Birch Rods and Petticoats

(Years ago when I first started to read erotica, the books I could find were the Victorian era stories done by Anonymous writers. I still love to read those stories; they have a timeless quality about them. This is in a way my tribute to those works of writers long gone but not forgotten. Even though we may not know their names.)

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In the summer of my eighth year my father took an ill humor about him that left him, in short order, without the use of his legs for the rest of his life. My mother, a weak woman by both nature and health, was ill suited to cope with the rambunctious energies of a young man-child like I was. So?

She was hired. Ms Violia.

She was a foreigner, born in the Sussex area of England and raised in a local school. She came with the highest of recommendations and a school background set firmly in the world of 'Spare the rod, Spoil the Child.'

I hated her. From the tips of her coal black hair, in it's little knot, to the tips of equally coal black shoes. I hated that woman.

And feared her.

My days of terror began on the very first day of her arrival. She talked for an hour with my Mom and Dad then came after me.

She whipped me then. Harder than I had ever been whipped in my life. She said it was to prove a point to me. That she was in charge and that she would always know when I deserved to be whipped. That I, being the type of mischievous lad I was, must have done something in the last few days to warrant a whipping.

I was pulled from my school and away from all my friends. I was locked in a room with this tyrant of a woman for eight to ten hours a day and was made to learn the most useless of things. Stuff that would never find a way or a use into a modern life.

But I learned them. Under pain of a whipping I learned them.

My reading improved, my figures, then it was languages. French, Latin, German, Italian, then finally Spanish. I though that I might just get some use out of that one at least.

I lost track of how many times I was given a lash with that birch rod cane she favored. She would use it to hit the desk by my hand to attract my attention when I started to daydream. She called such dream the waste of a man, that only truly focused thoughts were of any merit.

I began to dream then, just to spite this harridan. I dreamed of a thousand worlds across a thousand stars. I would walk in the red sands of Mars, or maybe upon the surface of the moon. I would ride horses and herd cattle in the wide open plains of the West. I would hunt lions on the Serengeti.

Anything but here, and now. The place where I would be stuck with her!

Ms Violia taught me through my younger years and then into my teens giving me a ever more exhaustive list of things that she demanded, under pain of pain, that I learn rote perfect.

Several times I tried to complain to my parents but there my words fell on deaf ears.

The last time I tried was when I was nearing the much wished for end of her teachings. I was rapidly approaching my eighteenth year. I could already hear the sounds of the bells of college calling me to a much better world than I had known.

I would be gone from her, away from this woman and her birch rods. Learning, really learning. In a place where I could talk to someone without expecting to be called an idiot. Where I could pick a book of my choosing to read not one that was picked for me and that I would then be tested on.

I hated the books she made me read. I almost lost the love of reading that I had known when I was a child. She tossed out any books that were not firmly grounded in the 'real world' as she called it. Gone were the works of Wells, Burroughs and Jules Verne. The lands I had walked in my youth were lost to me as well. Narnia, Barsoom, and my beloved Middle Earth.

Thrown into the trash. She said I had wasted my youth reading them. That I should have been learning the works of Tolstoy, and Machiavelli. The teachings of rhyme and meter from Mr. J Evans Pritchard. The poems I had loved were taken from me as well. She told me how they were merit-less drivel.

Her opinions soon gave rise too much more powerful influences in me than what she had hoped for. If she hated it... I sought it out. The more Ms Violia loathed something the more I loved it.

She was my antichrist.

Which is, I think, appropriate. Because by the time I was eighteen I was sure that was just who she was.

The winter of my eighteenth year was the worst in my life, worse by far than when she came to dominate my life.

That was the year my Father's health failed him even more. From a chair, to a bed, to a invalid unable to make his way from bed to bathroom by his own power he fell away, into a shell of a man.

Mother wilted as well. Not in heath but in self. She became like a little pale ghost that drifted around the house without purpose or passion.

Ms. Violia seemed to rise in strength and grow in power, like she was feeding off of them. Like a vampire of the soul she was draining them to nothing. Her hand grew firmer and her drive far more intensive.

I longed for the end. I could see it, I could touch it, the taste of it was almost upon my lips.

With my eighteenth year I would leave this den of torture called discipline and passionless learning. I would go back out into the world that had been taken from me. I would look upon the faces of those my own age again. I would learn their passions, their causes. I would take up some of them and make them my own.

I would LIVE again!

Then it was gone.

Father passed. With him went the money to send me to college.

But oh it would be alright I was told.

Ms. Violia had agreed to stay on and continue my education.

My birthday passed with all the flavor of the blown out candles. I felt the doors close in front of me, the walls close around me. The light faded into darkness as I drifted in place.

Myself now a ghost little better than my mother.

Father dead, Ms. Violia was now feeding on me I concluded.

The birch rod smacks the desk next to my hand. Close enough in fact that I can feel the wind of it move the fine hairs along the back.

I do no flinch; those days are long past. My eyes do not rise to her's but stop on her chin.

"Daydreaming again, William? Wasting time when you should be applying your mind to what's before you? I swear, if not for the love and promises I gave your now departed father I would leave and turn you lose into the world as you are! You would be swallowed up by it within days. Soon to be little more than a puppet under the heels of any that would drop a string around you. I've done my best to teach you over the years William but your lack of focus is a constant waste of both your time and my own. If I do not see a more prominent showing in the next hour I will teach you that the passage of but one more year under your eyes does not give you immunity from discipline! Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

I watch her walk away from my desk and back to her's. My eyes take in the long tall frame, the black hair only now showing the first strands of gray. The knot, at the back of her head, so tight it pulls wrinkles out her face!

As she turns I see the slight swell of her breast under the black jacket and crisp white shirt. She sits down with a dainty crossing of her legs, under the black skirt she wears. I wonder again what she would look like dressed in anything else.

In the ten years I've been under her heel I've never seen her in anything else.

At her stern glance I look back down at the open text before me.

She loved this story. That's what she told me when she handed me the book to read and do a review on. Her love of it spell it's doom for me the second I took it into my hands.

I feel my eyes skimming over the words not taking them in at all. I've read the same passage four times without understanding a word of it.

An hour passes this way in a second.

"DESK!"

Her voice is a harsh pop of sound. I've heard that word, said by her, it feels like a thousand times in ten years. I look up feeling a familiar tremble run through my spine.

Getting up from my desk I go to stand in front of her's. I see her moving out the corner of my eyes, Her coming around me, standing behind me. Rolling up the sleeve on her right side.

"Pants."

I cringe inwardly. It's going to be one of those. Sometimes she will whip me through my clothes. Other times...

The half moment of hesitation is answered the second my pants hit the bend of my knees. Her hand, hard as an iron bar, closes on my shoulder and I'm pushed forward over her desk.

Then that hand leaves my shoulder and I feel my underwear pulled down as well leaving my bare ass towards her.

I bite down hard on my teeth to keep from screaming as the rod connects with my skin. I know from many a lashing that she swings will all the force her tall bony body can give, till her arm grows tired. The blows land with an accuracy that tells of more than the ten years I've been her victim. I wonder then how many she has given the lash to.

Her hand pushed me further forwards and the next blow hits like a line of fire across the skin just under my testicle. That patch between hole and sack!

I cry out then, no amount of desire to remain silent could hold that hot pain in.

I hear a chuckle from her.

So little a sound, and yet...

From somewhere in the back of my brain I feel a fire given spark by that laugh. Just a little spark but it is enough to ignite a growing blaze of anger. In that blaze I feel not the last dozen blows.

"Dress yourself. Gather your books. I have a need to see to this afternoon. I want that report in the morning before I eat my breakfast or this lashing will seem mild. Do you understand?"

That hated phrase! Given after almost every statement she makes.

"Yes ma'am." by rote, by measure, by scale and writ, I answer her. I put my pants to order and angrily wipe a tear from the side of my face. I don't remember it falling but I curse it as I wipe it from memory.

I hurt far too much to eat by the time dinner is done. My scrotum feels swollen and hot. There is a burning itch under it, where the birch rod landed, that hurts too badly to touch. The ones on my lower back and ass feel the same but not as intensive. The skin there long given way to thick and dead nerves.

I lay on my bed and pick back up this hated book. This book she loved. This pile of words that have no meaning for me.

My eyes go to a passage.

"At times he regarded the wounded soldiers in an envious way. He conceived persons with torn bodies to be peculiarly happy. He wished that he, too, had a wound, a red badge of courage."

A red badge of courage?

My hands turn back the pages as I think of that. Slowly ever so slowly A feeling begins to come over me. It's liked to that bit of anger I felt earlier.

My eyes take in the first words now. My brain begins to process them. As the world of this terrified soldier come alive under my eyes I begin to feel a lessening of pain. Reading of the true horror that he sees I find in myself that I have that... lacking of courage...the same as he has.

I read into the late hours of the night. I finish it then start over again. I draw in every word

My eye sight is failing me when I stumble to the roll-up desk in my room and pen down a few scribbled words that do little justice to the awesome words that run rampant through my thoughts as sleep takes me.

"A wound... a red badge of courage." I whisper to myself as my eyes close.

I dream of thunderous cannon, screaming wounded and the sounds of men crying like babies around me as I sit shivering, in the cold misty morning air.

"Get up!"

Ms. Violia's harsh voice tears me from sleep. My eyes pop open to see her standing there next to my bed that birch rob held in her hand like a cavalry saber.

"What is the meaning of this sloth? The sun is in the sky, the morning is passing, I have eaten to break my fast and still you sleep!"

She drops the piece of paper from my desk upon the coverlet.

"And this is what I find you think is a review of one of the greatest books ever written. This?" she whacks the coverlet near my feet making me flinch them back. "Words barely readable and the most atrocious grammar I've ever seen. 'Tis a mercy that your father has passed from this world for if I brought this before him he would surely die of the shame of having a son so ignorant of the important things in life."

She strikes the coverlet again.

"On your FEET!" she shrieks.

I throw back the blanket and tumble out the bed. I'm grabbed by my arm and turned around before I can get my footings. Her hand forces my face down into the warmth of my sheets then I feel my pajama bottoms all but ripped away.

The first blow lands square on top of the red mark from last night!

The pain that goes through me is indescribable then. I feel nausea well up my throat, and then my breath leaves me to not return. A white flash crosses my vision like looking into the sun. Then a second blow she sends my way falls just to the side of the first! Hard enough to make it hurt even more so than the new one. I scream into the sheets.

I hear again that chuckle.

Like lines written in fire the meaning of the book comes to me then. A red badge of courage!

I push myself up off the bed with a roar of pain and anger that could set a lion to pause. I turn hampered but a little by my pants and grab Ms. Violia by the knot on the back of her head. With strength I did not know I possessed I drive her forward till her legs hit the side of my bed. Her face, that hated face I push down into the mattress. I snatch the birch rod from her flailing hand and then grab the back of that black skirt.

I blink at the white silk of her old fashion petticoat as I toss the skirt over her back. I pause for a half second then I send it after the skirt. Holding her with one hand and the rod with my other I catch the tops of her white cotton panties with my fingers. Tearing cloth I yank away the flimsy things. A started cry comes from her.

A woman's bare ass, I see one for the first time then, given in all it's white glorious roundness. I hear her screaming at me now, muffled by the sheets. She clearly believes I've lost my mind.

She may be right.

I land the rod across her ass with all the power of my arm. I revel in the sounds that come up from the rumpled sheet. A cry of pain and terror that I have made a hundred times in her presence she now makes in mine.

Then a second time, and a third, and then more and more and more! Blow after blow raining down in a flurry of retribution. I glance down to her ass only rarely to see the damage I've done. I listen instead to the soft whimpered cries, then the louder screams as I begin to land blows upon places already struck.

Then a sound joins the others. It a moan. A simple sound but it hits me with a power I've never felt. I see a shudder run through her legs and she easing onto the bed a bit more offering up her ass to me at a slightly different angle.

For a moment unsure I stop. Then I feel her start to struggle and I resume. Holding her even tighter I continue this storm of lashes against her upturned, now cherry red, ass cheeks.

I lack her skill so it's pure luck when the tip of the rod goes between the cheeks of her ass and strikes within an inch of where she hit myself the night before. Our bodies differ though. On her is a far more delicate place. The rod hits across the slit!

I feel a hot spray of liquid splash my bare knees, that's followed in less than a second by the loudest most gratifying mixture of sounds from her. It's a scream of pain, a cry of pleasure, and a sound like I've never heard before. A deep in the throat cry that sends a thrill through me I don't understand.

"OH FUCK YES!" she cries out.

I stop and step back from her. I look down at her twitching legs and see, for the first time in my life, the hair lined slit of a woman's sex exposed to my eyes.

Lined in a thick black fur, her lips are open and glistening wet before me. I can just make out the bottom edge of the wrinkled rose between her ass cheeks.

Ms Violia slowly slides down the side of my bed till her body turns and she sinks with a cry and a whimper to the cold wood floor under foot. I see a breathless look on her face as she stares off into space, lost in a daydream of her own it would seem.

I notice things then, in that moment of stopped time. Her hair never out of place, is a disheveled mess from my rough handling of it. The normally tight knot is hanging pulled almost lose. Her black hair has fallen forward to half cover her face. Then she looks up at me.

Seeing a slow smile come to her lips; I take a half step back.

"Umm. I've been waiting for you to do that for the last year or more." I watch her lower her hand to between her legs. She pushed back the black skirt and white petticoat uncaring what she shows me of the secrets of a woman's body. I watch unable to look away as she slides a finger into herself. She gives a little sucking in of air at the touch then a second smile. I see her eyes drop to my waist and stay there.

I look down and find myself in a state of total rampant hardness. My cock has my pajama top tented out before me, with a dark wet spot forming in the cloth where the tip is touching it.

"Come her my lovely William." She says to me then. Her voice has softness to it I've never heard before. "You've learned well. I have a treat for you."

Her words are a breathy whisper. I move forward with a slow sense of caution. Hold the birch rod at my side, should she move to attack me, I realize at a glance though that it's a useless weapon. I've split it down half it's length with the furry of my beating her.

Ms. Violia slowly, with many a winces, rises to her knees in front of me then settle back till she is sitting on her heels and calves.

"Come here, William." she says when I stop just out of her reach. She smiles up at me then. A look I didn't know her face could make I see then a beauty to her that tells of a different looking woman. A woman I've never seen. "I will not hurt you, not ever again. I have other lessons for you to learn now."

When I step closer to her I stop at her sudden movement. Then I watch in wonder as she begins to undo the buttons of my nightshirt. When the last one is opened she pushes it back till it falls off my shoulder and slips to the floor.

I stand in brazen glory before her my cock twitching and the tip wet with a need that I have no control over. My eyes go wide when I see her lean forwards and take a lick. My mouth drops open in wonder when hers opens and she take in the whole of my cock head.

"Oh my God." I say in a soft whisper when I feel her tongue moving across the head of me.

Oh how to describe what this feels like? Might as well try to explain breathing air to a fish, I lack the words to tell how wonderful it feels. The warmth, the suction, the tight slick feeling of her mouth as she slides more of me into her. Then the hot breathy feeling of her trying to breath with my cock filling her mouth.

I drop the birch rod from slack fingers. It hits the floor next to her with a clatter and rolls away to by the bedpost unnoticed by us. My hands come to rest on her head by their own will. I feel her hair moving like a soft silk under my fingers as she bobs her head on me give me the hottest and most wonderful feeling I've ever known.

I 'm moaning continuously now. She has me deep in her mouth and there's a tightness of her lips around the base of me, the lashing of her tongue against my skin is beyond description. It's an agony of pleasure.

Her hands come around to clutch at my bare ass cheeks pulling me to her, driving myself deeper into her mouth. I flinch when her fingers find one of the, hot as a brand, lashes she gave me.