This is what comes of spilling port on the bishop:
His Lordship walked around her, smelling her fear. “Now, my girl, you are going to be flogged. Once you have been beaten, you will then leave this room, and nothing will be said again of your disgraceful behaviour this evening. Now I fully expect that the thrashing will cause you a great deal of pain, but I must ask you to take it in silence: if you scream out, I shall simply thrash you harder and for longer. Do you understand me?”
He stopped at the table, and picked up a long, thin riding whip. The crop was about three feet long, covered in premium brown leather, and he bent it slowly in two to illustrate how whippy it would be.
“Bend over the edge of the snooker table, girl; go on, legs against it, and lean forward. And keep those hands behind your head. Tighter, much tighter.” Jo stretched herself forward, as she did so rising up almost onto tiptoe, thrusting her naked backside further into the air.
Satisfied, his Grace took three steps back. He raised his arm high above his shoulder, and danced forward, bringing the whip crashing through the air and down across Jo’s behind. It landed straight across the centre of her buttocks with a crack that sounded like gunfire; she cried out, despite her best intentions. The weal stretched across, two thin red tramlines lining a darker ridge, that hardened rapidly.
From “Made to Take Her Punishment by Abel Jenkins.