Never alone

We're at that end of the summer when life gets to be just about unbearable. Since about the time of my last post the house has been full most of the time and for me any sort of play is way off the agenda; even thinking about TTWD is a no-go area.
Younger daughter is around all the time as her friends are away on holiday. Older daughter is back from university and has her boyfriend here - I suggest trips, but they seem to want to do nothing but lay about watching TV all day.
To make mattesr worse, me and SO had a blazing row a few days ago and it has never really been resolved. A lot of it was down to my brattiness and under normal circumstances it would be sorted out in the bedroom with The Hairbrush playing its UN Peacekeeping role.
However, doing just a little bit of darkside blog visiting last night I came across a post at A Voice in the Corner that set my nerve-endings a-flicker like the bulbs in a string of faulty Christmas lights. I'm not sure if I totally believe the story of Bristol's Victorian disciplinary B&B, but it had my imagination heading off in all sorts of directions.

At £100 a year a stay with Mrs Smith sounds like excellent value for money, and I like the sound of the ethos of her establishment. I can recognise my own failings in Mrs Smith's opinion that "some girls are idle constitutionally, this must be cured; others have a superfluous amount of energy, this needs to be well directed".

I manage to idle and to have too much energy at the same time. I'm sure Mrs Smith's birch would have straightened me out. If she were still in business I'd be tempted to book myself in - at least until term-time starts again and private time is an option once again. 

More thoughts on the birch

Itching for take two on the birch discipline drama after yesterday's fiasco. At the next available opportunity I'm going to have another go, but with something other than willow - hazel maybe - and with more and bigger sticks.

Smaller birch, or bigger target?

Big and bushy is going to be the order of the day. I'm tempted to go out and find a birch tree and give it a pruning, but I'm not sure how I'd explain it if I bumped into a neighbour on the way home. Nice weather... yes, very springlike... these, oh - bit of interior design on a woodland theme... oh damn it, I'll come clean, I've been very, very naughty and am going to be thrashed until I squeal for mercy...

The birch - and branching out

It seemed like a good idea. Not a birch, more a birchette or a maybe a birchling. With Significant Other not at work and the kids out and about the opportunity was there for a bit of play.
Spring is already in the air here and I'd been out in the garden and what does a spanko's fancy turn to around growing things? Whippy switches, of course, and that leading character in any classic Victorian erotic yarn, Miss Birch.

So I looked out the secateurs and got snipping. Sadly no actual birch in our garden (note to head gardener - please rectify this oversight) so I thought I'd try willow instead.
And I wasn't in the mood for anything too Gothic, so I went for delicate little foot-long twigs.
Bound together with a couple of elastic bands it made the sort of pretty little rod that a Victorian nanny might have put to good use, rather than an avenging paterfamilias, but was something we could 'work' with.
I thought of adding a ribbon, but didn't want to waste precious time.What I had in mind was recreating a bit of 'A Week in the Country', or something rather like it. Not exactly this, but this kind of thing:

'You’re a wicked girl and this time I’ll make sure you get the lesson you so richly deserve, she says, bringing the birch down with all her strength. The twigs hiss through the air to lash across bumcheeks that flinch in anticipation of the impact. The rod whips back to shoulder height then falls again as the mistress settles into a steady, remorseless rhythm. After keeping her peace for the first dozen the maid lets out a squeal of distress at each of the punishing blows that follow.'

Didn't quite work out that way sadly. SO did indignant really well, while I protested my innocence and begged for mercy. But the birchette, birchling or whatever was a serious disappointment. Three of the twigs snapped on the first stroke and the whole thing promptly imploded.
And our moment imploded too - into giggling. Ruined the mood. Won't bother with willow next time.

Kissing the hand

Should you kiss the hand that spanks? As an act of submission kissing the birchrod is a very powerful bit of symbolism in Victorian fiction, isn't it? Not sure what it's all about. Shakespeare uses it a couple of times in plays, but it's older than that. Presumably it's bound up with all that "don't bite the hand that feeds" stuff and seems to have quite a powerful hold over religious thinkers. I suppose the thinking was that the hand that feeds can also chastise.

Apparently the first in-print use of "don't bite the hand that feeds" was by the 18th Irish-born brainbox Edmund Burke - "having looked to government for bread, on the very first scarcity they will turn and bite the hand that fed them". But I would guess he was using a phrase that was in common usage. Didn't medieval lords have to kiss the monarch's ring?

For the spanko it probably makes sense to keep on the right side of your spanker. It's tough out their and you never know where your next "meal" is coming from, do you?

Some confusion, surely?

From personal expereince I can say that the birch is a CP implement that has its problems, but I'm pretty sure something is wrong here. Madam, I think you're in danger of missing the point. Another little gem discovered at my current pash, Wickedknickers. At some time in the future I'm planning a 'Week in the Country II' to give my favourite heroine Flick new life and I think this pic could be the inspiration for a scene.

As good as it gets?

For atmosphere? It has to be the work of Louis Malteste. His creations draw me in in a way that nobody else's manage to do. I can look at those drawings time and again and never be quite sure of the story behind each one.
I know most (all?) were book illustrations, so presumably he was making pictures to match the stories he was given.  A job of work that he did with real aplomb.
But I like to look at thepictures as stand-alone images without that baggage and love weaving my own little daydreams around them. It is something to do when you're on the train to work.
Here's one for Monday morning. Not sure what's going on here. It's clear she's going to get what's coming. Those pretty drawers are going to be around her knees and the birch on the chair is going to get used. But why are the flapper girls getting to watch? And is that a playful pat on the bottom. or a slap?