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| Transcriber’s Note |
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| THIS BOOK IS PORNOGRAPHIC IN NATURE |
| AND CONTAINS EXPLICIT LANGUAGE. |
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THE
Convent School,
OR
EARLY EXPERIENCES
OF
A YOUNG FLAGELLANT.
BY ROSA BELINDA COOTE.
LONDON:
PRIVATELY PRINTED.
1898.
[Decoration]
Salomon said, in accents mild,
Spare the rod and spoil the child;
Be they man or be they maid,
Whip and wallop ’em, Salomon said
The dicta of the Wise Man concerning discipline have been the source
of inexpressible dolour to children for very many centuries; and it
has only been within the last sixty years that ferocity in the
treatment of infants (I am speaking of English children, Jean Jacques
Rousseau shamed the French out of the practice of beating their
offspring, nearly a hundred years ago) has been gradually diminishing.
In the eighteenth century the lot of the British juvenile was
certainly a cruel one That admirable woman, the mother of the
Wesleys, held that a child should be made to desist from crying and to
“fear the rod” at the mature age of twelve months; and Miss Maria
Semple, writing on education in 1812, tells a story of a lady who was
educated in early years by a relative. “On a certain day in every week
she received corporal chastisement. If she had committed faults, ‘the
punishment was due;’ if she had not, she probably would in the week
ensuing. At the distance of more than half-a-century, the memory of
this person, who bore a public character of piety and virtue, was
spoken of, and justly, with aversion by the person she had thus
treated.” Thus Miss Maria Semple.—“G. A. S.,” in the _Illustrated
London News_.
INTRODUCTORY LETTER OF THE AUTHORESS.
My Dear Nellie,—
Since writing you my confessions, in that series of letters which you
flattered me by calling “most interesting facts, and deliciously
voluptuous reading for lovers of the rod,” the following curious
narrative has been entrusted to my confidential keeping by a young
Countess of my acquaintance; but as there are no secrets between us,
and I think it may afford some little pleasure in the perusal, I
hasten to copy it out for you, from notes which I made day by day at
the bedside of the dear young creature, as she told the particulars to
me, at my visits during her long and painful illness, now, I am
afraid, close upon a fatal termination; and you may guess how grieved
I am to think that, although I now reserve her name as a secret, too
solemn to be entrusted, even to you, the stillness of the grave will
soon do away with all necessity for such reticence. Should my
confessions ever be printed after our time, this tale certainly ought
to bear them company, either as prefix or addenda.
Believe me, dear Nellie,
Your ever affectionate friend,
Rosa Belinda Coote.
London, 10th January, 1825.
[Decoration]
THE CONVENT SCHOOL,
OR
EARLY EXPERIENCES
OF
A YOUNG FLAGELLANT
Chapter I
_The Early Life of Lucille_
Since, dear Rosie, you are so interested to hear my birching and
whipping experiences, I will try to recollect them as well as
possible, but hope you will consider my weak state of health, and not
press me to tell you too much at once.
Perhaps you do not know that almost from my infancy it was arranged
that I should marry the Earl of Ellington, who was about twelve years
my senior, being a family compact of a purely mercenary character,
designed to consolidate some very doubtful title deeds, which now that
our union has proved unfruitful, are likely to entail great expense
and annoyance to our heirs-at-law.
My father, you know, was the Honourable Mr. Warton, and my mother died
in giving birth to myself, so that I was brought up under a nurse, and
afterwards, when about seven years old, a young lady was engaged as
governess to instil my juvenile mind with the rudiments of learning,
preparatory to being sent to a finishing school.
This lady’s name was Miss Birch, and although my papa had known her
father, Dr. Birch, for some years, I now believe that the fascination
of her name had great influence with him in making a selection from
the numerous, and in many instances more eligible ladies, who applied
for the situation.
Miss Birch was a dark lady about thirty years of age when she entered
our family, very good-looking, rather large pouting mouth, set off
with lovely rows of most pearly white teeth, which, when she smiled or
said much showed to beautiful effect in contrast to her rather swarthy
complexion, dark brown eyes, and thick bushy black arching eyebrows,
her figure was well moulded and plump, and being about five feet six,
she had quite a commanding presence.
I was nearly eight years old before I began to notice the significant
looks which occasionally passed between papa and governess, but hints
were so often thrown out about the necessity of procuring a good birch
rod for the naughty bottom of Lucille, that I was gradually awakened
to the discovery of some most mysterious kind of understanding which
must subsist between them. My infant brain was much puzzled and
alarmed, as I already felt in imagination the tingling smart of the
green twigs I so much dreaded.
Miss Birch seemed more exacting and severe over my lessons, especially
when papa happened to be in the schoolroom, and now I will tell you my
first experience of the rod.
One day after failing both in spelling and arithmetic she rang the
bell, and ordered the servant to request Mr. Warton’s presence in the
schoolroom for a few minutes. Papa entered with a very serious look,
requesting Miss Birch to inform him of the cause of sending for him.
“Mr. Warton,” said my governess, “you know we have had many serious
conversations about the necessity for proper correction in case Miss
Lucille should continue so inattentive to her studies, to-day she has
failed in everything, and I am certain that unless her energies are
sharpened up by the stinging smart of the rod she will go from bad to
worse; I am so averse to wield the birch myself, and would much
prefer that her papa should take in hand the serious whipping she
ought to have.”
Papa.—“Lucille, you hear what Miss Birch says, (I noticed him cast
most excited and amorous looks towards the governess as he spoke), she
has been most forbearing with you, and interceded with me many times
to save your bottom, and even now cannot bring herself to lift her own
hand to make you smart a little; it must indeed be a serious fault to
induce her to ask me to use the rod, but, ‘Spare the rod and spoil the
child,’ has always been a maxim with me; lay her across your lap, Miss
Birch, and pull up her clothes, whilst I get the rod out of the table
drawer.”
Miss Birch, with heaving bosom, and quite a deep blush upon her
face.—“I feel as ashamed at baring her naughty posteriors as if I was
going to suffer the degradation and humiliation myself, but come,
Lucille dear, you must bear it, and I hope you will be a better and
more diligent girl in future.” Then catching me by the wrist, as I
stood by her side covered with confusion, she tried to lay me across
her knees, but I struggled and screamed, “No! No!! No!!! I won’t be
whipped! Oh! Oh!! dear papa, do forgive me this time!” my face quite
crimson and streaming with tears.
Papa, having got out the rod, a fine switch of long thin birch twigs,
tied up with velvet and silk ribbons at the handle,—“Come! Come!!
Lucille, this resistance will only make it worse for you.” As he
seized and threw me on the governess’s lap, Miss Birch securing my
head well under her left arm, speedily pulled up dress and skirts,
till my fat little bottom was exposed in a tight fitting pair of
drawers, my legs being left to kick about, although I was quite firmly
secured, and to all intents quite helpless, and my toes could scarcely
touch the ground.
I could hear papa whisking the birch about, and then he said, “That
will do famously, Miss Birch, keep her head and shoulders well down as
you hold up her skirts; much as I pity my darling little Lucille, I
must do my duty and make her smart for her idleness in school.”
My face was burning hot with the deep blushes of shame, and I
struggled desperately to free my head from the vice-like pressure of
Miss Birch’s arm, as I begged with piteous sobs to be let off for this
once. “Oh! dear papa! Oh! pray don’t beat me!”
Papa.—“Indeed, I must, though every blow will send a pang to my own
heart, you naughty, bad, inattentive girl, all this has come by your
great idleness, and trusting too much to the kind heart of your
governess.” As he said this, three sharp stinging cuts whacked on my
tight-fitting drawers in quick succession.
The pain was intense, I kicked, writhed and screamed for “Mercy!
Mercy! Oh! Oh!! I will be good! Oh! Papa! Oh, Miss Birch, do let me
go!”
Papa, in quite an excited tone, (for I could see nothing), “So you
mean to be good in future! Do you feel the birch is doing you good
already? Ha! ha!! my little Lucille, you must have a little more yet
to make a perfect cure of your idleness.” Whack—whack—whack—whack—four
more cuts, each one more agonizing than the last, in spite of my
sobbing and screaming. “Now, Miss Birch,” he continued, “let her feel
it on the bare flesh, open her drawers so we can see the effects of
the cuts.”
This was at once done, as I cried, “Ah! Ah!! No! No!! Oh, Papa! How
cruel!”
Papa.—“What a sight. The rod has made her bottom blush finely. It’s
best to make her feel sore a few days, or she will soon forget it, and
relapse into her old ways.”
The drawers were unbuttoned, and I could feel they were quite pulled
down my thighs, exposing the entire surface of my smarting rump, but
I had only a few moments for reflection before the blows fell again in
rapid succession, cutting, tearing, and scratching the skin, whilst
the boiling blood in my veins seemed to throb as if it must spurt
through the pores at every burning touch of the rod.
My head was pressed against the tumultuously heaving bosom of my
governess, and notwithstanding the intensity of my suffering, I could
plainly hear the beating of her heart, and knew that her thighs were
tightly compressed together, whilst a strange tremor pervaded her
entire frame.
“There, there, that will do,” said Papa, in a very excited tone. “I’ve
drawn the blood for her. Now, Miss Dunce, kneel and kiss the rod, and
ask your kind governess to forgive you.”
I slipped down on my knees, and hiding my face in my hands in her lap,
promised Miss Birch “if she would forgive me now, to be a better girl
in future.”
“That will do. I don’t want to be too hard upon Lucille this time. We
will leave her to think over her disgrace and shame, and let her
beware of the birch again,” said Papa, taking Miss Birch’s hand, to
lead her from the room. “This has been a most agitating scene for your
governess, who must repose in her private room for a while to recover
herself.”
The schoolroom door, which opened directly into her private room, was
closed upon me, and the key turned in the lock, but all my hurts and
bruises were insufficient to distract my attention from the peculiarly
warm and excited glances which passed from papa towards my governess,
whose face was suffused with blushes, and her eyes turned down, as if
afraid to meet his ardent looks as they passed from the room.
My curiosity was excited so much, that I listened at the keyhole. Papa
was evidently remaining in the governess’s room. I could hear a
rustling of her dress, as if some little struggle was taking place; a
sound of smothered kisses, and soft expostulatory ejaculations, such
as, “I dare not! Oh! No! No!! Not now! Pray leave me! Oh! Oh!!” Then
an almost perfect quiet, except for a slight rustling sound, and, now
and then, broken sighs with heavy breathing.
At last all was quiet, and having now been left more than half-an-hour
to myself in the schoolroom, I ventured to tap at the door and beg
Miss Birch to let me into her room, as I would never, never, offend
again.
After a very slight delay, the door was unlocked, and my governess
received me with expressions of great tenderness, kissed her poor
Lucille, and hoped my poor bottom was not too sore. Her eyes were
melting with what I should now call a soft voluptuous languor, and
scintillated with extraordinary brilliancy, all of which set my young
ideas in a flutter of wonderment, as to the extraordinary cause of her
prolonged emotion.
Things went on pretty smoothly for some time, but I found it quite
impossible to avoid coming under the rod every now and then, the
chastisement getting more severe on every fresh occasion.
Papa always had to handle the twigs, and when I began to get older,
Miss Birch would tie me up and leave the room, as she pretended to be
quite unable to bear the scene. Still papa would always go into her
sanctum at the conclusion of my whipping, to talk the matter over with
my governess.
I will tell you of a fearful birching, the last I had before being
sent to the Convent School; it does not matter what the fault was, but
it must have been something very serious. Papa and Miss Birch both
helped to tie me up on a four poster bed in my own room. I was
stripped of every thing but my skirts and drawers, which were all
secured and arranged so as to expose my back parts in the best
possible manner for whipping. My hands were tied to the bed post high
above my head, and making me kneel on the bed, one leg was secured at
the knee to the same post, my other leg being left free to kick about.
Miss Birch vanished, and papa arming himself with a formidable rood,
elegantly trimmed as usual, began by lecturing me on my fault.
“You impudent girl, I can scarcely believe it of you, Lucille, now you
are just upon twelve, but this is the last whipping you will get at my
hands, and I promise you it shall be a sound one, and then I’ll pack
you off to the convent, with instructions to the sisters to be very
strict in looking after you.”
“Oh! Oh!! Papa,” I implored, “Have mercy, don’t be so severe, indeed I
won’t do it again!”
“Hold your tongue, Miss,” he said, impatiently, “you always cry before
you are hurt, but you shall remember this whipping as long as you
live;” giving me a slashing cut round my loins, then another, and
another on each cheek of my buttocks, “how do you like it, you bad
girl! will you turn over a new leaf when you leave home? Will you?
Will your? Will you? Will you?” Each question being accompanied by a
terrific smarter; the blows seemed to cut like a red hot knife, and my
boiling blood tingled from the tips of my fingers to the ends of my
toes. I could feel great burning bursting weals rising on my skin at
every cut; I screamed and plunged till the bed-post creaked with the
strain, and my wrists and knee were quite pained by the tight
ligatures by which they were secured.
“Let this be a solemn warning to you, Miss Lucille,” he continued,
“but I’m afraid all my efforts for your reformation are quite thrown
away upon such a worthless baggage,” cutting away still more
furiously, and as I turned my head to scream and implore for mercy, I
could see how excited he was over the business with flushed face and
sparkling eyes; he was a fine handsome man of about forty-five, and
gave me the idea of looking as if in the midst of a tremendous battle.
Anything but a bloodless battle for me; my bottom was soon dripping
with the ruby drops of my young blood, the sight of which seemed only
to exasperate him still more.
“Ah! You little wretch. Scream away!” he exclaimed. “It’s a beautiful
sight to see you writhing and plunging under every scathing cut. May
it do you good, and draw the imprudence out of your tail. Will you?
Will you, try and behave better, or shall I send you off to the
convent at once, in their holiday time? There! There!! There!!!”
He finished with three tremendous cuts, without waiting for my reply,
and sank back, gasping for breath, into an easy chair.
It was quite a minute or two before my screams and moans of agony
subsided. Then Miss Birch coming in, released my hands and leg, an
ordering me to rest on the bed for a while, retired with my father
locking the door behind them.
The smarting sensation now turned to a delicious voluptuous warmth, as
I lay under the bed clothes. My right hand was passed all over the
glowing surface of my buttocks, and seemed at last, quite unwittingly
to settle itself on my hairless little cunny. I turned on my belly
with my hand still under me, and wriggling myself about, as I lay
thinking over all the cuts I had received, gradually found a most
pleasing sensation from the rubbing of my hand and the two forefingers
mechanically worked into the slit, squeezing my legs together, I
rubbed on to increase the pleasurable emotions which I felt driving me
to strive and obtain, I knew not what. The frenzy now threw me into
such a state of excitement that my fingers were plunged as far as
possible up my virgin cunny, as I gasped, writhed, and tossed my
bottom up and down. The crisis came at last, and my furious efforts
were rewarded by a most heavenly emission; my soul seemed to flow from
me at the moment, and left me in a delightful state of voluptuous
lethargy, which lasted for some minutes, and when at length I regained
my serenity, it was to find my fingers, cunny, and thighs all sticky
from the thick spermy emission of my first maiden spend. There was
also a slight stain of blood, for I had actually ravished myself in my
furious excitement.
I got up and sponged myself, then lay down to reflect on the curious
and delicious emotions I had procured for myself, and determining to
soon have a repetition of my secrets joys, fell asleep to dream of
being in the arms of a most lovely boy about my own age, who seemed to
impart to my ravished senses another taste of what I had already felt.
Awaking in a struggle to retain my love-bird, I found myself bedewed
by another emission, but at last I slept with tranquility, and never
shall I forget my first taste of joy that day.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]