pale bottom cheeks for chastisement would not be enough on this occasion: it had to be removed.
The squeeze of Lavinia's hand on her shoulder signified a start to the proceedings. Daphne's velvet midnight-blue cloak fell to the floor, and a moment later her white satin gown slid from her shoulders and revealed her lithe, slender figure in all its youthful glory. Pale moonlight shone through the college attic skylight in the old wing, adding to the sense of the arcane. Soft shadows swayed as flickering candles illuminated the sorority's haven. A rare smile lifted Lavinia's mouth as she nodded; perfect, everything was perfect. She tilted her head, and Daphne obediently stepped out of the silken pool at her feet towards the appointed place, while her sisters, hooded, sombre and silent, splendid in their sorority cloaks, waited to play their part.
Fully nude, Daphne stretched forward over the trestle and rested her hips on the padded leather cross-beam, then without being instructed, spread her legs the required eighteen-inches. Her five-foot-four-inch frame just allowed her toes to reach the floor. She let her head drop and tightened her fingers around the support rail. At a gesture from Lavinia, Daphne's five sister companions of the sorority lined up in front of her, ready to administer their allotted two strokes each. Lavinia uttered some mumbo-jumbo mutterings from an ornate, calligraphic scroll about it being a long-lasting symbol of Daphne's bonds to their sisterhood and the vows she had made never to reveal their sorority's secrets, then she stepped back to watch.
The mousy Bridget went first. Her delicate fingers closed around the ribbon-wrapped handle, and she withdrew the soaking bundle of tightly bound, freshly cut twigs from the old umbrella stand Lavinia brought home from one of her many British Empire travels. Daphne twitched when the rods touched the centre of her backside. A trickle of cold water drew another flinch from her as it tracked down her inner thigh. Bridget's slender arm pulled slowly back, then with a half-twist of her wrist, her arm fell, carving a momentary soft hiss in the air with the birch rods, terminating in a muted thwack.
Daphne jerked in response as the rods struck home. Bridget waited while the stroke did its work, pausing as an inch-wide mottled band of pink developed on Daphne's bottom.
Bridget's slender arm extended again, resting the rods almost across the very cleft of Daphne's behind before it retraced its earlier path. The rod landed as before with a soft thwack on the intended target area. Daphne gasped as she soaked up the sting from Bridget's concluding stroke, but she remained commendably motionless.
Bridget duly observed the second witness mark develop across Daphne's behind for the requisite ten-seconds. Then, like the conclusion to a ceremonial military salute, she slowly lowered the birch rods back into the waiting receptacle and returned to her position of vigil.
Margaret, the tallest of them all, stepped forward next, distinguished not only by her near six-foot height but her wavy, flame-red hair. With her face a mask of solemnity, she withdrew the rods from their watery scabbard and ran her hand along the thirty-inch length before flicking her wrist and sending a spray of droplets flying from the springy rod tips. With the slightest of mean smiles Margaret glanced at Bridget, who immediately coloured and cast her eyes to the floor. She had neglected to do that. Lavinia would remind her of her fault in due course.
The damp, but drip-free bundle pressed against the pale, untouched area between Bridget's strokes. Margaret's arm rose higher and higher, passing the vertical until the tips of the twigs were almost pointing at the drip-splashed floorboards behind her back. She glanced at the faces of her companions, especially Gladys, whose shadowy face couldn't hide the apprehension she no doubt felt for her dear friend, Daphne. With a mischievous wiggle of her eyebrows, Margaret delivered a sweeping cut with about the same force Bridget used, landing the rods squarely between the twin, fine filigree outlines her strokes had left.
A little gasp escaped Daphne as her bottom bucked in reflex to the impact of the twigs. An impeccably observed wait followed as Margaret eyed the pink band developing between Bridget's earlier markers. Then, without the theatricals of her first stroke, she lined up the birch immediately below the lowest pink swathe, and in one smooth pendulum-like movement, delivered her final cut. The swish, thwack, and soft hiss from Daphne merged into a single chord of sound.
Lavinia watched impassively as the trestle creaked under the shifting of Daphne's gyrating hips. Yes, after four strokes, the sting would be building nicely.
Kathleen stepped forward and followed Margaret's example of flicking the rods to remove the excess water. A fine mist of cold droplets peppered Daphne's lower back, buttocks, and legs, bringing a twitch from her as the spray landed icy needles of shock on tingling birch strokes. Kathleen's smoky blue-green eyes, the colour of the Irish Sea across which her beloved homeland lay, shifted to the untouched lower-third of Daphne's bottom. Her arm gently rested the bundle across the junction of thigh and quivering bottom, leaving a glistening sheen of moisture. Smoothly, her arm pulled back and with a flick of her wrist, changed direction into a smart descent.
"Oooh!"
A brief but frantic wriggle accompanied Daphne's first exclamation of pain as Kathleen delivered a sharp, stinging stroke to her most sensitive of regions. Long seconds passed while a slightly darker pink swathe formed across Daphne's twitching rear. Just a pale, narrow band, marred only by the odd fleck from the tip of a stray twig remained untouched on Daphne's otherwise pink-filigree covered bottom. It starkly outlined where Kathleen's final stroke must surely fall. It did. The swishing hiss of the swiftly descending rod announced the imminent arrival of another flash of fiery burn across Daphne's backside.
"Ouch!"
A fine fretwork of blossoming pink birch strokes entangled their probing, stinging fingers, and merged to cover the whole of Daphne's bottom. Her hips shifted again and a louder creak came from the frame as she twisted the support rail tighter still. Lavinia's face remained inscrutable, but her eyes could not disguise the hint of an approving gleam as Daphne was halfway there now and doing well.
The creaking from the trestle ceased, and silence broken only by the low note of Daphne's heavy breathing ensued. All eyes turned to the fair-haired girl fourth in line, Daphne's beloved companion, Gladys. Acutely aware of the close scrutiny from the others, Gladys threw back her cowl, revealing a serious expression so at odds with her usual near-permanent squinting smile. She had an obligation to fulfil whether she liked it or not. Her pale hand closed around the rods, and the spray from the obligatory flick fell well away from the trestle and Daphne's pink glowing backside.
With no choice but to revisit already birched territory, she selected the least pink-flushed area. A moment later the rods rested close to the cleft of Daphne's already sensitised bottom. Gladys's pale arm rose, and the birch fell, propelled by little more force than gravity. A barely audible swish followed by the softest of thuds brought a bottom wriggle and an incongruously loud gasp from Daphne. The pink swathe crossing Daphne's bottom darkened only a hint pinker. Far less than the shade Gladys's cheeks coloured to as she caught the gleam of disapproval in Lavinia's piercing eyes from under the scarlet cowl of her cloak. Gladys swallowed then gave the rod another unnecessary flick, generating a noise louder than her actual stroke and tapped the birch just below her earlier puny effort. A creak came from the trestle as Daphne tightened her grip. Up went Gladys's arm again, swinging and falling from the vertical, only this time with added impetus.
"Owww!"
The tendons in the rear of Daphne's knees formed distinct ridges, and the creases around her eyes deepened as the birch twigs wrapped around her backside, finding unvisited spots to sting and adding a fresh spike to those already smarting. Gladys waited, watching as a noticeably darker swathe developed across her friend's bottom and a smattering of fresh pink speckles peppered her thigh. A furtive glance at Lavinia brought the slightest of approving nods. With an evident sigh of relief, Gladys lowered the birch into its watery receptacle and stepped back, her duty done.
The last in line, Doris stepped up, lowered her hood, and brushed a rogue lock from her curly fringe clear of her eye. She plucked the birch from its cooling bath in her characteristic, no-nonsense, forthright manner. Without undue fuss, she shook the rods free of excess drops and rested the birch obliquely across the twitching mottled-pink globes of her target. Seconds later the air sang with a soft swish as the rods fell and imparted a slanting blow that spanned from cleft to crown of Daphne's bottom.
"Ahhh!"
The creaks and groans from the trestle increased as Daphne's bottom gyrated that bit more frantically. Almost immediately, the air hissed and the rod fell again. Doris's smartly applied concluding stroke landed lower. A crazily slanting letter Z now traversed the earlier parallel strokes to form a hideously sore-looking pattern across Daphne's quivering rear.
"Ouch!"
Daphne's anguished yelp and frantic wriggling brought a narrowing of Lavinia's eyes and a soft wince of sympathy. Bridget must have sensed her error when she caught the wide-eyed looks on the faces of her sisters. She glanced at Lavinia to see her head tilted in an unmistakable gesture of disapproval. Doris's face dropped, and her hand shook as she lowered the rods to their watery rest. Her mistake had not gone unnoticed; another one-on-one interview with Lavinia where the price would be paid.
Daphne's ragged breathing steadied. She knew there was only one more to go now, but that one was Lavinia. She dropped her head and tightened her grip in readiness. Inevitably, Lavinia took it rather more seriously, and gave the girls a masterful demonstration of how to ready and apply the birch. The shadowy flare of her rich-vermillion cloak concealed her hand, so that the wands seemed to sway of their own accord. A deft flick of her wrist brought a flying spray of fine mist that tickled and prickled the back of Daphne's knees. The rods rested just below the lowest stroke mark: right across the very top of Daphne's quivering thighs. In contrast to the soft swish through the air of the girls' strokes, Lavinia's concluding cuts announced themselves altogether differently.
The ominous swooshing sound reached Daphne's ears a fraction before the thudding impact of the springy birch rods wrapped around her rear, biting hard and probing deep into her delicate inner thighs. She yelped loudly as the sting from that stroke brought her head up as she gave voice to her distress. Alerted now to what would surely follow, Daphne flopped back and waited in dread for the final stroke. In the flickering candlelight, the hideous multiple shadows of Lavinia's rod-wielding arm climbed higher and higher, drawing back until the birch poised well above her head. It paused for a moment, dancing in the shadows as if alive, and then swiftly, it fell.
Lavinia's final stroke landed with a hissing thud. It brought a shrill cry of anguish from Daphne, as the already smarting crease line between her bottom and thigh received a second visit from the birch, this one applied with the full force of Lavinia's arm.
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