The previous episode is here.

I’ve told the preamble to Diane’s birching at some length and detail, from first meeting her to getting her home, tied naked over a bench, with a birch assembled with twigs from the local park.

I’ve been putting off telling the actual birching part of the story, because while what happens during a whipping is immensely intense as an experience, it tends to make poor literature. All too often it turns into something that looks like Victorian flagellation pornography, all onomatopoeia and exclamations.

Like this: 

“SWISH-CRACK!! – Aiyee! Arrgh! Oh it is too much!

CRISH-SWACK!! – Oh, have pity! I shall die! Oh, mercy! 

SWICK-CRASH! – Arrrh! Huuuuu!”

and so on. 

So I’ll just report that I started Diane with about a dozen strokes, and she wriggled and coloured nicely under the birch.

Though I was turned on, and though she was a wet girl when I applied the finger test, I realised that I was going to have to apply the birch much harder if I wanted to break her skin. 

So I doubled the strength of the strokes. I had been swinging the birch like a cane, but I began to use it more as a whip, with a twist of the wrist just before the impact, so that the twigs lashed across her buttocks and thighs at very high speed. After a dozen in that style, Diane was writhing in pain. She was weeping, and she wailed that it really hurt. I believed her. And I continued, just as hard.

After thirty hard strokes she was wailing more or less continuously. It wasn’t really loud enough to wake the neighbours or have the cops breaking in the door, but her howls did fill the room. I loved the way she sounded: it was similar to the noises she made when she came. 

Still, although I was enjoying myself, I had to watch her carefully. She wasn’t going to use the safeword, but I was still worried about the strokes being too hard. I prefer knowing for certain that the submissive is safe, physically and emotionally, but I couldn’t be so sure in this situation. But the truth is that as her whipping got harder I got more focussed on her safety than on the things I usually enjoy. I was less comfortable and my cock got softer.

By the time I was onto Diane’s fortieth stroke, it was clear to me that all those stories I’d read about birchings in which the blood flows like wine, and the twigs spatter about the room, were fiction. Either that, or the Victorians and the other people who wrote birching porn were absolute maniacs. I was birching Diane very hard, and though she was obviously a sore and happy girl, she wasn’t bleeding.

So I let the birch wrap round her hips and the sides of her thighs. I generally try to avoid that, because the part of any instrument that lands on the further side of the target will hit the hips or thighs at ten or twenty times the force and speed of the part of the instrument that hits buttocks or thighs directly.

Finally, after delivering a series of lashes in which I left six inches or so of the tips of the birch to slash onto the skin on the further side of her buttocks, I got a yowl from Diane, and, at last, a couple of spots of blood on her hip. One of them trickled. 

“So,” I said, as if I’d been lusting for that, “you vampires do bleed.” (I’d thought about that line. It sounded ridiculous to me, but I guessed that she’d like to hear it.) I scooped up a smear of her blood with my index finger and held it to her mouth for her to lick. She was joyous.

The act of collecting that spot of blood revealed that the cut was tiny, less than a paper cut and probably not as painful. Blood refilled the tiny gap in her skin, but didn’t well up or overflow. The trickle stopped. 

So I gave her another dozen, as hard as I could, because I knew Diane was deep in subspace, and close to coming. I got a few more scratches and a bit more blood – enough to keep Diane happy, since I threw in a lot of rhetoric about how the blood was flowing down her thighs. It wasn’t, but I didn’t let her see whether that was true or not.

When I put the birch down and gave her three fingers in her cunt, it took her about twenty seconds to her first orgasm, and that orgasm, or the series of them, went on for a couple of minutes. 

But there’s a psychological limit to how hard most people can whip another person. I’d reached mine. We’d also got close to the physical limit of what that birch could do. I’d swung it hard and fast, and  I didn’t see how that birch could land much harder. 

I had a happy vampire girl, who wanted another hard birching straight away. (I told her she didn’t deserve it.) She wanted more. Me, I’d had an interesting time and parts of it had been hot, but I wanted less.

It had been an experience and I like experience, in general. And I’d delivered something that Diane had wanted. A dom should try to deliver what a submissive wants,though we like to do it in a round-about way so she doesn’t feel in control.

But it turned out that drawing blood is one of my limits.

[The end]

The previous episode is here. 

But I didn’t pick up the birch. I took my belt off and folded it, then held it to Diane’s mouth. She kissed it, but frowned, puzzled. “To warm you up before I birch you.” 

“I’m already warm!” 

“It’s better for you. Are you in a good position to argue with me?” 

“No. Sorry.” 

I straightened up quickly and lashed the belt down, hard, onto her right thigh, on taut skin a couple of inches above the knee. It sounded like a starter’s gun, and a bright red band formed almost immediately. Diane writhed, as far as the rope would allow, and howled shrilly. The neighbours would have had to be listening to pay it much attention, but she was in good voice. If I wanted to make her serenade the whole street, she would, with just a few more strokes like that. 

“Sorry what?” 

Diane fought for breath to speak. The pain was still building. “Oh my god. Sir. Sorry, Sir. Sir. Sorry.” 

“Don’t forget it.” 

I began to strap Diane’s bottom and the plumpest part of her thighs just below the crease. I applied the belt leisurely, swinging its looped weight down onto her with an overarm stroke every twenty seconds or so. I kept the strokes hard but not as hard as the one I’d placed on her lower thigh. Diane relaxed, happy enough to be belted, while her bottom glowed pink, then red.

After twenty-five strokes she was beautifully and brightly red, her skin hot to the touch, and – when I applied the high-speed finger test to her cunt – sweetly, slickly wet. 

I smacked the belt down between her thighs, to catch meatily against her opened cunt. Diane was silent, as she had been for the other strokes to her bottom. But her mouth formed an O and she held her hips up, hoping for another. 

I stepped in front of her so she could see me smile at her, and watch me put the belt back on. “What do you say?” 

“Sir! Thank you, Sir. Thank you for, um, warming my bottom, Sir.” 

I reached down and caressed her hair, then put the fingers of my left hand into her mouth, as a reward. Diane sucked earnestly, running her tongue along each fingertip in turn. 

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“Diane.”

“Sir?”

“You ready?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“This is going to hurt you, Diane, no matter how I do it. Do you understand?”

“Of course. I am ready.” 

And she was. But still… “Okay. But if it gets too much, just say, oh, ‘Alucard’, say, and I’ll stop.” 

Diane chuckled. “‘Alucard’? That’s silly.”

“Yeah, but you’ll remember it. Say ‘Alucard’.” 

“‘Alucard’, Sir. But I’m not going to say it. I don’t need a safe word.” 

“Then it’s good that you’ve got one. Use it if you need it. That’s an order.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

“Okay. Relax your muscles. Especially on your ass. Each time I see you tense up, I’ll give you extra. On your thighs.”

“Yeah, that hurts much worse.”

“Any extras will be hard, Diane. The neighbours will hear you screaming. They’ll hear you out on the street. Now, get your head down.”

Diane sighed, and wriggled. She seemed almost comfortable. 

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And so Diane was tied. Her legs splayed like a frog’s, and her hips were pushed up by the pillows, so her cunt was well presented. I was behind her, and she could not turn her head to look back, so the finger I ran lightly, just inside her lips, was a shock to her. She was wet. 

My finger was gone before she could relax and enjoy the touch. Her hips juddered, almost imperceptibly. I was certain that she wanted to beg, to plead for me to stroke her cunt again.  But she’d learned enough to know it would do no good. I put my hand on her ass, my forefinger near her asshole. She held herself still, absolutely still, her ass up as far as she could hold it.

She was like a puppy hoping for a biscuit. She posed and waited. Hoping.

I smiled, which she couldn’t see, and smacked her bottom, twice. She held the pose. “Good girl,” I said.

Diane breathed out. Disappointed and obscurely happy not to have her own way. I felt very tender, very fond of her at that moment. It was time to birch her. 

The next episode is here.