Lord Drialys
The Beautiful Flagellants of Chicago,Volume one
FOREWORD
The passion for flagellation counts numerous votaries all over the world. Birching lust flourishes in Austria, Hungary, Germany, and Russia. In all these countries, womankind is fully alive to the thrilling charm of the rod and its extraordinary effects upon the masculine organization. Innumerable are the lovers of the twigs in high society and amidst artists and intellectual folks.
It is in the United States that birching discipline is best known and most popular, being carried out with artistic, poetical sentiment until it becomes the inseparable, supreme refinement of love.
In France, flagellation has many followers, if one may judge by the fact that there are very few courtesans in Paris or the principal provincial towns who do not possess in a corner of their mirrored wardrobes a goodly selection of whipping instruments which are used by these complaisant cocottes almost every day. Many Parisian closed and shuttered houses of love can show special rooms fitted up with everything needful for the application of flogging pleasure. As priestesses, these mysterious temples are provided with most adorable, beautiful charmers, who exercise their art with finished skill, being perfectly able to lead the man who kneels before them through every delicious by-path of sublime and intoxicating voluptuousness.
The love of birching, active or passive, also exists in the upper circles of Paris. When, now and again, some sensual scandal is revealed, indiscreet newspapers lift a corner of the veil hiding these private practices, and the general public is strangely stirred.
Such propensities are generally put down as bordering on weird insanity.
When voluptuous flagellation is brought into play, it is nothing more than sublime exacerbation of tender affection, forcing a fervent lover to reach the highest pitch of adoration for the weaker sex. In that case, any pain inflicted by the female of his choice becomes a source of joy.
There are certainly many men and even women who cannot understand or permit such proceedings. To fully realise the enthralling influence of the birch, one must be predisposed by nature, instinct, temperament or education; or else specially destined to drain this cup of ineffable delight by some happy hazard of environment.
The women of France are not successful when trying to enact the part of a domineering queen. Young Parisian beauties, delightful types of femininity though they be, care for naught else in love but the simple frolic and merry laughter.
Austria, Hungary, Russia, and even Germany have given birth to haughty, superb females, such as Catherine the Great and Maria Theresa, fated to bend the lords of creation beneath their yoke, curbing manly pride by the power of an inexorable sceptre grasped in the small white hand of a woman.
Petticoated despots are still to be found in these lands. Empresses from the cradle, they have proud dispositions, and when in the flower of womanhood and wonderfully handsome, appreciative men are wafted into a terrestrial paradise, as they humble themselves before such tyrannical, capricious mistresses.
Sacher-Masoch, the powerful Hungarian novelist, used to delight in picturing implacable and haughty women. He is the author of a long series of thrilling tales and romances, where his dominating heroines pass in procession, as ruthless as Roman Empresses and as beautiful as Olympian goddesses. They are all cruel tigresses, but their excessive severity, joined to the fascination of their bodily beauty, causes in men the excessive exaggeration of loving pain, called “masochism.”
Nevertheless, we must distinguish between a “masochist” and a voluptuous flagellant. The latter is an ardent poet, awake to all delirious artistic manifestations, a fervent admirer of women, adoring his sweetheart with an ardour which gives rise to the greatest excesses of throbbing sensuous worship.
A masochist, on the contrary, is always depressed. Beauty without cruelty does not impress him. He never kisses the girl he adores, and his sole delight is to show her that his servility reaches the uttermost limits of disgusting ignominy. The more his mistress forces him to execute nauseating and infamous tasks, the happier he is-a repulsive and unfortunate slavish being. Mentally diseased, he often finishes in a madhouse. His desires are uninteresting; his cravings loathsome, and he can never please his female partner. She pities him, and he affords her but little pleasure.
A voluptuous lover of the rod is generally much sought after by women of refined tastes. He is a most agreeable sample of a suitor; good-humoured, full of gaiety, and brimming over with delicate attention for his companion. Artistic are his tastes; he is a lover of music and verse; his voice is daily lifted skywards, intoning a tuneful hymn in praise of sunny nature, and womankind made brighter and more comely by reciprocal tenderness.
Like all that is good and beautiful in loving passion, voluptuous flagellation has been handed down to us from ancient Greece, whence came penetrating kisses, maddening caresses, and the mystic lasciviousness of Lesbos.
Clyso, an adorable priestess of Venus, first caused the passion of flagellation to arise in Athens. She was one of the most entrancing and renowned courtesans at the epoch when the divine sculptor Praxiteles gave to the world his ideal types of marble beauty.
The story goes that an inhabitant of Creos, a village adjoining the fair city of Athens, had come into town to sell the produce of his fields, when he chanced to meet Clyso, the delicious wanton. Straightway, he fell in love with her, and so mad was his yearning that he offered her the half of his worldly possessions for one hour in her arms. Clyso consented. He was the happiest of men.
Clyso was not only endowed with rare, surpassing beauty, but she was intellectually gifted. Being of an inquiring mind, she asked the peasant, as he shared her couch, a thousand questions relating to his homestead.
She gleaned from his frank and honest answers that the cult of Venus was completely forgotten and neglected. Few sacrifices were made on the alter of love, although Creos was inhabited by robust, healthy males; and many women, as comely as Aphrodite incarnate.
Despite their bodily rigor, these men were stirred by no violent desires when they looked upon the scarcely-veiled nudity of their wives or girlish companions. Never did the frigid village lads seek to pluck the half-open rosebuds ready to their hands.
The senses of the maidens were also dulled by this indifference and the quadruple pink petals of their secret love-blossoms slowly faded and withered, deprived as they were of the divine dew of passionate ecstasy.
Such dreadful news saddened sort-hearted Clyso. Her sole aim in life was the radiant embrace in which her soul mounted to realms of indescribable bliss. She had sworn to Venus to devote her existence to the propagation of the religion of love among mankind, so that the bodies of mortals should quiver in the giddy vortex of deep sensual joy.
She was inexpressibly grieved to learn that at Creos, men as well-proportioned as Apollo, and women equaling Aphrodite in grace and allurement could pass their time on earth without seeking to fathom the mysteries of love.
With a heavy heart, away went saddened Clyso, tripping to the temple of her goddess. The fair priestess carried two trembling doves closely clasped to the tepid twin glories of her young bosom, as she prayed for help and inspiration. While the blood of the poor, white, feathered things gushed forth beneath the knife of the sacrificer, a branch fell from one of the trees of the sacred grove. As it dropped, the twig rebounded from Clyso's tiny, naked foot. It struck her white, firm flesh like a blow from the lash of a whip, but far from hurting her, seemed to vivify the whole frame of the gentle courtesan, causing her young blood to course through her veins with new and powerful ardour.
Recognising an omen of the gracious goddess, Clyso picked up the branch, and taking it with her, was absorbed in deep meditation as she wended her way homeward.
Gathering all her handmaidens around her, she returned with them to Creos. But before entering the hamlet, she ordered her devoted servant lasses to cut a great quantity of branches resembling the one consecrated to Venus, furthermore telling the girls to tie them into bundles, thus forming rods.
She next summoned all the inhabitants of the village to the market-place and whipped them-one after the other. The effect of this birching was magical; and new life-blood, as fierce and fiery as boiling lava, flowed in the veins of the lazy males. Their senses broke through all barriers. They threw themselves madly on their lovely wives, covering them with burning kisses; overwhelming them with the most intoxicating caresses; forcing their surprised and delighted companions to experience the most profound, sweet spasms of lustful felicity.
Clyso was happy at last, and when she went back to Athens, offered up another pair of white doves, immolating them in devout thankfulness to the beneficent goddess.
Athens was soon astir with the tidings of the miracle of Creos. There was not a Greek but who desired to taste the sweets of the love-philter sent on earth by Venus.
Young or old, all men rushed to throw themselves at Clyso's feet, offering their muscular bodies to be flagellated, so that they might be strengthened and rejoiced by the divine nectar instilled through her stinging, magic rods.
The whole of Athens revelled in a splendid love-feast beneath the fire of the miraculous talisman-birchen twigs awakening desire, increasing manly vigour and causing the flame of lubricity to burn brightly in the veins.
Clyso had not rods enough to lash all the writhing bodies prostrate before her, quivering impatiently to be fortified by the strokes of her bewitching birch.
So her sister courtesans of Athens furnished themselves likewise with an ample store of supple green twigs. Under the aphrodisiacal influence of divine flagellation, old men acquired rejuvenescence, and youths and middle-aged males found their amorous fury increased tenfold.
Thus was voluptuous flagellation discovered by Clyso, and taking firm root at Athens, it gradually spread through the entire kingdom of Greece.
Flourishing mightily, the worship of the rod passed into the Roman Empire, where young courtesans and harridan harlots were never without a bundle of whistling birch wherewith to invigorate their lovers and cause them to increase the force and number of their caresses, clippings, and intertwinings of soft sexual conjunction.
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 marvelling 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.
My daydreams were disturbed by the entrance of the housemaid who took me straight to the bath-room.
As I entered, I saw the worn stump of a rod on the ground, amid a quantity of broken twigs, from which I concluded that before I had been fetched Lizzie had passed a rough half-hour.
I pitied the poor girl who ws innocent after all, but Mrs. Smythe's harsh tones cut my musings short.
“Young man,” she said, “I can find no words to qualify the act you have committed. Your crime is so monstrous that I ought really to send you packing back home to Paris at once. I do not wish, however, to grieve your kind parents. They have delegated to me all their rights over you while you reside under my roof, comprising permission to punish you as I may think fit when you deserve to be corrected. I have therefore decided that your wrong-doing shall be expiated by corporal punishment as proportionally severe as your great fault deserves. You will thus learn that an Englishman respects all women, and more than any, an innocent young girl. I warn you that I shall flog your naughty bottom mercilessly. I also tell you at once that it will be best for you to submit with due humility to your deserved punishment. Should you resist my authority, I shall take forcible measures to restrain you. Here I have everything necessary for subduing a young scamp such as you are!”
I uttered not a word in reply, feeling quite dazed, not knowing whether I ought to be overjoyed at tasting at last the caress of the magic rod, or be alarmed at the rigour of the chastisement the young mother threatened in such despotic terms.
My impassibility seemed to increase her ill-temper.
“Undress!” she commanded, clutching my arm, and shaking me furiously.
Suiting the action to the word, she helped me to obey by tearing off my garments.
I was soon in my shirt, blushing to have to stand thus, half-nude, in the presence of this beautiful woman, who looked quite young. My shame, however, was not devoid of lascivious pleasure.
She pushed me toward a heavy armchair and made me lean over its seat. They she fastened me securely to this piece of furniture, in the proper position for enduring my torture. I could not take my eyes off my lovely hostess, whose irritation increased the beauty of her features. Giving fresh life to her good looks, causing her to appear bold and fearless. Every time her silk skirt touched my naked flesh or her soft hand skimmed over my skin, a delicious thrill ran through my frame.
From the pail, she chose a long rod, and after having shook the superfluous moisture from it, she wiped it on a towel, and made it whiz through the air, as if to try its elasticity.
“You'll now see,” she said, coming close to me, “what happens to a boy of your age who takes indecent liberties with a young lady!”
The rod began its wild saraband on my buttocks. I throbbed and bounded beneath the ruthless onslaught, unable to prevent myself from groaning with real pain.
My lamentations evidently excited the rage of my severe flogging hostess, and she kept on hitting me with still greater force. I trembled in every limb, making desperate efforts to get loose. But I was tightly tied, entirely at the mercy of cruel young materfamilias who continued to birch me with a firm hand, unheeding my cries and prayers for forgiveness.
When her birch had been worn away to a stump, she desisted-but not till then. The violence of her beating had caused every twig of the bundle to be broken. My fright increased, because I saw her return to the fatal bucket, and I greatly feared that she was about to take another rod and continue my martyrdom. But she only dipped her practised hand in the cold water for a few seconds; her fingers being numbed by the tension of her grip, and her palm slight scratched by the thorny ends of the branches forming the handle.
When she finally undid the ropes that held me captive, I ached all over and was quite exhausted. There was blood on my thighs, and the tail of my shirt stuck to my raw bottom.
The young widow did not deal me a second dose, and a few days afterward, when the traces of her severe treatment had disappeared, all that remained of this adventure was a most entrancing remembrance. I fell under the imperious obsession of a curious feeling which impelled me to long for the sting of the rod grasped by the firm hand of the lovely widowed Mrs. Smythe.
My yearning remained unsatisfied, and I said goodbye to Lizzie's mother with deep regret. Up to the moment of my departure, I had hoped that something would happen to curb me again under her bewitching blows.
At home again in Paris, the memory of the torture undergone at Richmond remained in my brain like some faraway disturbing dream.
For many years, I lived with the seed of flagellating passionate lasciviousness germinating in my inmost soul. In the society of capricious and refined queens of Parisian fashion, I tried fruitlessly to find a woman who understood my haunting ideas. But the lust of the rod being practised in secret, prevents confidential discussion. I read all the exciting works of Sacher-Masoch, and my young, ardent imagination grew more and more inflamed by the perusal of his novels and tales which filled my mind with enticing pictures where I saw myself in the power of beautiful, hot blooded, ferocious females.
Soon, however, reality granted me delights surpassing my most extravagant fancies.