A Poetic Birching

Here from Claire is an amazingly poetic account of a birching. Gentlemen, get out your pocket knives and get cutting!

Ever curious for new sensation, I wondered if these twigs were pliant enough this late in the year to do a proper job. I needn’t have worried how to broach the subject with A., as I saw him eyeing the branches, then me, with a raised eyebrow, and realized we were already on the same page.

Two days later I was to feel the kiss of the birch for the first time. He had me lie over pillows on the bed, naked from the waist, naturally. Having no previous knowledge, I was unprepared for the paradox of sensory stimulation that followed. Birch rods (as I was to learn) are traditionally light and ineffective over clothing, unlike the cane, but their bite derives from repeated strokes over a large surface, which gradually aggravate already sensitive, scratched skin. (Though depending on the weight and length and type of wood, they are not always so light!) The heat—and pain—are at once superficial and cumulative, tantalizing, creeping up on you, just as the shrub creeps over and clings to the surface of the trellis. Thence the slowly-building, erotic effect. And the surprisingly deep, long-lasting burn.

The tangled birch is 18 canes in one, the unkempt half-sister of the Victorian carpet-beater. It is a sensual broom that sweeps lovingly over tender flesh with the claws of a kitten. If heavy enough, it delivers a thud that licks at the cheek of desire, exciting a hunger for more and harder, as the rattan cane never can, because that will sear in an instant. It is seduction in all its complexity: pleasure verging on pain, sweetness mingling with bitter after-taste, dulcamara.

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  1. Claire commented on December 22nd, 2005:

    Thanks, Dan. :-)
    And a Merry Christmas to you and Bethie too!

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