Twenty odd years ago I remember reading a fascinating birching story, which a friend of mine (not suspecting my interest in CP) showed me. I wish I had kept it, but unfortunately I didn't. Some of the details I will have to invent, but the main outline (based on a true story) has stayed in my mind.
Back in the nineteenth century in English schools where the birch was still the favoured means of disciplining boys, a young man of eighteen - we'll call him Charles - was drawing to the end of his schooldays. In fact, the very next day he would leave school for ever. Now it was strictly against school rules for pupils to frequent the town, especially the taverns, after 7pm. Charles and a group of his classmates decided the rules could hardly apply to the upper sixth on their penultimate day of school. This was an evening to celebrate! So they all slipped out of school in the late afternoon and crowded into the Fox and Hounds for a few pints. At that time there was no 'legal age' for drinking and besides most of the pupils had attained their eighteenth birthday, so nowadays they would be reckoned as adults. But it was against the school rules and unfortunately for them they were spotted by one of the teachers and reported to the headmaster.
The following morning they were all summoned to appear before the head at noon, bringing with them a birch-rod. Boys at that school who were due for a thrashing were expected to go to the birch trees, which grew abundantly on the school grounds, and cut off some good fresh pliable twigs, which they had to bind together to form a suitable implement of chastisement, and woe betide them if it was not up to the proper quality! Charles' friends were dismayed that the school rules were being applied to them so rigidly, but they realised the headmaster was an absolute stickler for law and order, so there was nothing for it but to appear meekly before him at noon with their birch-rods in hand. All of them, except Charles, were duly birched - 12 lashes on the bare buttocks - in front of their whole class as a warning that school discipline applied to the very end of a boy's schooldays with no exceptions or relaxations.
Charles, however, could not bring himself to turn up outside the headmaster's study at noon, birch in hand. After all, he was a strapping young man of eighteen, who had just won a commission in a first-rate cavalry regiment. He was not going to demean himself by submitting to a schoolboy's punishment. However, he had not understood the consequences of his disobedience. The names of many of the boys in his class, including the ones who had just been birched, were to be inscribed on the roll of honour, together with their achievements. Some had won places at university, others would enter military regiments or other prestigious establishments. Charles assumed his name would be included, but later that week, after he had returned home, he received a letter from the headmaster explaining that, due to his disobedience, it was not thought appropriate to include his name on the roll of honour. Charles at first tried to laugh this off, but the disgrace he felt became more and more acute. In the end he set off on the journey back to school to submit his apology to the headmaster. Alas, when he arrived, he was told that he had just missed the headmaster, who had set off the day before to have a holiday in France and was not expected back until next term - by which time it would not be possible to include Charles' name on the roll of honour as boys' names were listed alphabetically by year and the roll would have been updated by that time.
Charles was devastated, but determined to do all he could to ensure his name was included on the roll. He rushed to the school grounds and made three stout birch-rods, using only the best twigs, and binding each one together with string. He then returned home, wrapped the rods in rags soaked in vinegar and salt water and bundled them, together with a few spare clothes and toiletries etc, into an enormous case. He then hurried to the local railway station and caught the next train to London, where he boarded the next express to Dover, crossed the channel, got on another train at Calais and headed for the place he was told the headmaster was staying. He reached the hotel late the next morning, having barely slept a wink on the train, but discovered he had missed the headmaster by a few hours. Fortunately one of the guests at the hotel knew where the headmaster was heading for - the Hotel des Anglais in Nice. Charles boarded the next train for Nice, headed straight for the hotel and arrived in the evening a few hours after the headmaster.
In fact just as Charles was checking in at the hotel reception, the headmaster came down the stairs for dinner. Poor Charles was in such a dishevelled state after his journey, he was initially a bit hesitant about going up to him. Fortunately the headmaster caught sight of him and came over to the reception desk.
"What on earth are you doing here, dear boy?" he said in astonishment.
"Please, sir, I have come to beg your forgiveness for not coming like the other boys in my form to be punished for going to the tavern. I sincerely regret my insolent, disobedient behaviour and I humbly beseech you, sir, to punish me now. I have the necessary implements for my chastisement. I know it is a great inconvenience, but if you would be so kind as to deal with me after dinner, I would be eternally grateful."
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure. This is truly an outstanding example of integrity and I would be most happy to wipe the slate clean, as it were. Won't you please join me for dinner first, though?"
Throughout the dinner the headmaster spoke to Charles as if to an equal and enquired with great interest about the cavalry regiment he was joining. No one looking at them engrossed in conversation would have guessed what was going to happen after dinner. They could have been father and son or uncle and nephew. After dinner the headmaster went back to his room with Charles and poured a couple of brandies, while Charles went to fetch the three birch-rods he had prepared.
"These are absolute corkers, my boy. You're certainly going to feel these! It's - er - twelve cuts, I believe."
"That is what the others got, sir. But my offence is compounded by my disobedience and the inconvenience to which I have subjected you. Forgive my impudence, sir, but would you do me the honour of giving me a couple of dozen?"
"Splendid, my dear fellow! Just bend over that sofa over there."
So Charles stripped off his trousers and underwear, pulled back his shirt and presented a pair of athletic, well-honed buttocks. The headmaster did a few practice strokes with each of the three rods, murmuring with approval at their quality, and then set to his task in earnest, delivering each stroke with consummate skill and with full force, and since he was a strong muscular man in his early forties, used to thrashing boys practically every day, that was a not inconsiderable force. In turn he shredded each of the birch-rods and twigs flew off in all directions. Charles buttocks turned an increasingly deeper shade of red and some purple patches developed. Finally the skin was broken in several places and by the twentieth stroke blood started to trickle down his thighs. It was midsummer and all the hotel windows were open. Many were sitting out on their balconies, chatting over drinks. There must have been many a look of puzzlement on the faces of the guests as the fearsome swish of those birch strokes and the thud of them on youthful buttocks - not to mention the occasional gasp of pain - wafted through the French windows of the headmaster's hotel room into the warm evening air. As soon as the punishment was over Charles dabbed his bleeding buttocks and put a dressing on the cuts, then pulled up his underwear and trousers and sat down very slowly and carefully in an armchair. The headmaster then offered him a brandy and cigar and they spent the rest of the evening on the balcony in conversation. The birching was never referred to again. As far as the headmaster was concerned, Charles had brought his schoolboy period to a proper conclusion and was now a young adult.
Next morning the headmaster sent a telegram to the school, giving instructions to include Charles' name on the roll of honour. Meanwhile, Charles, with buttocks aching and tender from his birching but also with enormous relief that he had "done the right thing", set off home again, arriving with barely a minute to spare at his cavalry regiment's headquarters.