The Beautiful Flagellants of Chicago by Lord Drialys

Excerpt: The Beautiful Flagellants of Chicago

Chapter I

I  KNEW that voluptuous flagellation flourished in North America, but I had no idea of the delightful way in which it was practised. From the standpoint of charm and poetical feeling, there are in that country exceptional opportunities for amateurs of birching discipline.

I made a two months’ trip through the United States during the spring of 1905. My delightful journey was one long triumphal march, as far as entrancing whipping pleasure is concerned. From my boyhood’s days, I have been a fervent worshipper of birching, and I found fresh surprises in every town of the vast continent, while I was continually marveling at the beauty and enthralling charm of the divine priestesses of love who preside over the alter of the birch.

America is the promised land of flagellation. On every tree grow supple twigs, used daily in schools. Floggings are frequent in families, where children as well as adults are severely corrected.

When President MacKinley spoke of the Cuban war, he used a typical expression. “We don’t want to exterminate the Spaniards,” he said, “our sole desire is to give them a good birching.”

That word “birching,” crops up in every conversation, and is to be found in newspapers, stories, and songs. Teachers flog; the whip is wielded in houses of correction; the cowhide is an instrument of revenge; the free citizen of Columbia is birched for health’s sake, or he submits to a thrashing because he likes it.

I had been two days at Chicago, when some advertisements in the daily papers attracted my attention by their enigmatical phrasing:

“Miss Nelly speciality massage, from noon to 9 p.m.”

“Miss Florence, severe disciplinary treatment, 10 a.m. to 10 p.m.”

“Miss Clara, scientific massage, from 9 a.m. to 10 p.m.”

These announcements puzzled me not a little, but I called to mind something similar in the Parisian Press, relating to “English educational methods for unruly pupils.”

Such appeals to public curiosity are made by charming cocottes who birch their adorers with fierce voluptuousness. I had often worshipped at their shrines in the Gay City, being as I have said, a fervent lover of lascivious lashing sport.

When very young, I had an adventure that caused this passion to arise in my being, and as I grew up, my longing for the rod greatly increased. No doubt the seed fell on a soil already well prepared, for as far back as I can remember, corporal punishment exercised a peculiar dominating influence on my disposition.

Belonging to a family of Scotch origin, in which the tradition of birching discipline had always been maintained I was soon acquainted with the furious, mystic caress of the supple twigs. Every time I was punished by a full dose, the tickle-toby being applied with a firm hand by my harsh governess, I fell under the spell of a strange sensation which I could hardly define. It possessed a certain pleasurable charm, and soon I sought, not to avoid my penance, but to provoke it, especially when my nerves, strung to the highest pitch, seemed to clamour for the beneficent shower of cuts.

When I was twelve years of age, there came a change in the organisation of our household, and I was no longer whipped.

As a consequence of this enforced calm and repose, I had almost forgotten my weird and agreeable feelings under the birch, when a couple years later, an incident took place which enslaved me body and soul to the extraordinary, besetting passion of flagellation.

My parents thought it would be good for me to pass my holidays in England, so as to enable me to speak the language of Shakespeare better than I could by learning it at school in Paris. I was sent to stop with a family of friends who lived in a pretty cottage at Richmond, not far from the celebrated park.

I was cordially welcomed by the mistress of the house, a young widow about thirty-five. Her name was Mrs. Smythe, and she had two charming daughters, fifteen and thirteen years of age, and a little boy of ten.

I soon noticed that my hostess ruled her tiny army with great rigour. The slightest fault was punished by birching.

When, in an adjacent room, I heard the noise of the rod brushing tender flesh, and the cries of my tiny playmates, my blood boiled. I was over-whelmed by a strong emotional feeling.

These corrections were generally inflicted in the bath-room, where a stock of fine, sturdy rods was always kept soaking in a pail, in order to that they might remain lithe and supple. When I was left alone in this room, shut in while I performed my ablutions, I could not refrain from touching the bundles of birch, old friends of mine by whom I was now abandoned. As I stepped naked out of the water in the morning, seeing them dripping on a chair, I often tried to calm my craving by dealing myself a few stingers, but I regretted not being able to hit hard for fear the noise should be overheard.

When I left the bath-room, I would put the rods back in the water, never daring to think that one day the hand of the charming lady of the house would brandish them relentlessly over my loins.

This impossible dream, filling me simultaneously with joy and terror, was however soon realised. I perceived that I was no more exempt from the ardent touch of the bath-room birch than was sweet Maud, the handsome and fair fifteen-year-old girlie, delicious Lizzie, her auburn sister, just thirteen, or sprightly Master Bob, only ten.

I made Lizzie accompany me to the end of the garden, to help me to demolish an ant-hill I had discovered. The little insects scampered away in all directions, much to our joint amusement, and they lost no time crawling up Lizzie’s legs, as she squatted near the scene of mischievous eviction. She jumped up, shaking her short skirts and shrieking.

To quiet her and help her to get rid of the ants, I led her to the neighbouring summer-house. I was overjoyed at this lucky accident, allowing me an excuse to explore the undergarments of the handsome hoyden whose naked calves were extremely alluring to my young senses. I was not long before pulling off her tiny white linen knickers, and as I ran my eye over her delicate rosy limbs, and plump, round posterior, my budding, boyish passions rose to fever heat. With joy my hands smoothed her satin skin. Maddened by this unknown rapture, I fastened my burning lips to a divine mysterious cleft I had never seen before.

I should have liked to prolong this exquisite kiss of the pink grotto of her sex, shaded with slight silky down, and have licked her all over indefinitely. It was all so novel for me! Lizzie liked it too. But I felt myself violently tugged at from behind. A hand pulled my long curly hair. I tumbled over on my back, and saw Mrs. Smythe standing erect over me.

She was trembling with rage, and as I sprang up to my feet, gave me two stout slaps in the face, nearly knocking my little head off. I saw a shower of sparks. She then turned to Lizzie and dealt her a similar brace of smacks; afterward driving us both brutally before her into the house.

Without another word, I was at once bundled into an empty room. The door was locked, and I was left for an hour to reflect upon my dreadful plight. I may was well confess at once that I felt no remorse. On the contrary, I was delighted at my discovery. I could think of nothing but the image of the radiant slit, so miraculously revealed. The veil of my youthful cecity concerning sexual differences was lifted at last. Mentally, I compared feminine and masculine bodies and I was pleased to mark that God must be a lusty lover and a delicate artist to have formed the secret cranny of the fair sex like the calyx of a flower. I made a vow to devote myself fanatically to the worship of the mystic blossom and adore it fervently as long as I lived.

Excerpt From: Lord Drialys. “The Beautiful Flagellants of Chicago.”