Mother Clarissa's Methods

Well, I have to say my first year as Abbess of Peelham Down Convent has flown by! And what a privilege it has been to lead such a wonderful family of women, each of whom has humbled me in their dedication to the holy life.

As I hinted at the conclusion of my earlier memoir, Sister Clarissa's Awakening, loving discipline is at the heart of my leadership approach, and I thought it wise to create a record of my methods in the hope that it may support my sisters in their spiritual journeys, and perhaps influence the approach adopted by my successors as Abbess. I would certainly be dismayed if I thought any of the modern-day decadence and liberality were destined to infect this hallowed institution after my departure!

In this essay I shall outline in detail my methods of maintaining discipline through a judicious mix of kindness and severe corporal punishment. If that seems paradoxical I would urge you to read on, because my youthful experiences between these hallowed walls have taught me that physical pain, when inflicted in a harsh and sadistic spirit, can be wholly counterproductive, yielding nothing but shameful resentment toward authority. On the other hand, the same amount of pain inflicted with maternal love, and framed with gentle and reasoned guidance, can both sooth the shame felt by the delinquent and deter future transgressions.

Perhaps the best way to illustrate my approach is with a series of case studies. Whilst I have probably inflicted at least fifty chastisements in my first year in the job, and my colleague Sister Molly a similar number, a good place to start would be the first punishment I ever inflicted as Abbess - the one I hinted at in the final pages of my previous literary attempt.

***

Case Study 1: Sister Marlene

Sister Marlene was a young novice when she came to me for discipline. She had confessed to masturbating before, and that had earned her a lengthy session over the lap of Sister Molly, my newly appointed Discipline Sister.

Before I go on, perhaps I should explain my attitude to masturbation among nuns, because it is one area where I am partially in agreement with modern liberal views. Masturbation is a sin. Let us be in no doubt about that. But let us also remember that nuns have foregone the right to ever engage in sexual intercourse. In my experiences this makes it near impossible to deny oneself any sexual release whatsoever, and to attempt to do so runs the risk that sexual frustration may lead to irritableness, anxiety or outright aggression. I therefore do not believe in trying to prevent my sisters ever from pleasuring themselves.

Notwithstanding the above, we are all sworn to relinquish the pleasures of the flesh, and in my view the best way to 'square the circle' is to apply the following rules:

masturbation should be kept to a minimum, ideally not more than once a fortnight;

masturbation must be used only to relieve sexual tension, not for pleasure in itself;

all masturbation must be done at night, in the privacy of one's own cell, as quietly as possible; and, importantly

the nun in question must confess her sin and accept physical punishment as the price to be paid for her pleasure. Alternatively, she may ask for punishment in anticipation of the need for sexual relief.

Of course, Rule number 4 is impossible to enforce, and relies entirely on the honesty and virtue of all members of our community. Sister Marlene had confessed to Sister Molly five days before her session with me, and received a sound hairbrush spanking, this being the usual prescription. It was when she confessed to a second session of self-indulgence a few days later that she was sent to me. This was a clear violation of Rule number 1 above, and in my view necessitated the use of the cane.

Sister Marlene was clearly nervous when she entered my office. She had only been in the community for two weeks, and this was her first one-to-one appointment with the new Abbess. Rather than giving her a haranguing and belittling her, I tried to put her at ease, allowing her to sit down and explain her conduct as best she could.

I explained how masturbation, whilst sinful, is acceptable in moderation, provided a painful price is paid, but that twice in the space of a week is excessive. She nodded her accession, as befits a nun with a good heart who has been led astray by her youthful flesh. I thanked her for her honesty but nevertheless sentenced her to a sound thrashing with my new 36" cane.

As it was clear that she understood the need for punishment and would submit willingly, I proceeded to send her into my lavatory, where she was required to empty her bladder and strip down to her shift, with no knickers on. This is standard practice under my regime, as it removes the unnecessary humiliation of undressing in front of others. Despite the name of this institution, I believe it would be unseemly to ask a nun to 'peel down' her underwear in front of her chastiser!

The sweet girl looked most penitent as she emerged, her lovely chocolate skin tones contrasting with the coarse white linen of her only apparel. I confess to being excited at the prospect of caning those prominent bottom cheeks, Marlene being the first nun of West African heritage I had punished. She stood before my desk and bowed her bare head in submission.

"How should I position myself, Mother?" she asked meekly.

I noted her height relative to my desk. "Please take one of the cushions from the armchair and place it on the edge of the desk in front of you, then bend over," I instructed. She complied immediately, as I knew she would, resting her head sideways on the green leather of the desk as her hands nervously gripped the far edge. I walked around the desk and took the cane from the deep vase in which I keep all such implements soaking in a little water to maintain their suppleness.

The process of unveiling a nun's nether regions for righteous discipline is, of course, distasteful, even after allowing her to remove her briefs in private. I must confess, however, to a little improper excitement at the sight of those firm ebony cheeks, ripe and ready for castigation.

I never set a number of strokes for a private punishment session, for two reasons. Firstly, it allows me to be flexible in assessing the reactions of the girl, adjusting the severity of the punishment to the recipient's pain threshold. Secondly, it adds greatly to the perceived severity of the punishment if the girl is unable to mentally 'count down' the strokes - she literally does not know when her ordeal will end! Perhaps this sounds cruel - but it is quite normal for lesser punishments, such as over-the-knee spankings, to be indeterminate in length, so why should a caning, supposedly the more severe penalty, be made easier to endure?

The lengthy cane, crafted from top quality dragon rattan, has a lovely springiness and weight which makes it all but irresistible to swish through the air a few times in preparation for the first stroke. I luxuriated in its deep contralto note as it cut through the tense atmosphere of my office. I had never used such a long implement before, and was a little apprehensive as to my ability to control its placement. I took a deep breath and measured my distance.

As I rested the tip of my instrument on Marlene's bulbous right buttock I could hear the shallowness of her breathing. Not wishing to dissipate the tension I waited. "Brace yourself, child," I muttered before raising the rod high above my right shoulder and, with an infernal burst of muscular energy, made every effort to slice the poor novice in two!

There was a moment's delay between the cane bouncing from those steatopygous cheeks and the inevitable yelp of anguish. I was relieved to hear her fulsome vocal reaction, because her dark complexion would inevitably make the weals more difficult to discern than on my lighter-skinned charges. That, of course, is the downside of refusing to specify a number of strokes in advance - it places great responsibility on the punisher to assess the effects of each stroke, and with less visual evidence one inevitably must rely on the girl's reaction.

I waited at least half a minute between strokes, to allow the crescendo of pain to pass its peak. This is another of my guiding principles. Many a schoolchild, when offered the option of corporal punishment, has thought of it as a way to 'get it over with quickly'. I like to think that no nun coming to either myself or Sister Molly for discipline will ever be so foolish as to expect the process to be brief! I never give fewer than six strokes, and the three minutes it takes to deliver even that number is guaranteed to feel more like ten!

I remember the second stroke very well, as Marlene's exclamation shocked me a little. Whilst I always endeavour to use full force with every stroke, with hindsight the first stroke of Marlene's punishment was probably only delivered at 80% due to my inexperience with such a fearsome weapon. However, the accuracy and obvious efficacy of that first lash reinforced my confidence, and I was determined to make an unforgettable impression on the nineteen-year-old novice.

The cane sent tangible vibrations to my hand as its water-soaked tip snapped into the centre of Marlene's right buttock, sending shock-waves rippling through her ample layers of muscle and fat. Her sharp squeal of anguish echoed from the stone walls and her right foot lifted from the floor in a vain bid to kick away the pain. I admonished her gently for this transgression, but did not see the need to add extra strokes. I ran my left hand across the two barely-visible weals, and was surprised at how firm and prominent the tramlines had already become. Six should suffice, I thought to myself.

The next three strokes followed a similar pattern to the first two, but the sixth stroke of Marlene's punishment warrants more comment. As I anticipated this would be the final instalment of her discipline I determined to make it the worst. I aimed low, with the intent of slicing into the crease between bottom and thigh, and angle the cane downwards so that the tip would strike below that line. This may sound cruel, but I never want any girl to leave my office thinking 'that wasn't so bad after all!'. As anticipated, the cane wrapped around the poor girl's right cheek with tremulous force, cracking brutally against some of the most sensitive skin of the poor lass's body. Of course, her entire frame contorted in agony. As her scream faded to breathless sobs she turned her tear-streaked face toward me and gasped "I'm so sorry Mother, I couldn't hold it!"

A quick glance at the floor between her feet showed me that her precautionary visit to my lavatory had not been effective. I was caught between pity and anger.

"My dear child, when I asked you to empty your bladder I meant in the toilet bowl, not my floor!" I said, in as gentle a voice as I could muster in my annoyance, "Please return to the lavatory and finish the job properly. I regret to inform you that your accident occurred on what would otherwise have been the last stroke of your punishment. Alas, we now have unfinished business."

Sister Marlene stood up. Those big, hazel eyes that had previously shone like gems were now pink and bloodshot, as tears stained her pretty features. I'm sure a lighter-skinned girl would have worn a deep shade of pink in her young cheeks, but Marlene gave ample expression to her shame in the way she bowed her head and held both hands in front of her crotch as she shuffled into the lavatory.

"You will find a bucket and mop in the corner. Please bring it with you when you are finished," I instructed.

Whilst Marlene was cleaning the floor, moving with clear discomfort as she wept in embarrassment, I gave thought to the second phase of her punishment. Her bottom was now well ridged and would perhaps be less sensitive to the cane now. It was with a mix of excitement and a little guilt that I decided to make the punishment fit the crime.

"When you return the mop and bucket, please put your briefs back on, but nothing else." As I uttered these words I knew I would later be unable to resist committing the same sin I had just punished dear Marlene for. When she emerged I told her to sit in the leather armchair from whence the cushion on the desk had been taken.

"I'm afraid this will hurt a great deal," I told her as I opened my cupboard and took out the ancient clothes brush that the late Mother Joan had used on me several times. Marlene's look of bewilderment turned to horror with my next instruction. "Please raise your knees toward your shoulders and hold onto them, keeping your legs apart. I am truly sorry to have to do this, but you have now committed two offences with that same part of your anatomy." Marlene's tear-filled eyes disappeared behind ebony eyelids as she obeyed my command.

The girl's mound of Venus protruded indecently through the thin white satin of her panties, showing in obscene detail the shape of her prominent lips. Several wisps of pubic hair had broken free of the hem of her gusset as she obediently pulled her thighs well apart. I rested the big clothes brush on its target to satisfy myself that it had sufficient space to do its excruciating work. Worn-out bristles told of the years of painful service it had given my predecessor, my own bare backside having been one of its many targets.

Marlene was whimpering and sobbing audibly as I lifted the evil weapon and brought it down with an incendiary crack on her cotton-clad crotch. The poor child's squeals were so piteous that I decided one more blow would suffice, and delivered it as her cries from the first had just passed their peak. As her shrieks rang around my office I returned the brush to its home, feeling a little queasy at the severity of the last part of Marlene's chastisement.

I bade her return to the lavatory and make herself decent. On her return to my office I gave her a lingering hug, commended her for her honesty and bravery, and made it clear she need feel no shame now that she had paid a suitable price.

As I watched Marlene hobbling along the corridor, her legs unnaturally parted, I admonished myself for punishing her private parts. It wasn't just that she didn't truly deserve such agony, it was also the excitement I felt, not to mention the moistness in my gusset. As I tried to turn my attention to the various matters in my 'in' tray it became increasingly clear to me that I would have to pay a visit to Sister Molly for the good of my soul.

***

I will, of course, give a full account of my painful appointment with Sister Molly, but as this is intended to be a comprehensive survey of my disciplinary techniques I must first describe one of the routine, less severe, chastisements endured by the nuns. After all, my liberal approach to the sin of self-abuse, combined with the honest nature of my charges, means that both my and Sister Molly's offices see a regular traffic of shame-faced sisters seeking painful recompense for their night-time pleasures.

Those of my readers who have indulged me by reading my earlier literary effort will be aware that my predecessor, the venerable Mother Joan, favoured the use of the same stout clothes brush I rather immoderately used on the crotch of poor Marlene. Of course, its usual target is the unclothed seat, and the best way to illustrate my technique in detail is with another case study.

***

Case Study 2: Sister Jane

Sweet Sister Jane is one of my youngest novices at just eighteen, and she came to me yesterday morning after breakfast. I could see that she had been weeping and when I asked her what was the matter she immediately blurted out that she had sinned and needed to be punished. On further inquiry it turned out that her sin was to 'touch herself' a little, and that she had not even approached her crisis.

I smiled and told her that her sin barely merited a punishment, but she was insistent that her soul be cleansed by pain, and I would not be doing my job if I allowed a penitent novice to leave my office feeling unnecessary shame.

"Very well, dear child, please use the lavatory to undress and relieve yourself. Only your shift may be worn during chastisement."

Jane looked a picture of girlish innocence as she re-entered my office, blonde locks flowing like water over the virginal white skin of her shoulders. Her white shift, barely long enough to cover her wisp of pubic growth, swished in the cool morning air as I motioned her to stand to the side of my deliberately smoothed lap.

The girl looked a little surprised that she was to be punished 'over the knee', and later told me she thought this a 'childish' mode of punishment. But in my humble opinion that is part of its appeal. There is a neat symmetry in the 'Mother' of a convent using the same position for chastising her 'children' as a domestic mother disciplining her actual children.

"That shift is too brief," I noted disapprovingly as the satin material, too luxurious for my liking, rode up high on her shapely bottom, "this is a nunnery, not a brothel!" I determined at that point to make her punishment a little more severe than brief self-touching would normally warrant.

The old clothes brush that I use for 'pastoral' punishments of this kind deserves a more detailed description. It is about nine inches in length, including the handle, the 'business end' taking up six of those nine and being oblong in shape and about three inches wide. The dense beechwood is about a half-inch in thickness, giving the whole a fearsome heft. I don't know how many bottoms, not to mention other bodily areas, it has made contact with, and dread to think how many bruises and blood-blisters it has raised and how many tears it has wrung from penitent eyes. What I do know is that it is a dreadfully effective weapon which at least two generations of nuns, myself included, have both feared and respected.

Jane felt surprisingly light as she draped her barely developed figure across my thighs, blonde hair brushing the floor abreast her delicate hands.

"As this is your first spanking I should make you aware of the rules," I declared. "Your hands are to remain on the floor, or holding onto my chair legs. Any attempt to reach back will be punished with extra strokes, as it is dangerous as well as impenitent to attempt to impede the blows. Tears are inevitable, but there is to be no excessive noise. I trust you have emptied your bladder as instructed?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Good. Wetting yourself during chastisement is punished severely even when not bent over my lap. Were you to foul my habit - well, I'll leave to you to imagine the consequences." On saying that I lifted the sheer fabric from Jane's virginal white cheeks and raised the hallowed implement well above my head.

I surprised myself with the ferocity of the first crack, perhaps provoked by the indecently brief undergarment that had both offended and, if I am honest, excited me a little. I felt her stomach muscles contract as she fought to stifle a squeal. I paused, marvelling at how quickly the blood vessels in her bottom lit up a throbbing pink rectangle on her left buttock.

I proceeded to spank Jane's soft bottom at a steady tempo, alternating between left and right cheeks and luxuriating in her soft grunts and yelps of pain. As the pink rectangles overlapped in an abstract pattern pretty enough for any illuminated manuscript, I was delighted to feel her squirm on my lap as her feet lifted off the ground in a desperate bid to process the fearsome pain.

Once both cheeks had taken on a deep shade of rose, with just a hint of purple bruising, I determined to bring Jane's punishment to a climax in a manner that is rapidly becoming my standard practice. I gradually migrated my strokes lower on her buttocks, flicking my wrist to maximise the stinging impact on her 'sit spot', before finishing with a few agonising cracks on the poor girl's thighs. Of course, these last blows brought forth roars of anguish, which I did not penalise - my prohibition is against 'excessive' vocal expression, and Jane's howls were in my view entirely natural.

I laid the brush on my desk and reviewed my handiwork. It was clear that Jane would not be sitting comfortably for a few days, and that bruises would remain for perhaps a week or more.

"Pray stand up child. Your punishment is complete."

Jane first lowered herself to a kneeling position to my right, and that impossibly pretty face gazed up at me through bloodshot blue eyes, framed by dishevelled golden locks. "Thank you, Mother Clarissa. I will refrain from touching myself, and buy some more modest underclothes."

"Come closer, dear child," I said, instinctively embracing the luscious slender figure of the barely-clad beauty, "I am so proud of you, sweetheart. Perhaps I was a little hard on you, but we all know what our Lord suffered on our behalf. Pray go next door and make yourself decent."

I must confess I felt ashamed of the excitement punishing this lithe young beauty had given me. I decided that my own conduct had been unacceptable, and required discipline, which brings me back to the topic I promised to address earlier.

***

Self discipline is a central tenet of a life dedicated to our Saviour, and one that I have always lived by. Whilst I have a leather discipline in my cell, which I frequently use to mortify the flesh of my shoulders and back, I believe that in order to be truly painful and salutary, a punishment must be inflicted by another. And that is why one of my first acts as Superior of this community was to appoint my dear friend Sister Molly as Disciplinary Sister. Not only does this provide an additional resource for the regular discipline of the novices and nuns in my charge, but it means that the two of us can punish one another as necessary.

Of course, discipline is only truly effective if it entails complete submission to the will of another. For that reason, whenever I or Sister Molly require correction we have no control whatsoever over the chastisement we are to receive. To illustrate the point, I am going to describe the punishment I alluded to earlier, for my excessive severity and sexual arousal when correcting Sister Marlene.

***

Case study 3: My punishment at the hands of Sister Molly

After punishing Sister Marlene, I was disgusted with the excitement I felt from tormenting her genitals. I needed to be punished, and I needed it to be soon, otherwise I might have felt the need to... well, you can imagine what the dampness I felt in my nether regions might have led me to!

Leaving my paperwork until later I sought out Sister Molly, whom I knew I would find in the embroidery workshop at that time. Of course, as Abbess I have the luxury of being able to deport my staff as I wish, and when I instructed Sister Molly to see me in my office, the nuns who were concentrating on their work may well have thought it was Sister Molly who was in trouble!

Of course, Sister Molly has since grown accustomed to having to regularly whip her Abbess, but as I was new to the role back then she looked a little apprehensive as we walked through the cloisters. I sought to put her mind at rest.

"Please don't worry, Sister, you have done nothing wrong. But I need you to perform your new role as Discipline Sister." Sister Molly looked relieved, and I noted a subtle smile of relish at the thought of blistering the tender backside of some teenage novice or other. We entered my office and I closed the door.

***

"But Mother Clarissa, do you really think this is appropriate?" The kind face of Sister Molly was a little flushed, perhaps by embarrassment or perhaps a little sensual frisson, after I explained my requirement. On perceiving that I was set on this course, and on realising that this was to be a regular fixture in our new roles, I immediately noted a hardening in her features.

"I will be finishing my needlework session in half an hour. Please see me in my office. Your punishment will take place during lunch, which you will miss as part of your penance." I was a little taken aback by the relish with which she adapted to her temporary elevation, and felt a momentary urge to remind her of her place. But I resolved that if I was to consent to corporal punishment I must submit fully to my executioner's will. I bowed my head and uttered a meek "yes, Sister."

Sister Molly's office is a little smaller than mine, but is similar in having a spacious en suite lavatory. As newly appointed Discipline Sister, Molly had already taken delivery of copious implements of correction, some of which she had paid for out of her own allowance. I surveyed the tall jar containing her collection of canes, a little larger than my own, and noted two evil looking leather tawses hanging from hooks behind her desk. I really did not know what to expect - other than pure, unadulterated pain.

"Mother Clarissa, you should understand better than any of us the importance of suppressing your sexual urges when inflicting corporal punishment. Beating a young novice on that intimate part of her anatomy is not only unspeakably cruel, but depraved and immoral. What do you have to say for yourself?" I was a little taken aback by Sister Molly's sharp-tongued haranguing, yet could not argue with any of her points, and decided to accept my humiliation with good grace.

"I am truly sorry that I allowed my sensual frustrations to corrupt me in the performance of my disciplinary duties. Please punish me as you see fit, Sister Molly, with no regard for our relative positions in this community."

"I intend to do just that, and will be punishing a part of your body as far removed from the centre of your wanton lust as possible. Pray remove your shoes and stockings, Mother."

I felt a chill run through my body as my fate dawned on me. I was to suffer the punishment endured by many a Turkish servant or schoolchild - that agonising and humiliating torture known variously as falaka or bastinado! Horrified though I was at my immediate prospects, I did not delay in crouching down to bare my tender feet.

Whilst I was preparing, Sister Molly took her 'do not disturb' from the inside of her door and placed it on the outside. Fortunately, our offices are on the opposite side of the Courtyard from the refectory, where the rest of the community were taking lunch, so there was little chance of my cries being heard by any of my charges.

Sister Molly looked a little hesitant, perhaps not having fully considered the practicalities of positioning me for my ordeal. Then, as she cast her eyes around the room, she appeared to light on a solution.

"Pray kneel on that armchair, sitting on your ankles with your soles facing upwards." I gripped the back of the brown leather chair as Sister Molly arranged my habit to ensure unobstructed access to my bare feet. At least I didn't have to remove much clothing, I told myself as Sister Molly selected a short cane from her diverse collection. "Brace yourself, Mother Clarissa," she said with a slight quiver of hesitation in her voice that only added to my dread as I felt the cool caress of rattan against the thin skin of my soles.

As I felt the cane lift from my feet I shut my eyes tight and began a silent prayer. Yet I was unable to get past 'Our Father' before the worst pain I had felt in my forty-five years ripped through my body, emptying my lungs before my vocal chords had a chance to catch the exodus of air. My face contorted into what must have been a gargoyle-like grimace as the burn of red-hot coals seemed to sear both feet.

I had barely recovered my breath from that first shocking assault when I felt the air torn asunder by the cane's second sortie. This time I noted how much shorter the delay is between impact and pain when the feet are the target, as against the more ponderous response of the nerves in one's bottom. The pain seemed to shoot through my nervous system like electricity, much in the manner that a toothache seems to penetrate areas of the face far removed from its source. Having recovered my breath I was now able to utter a loud and unseemly grunt.

"Please keep the noise to a minimum, Mother."

"I'm sorry, Sister," I gasped in breathless panic as the pain seemed to expand to fill my lower legs, long after the blow had been struck. My fingertips were now digging into the hard leather of the chair back as I struggled to control the agony, awaiting the next assault on my twitching feet.

The third stroke made me wonder how much more the Lord would help me bear. My vocal chords clamped shut in a desperate bid to avoid a further reprimand, yet still a deep, guttural groan escaped as though from the depths of my soul. I flexed my feet, as the pain once again seemed to shoot through myriad nerves.

I still don't recall the exact number of blows my delicate size seven feet withstood that morning, but I don't believe it exceeded six. Yet the severity of the pain illustrated vividly the reason for that punishment's historic popularity in the Near East and beyond. It is, quite simply, the most brutally efficient way of inflicting extreme pain without the need for immodesty. I decided there and then to add it to my repertoire, in place of the sordid torture I had wrongfully inflicted on Sister Marlene. By the time Sister Molly had finished with me I was, of course, crying profusely and had let out some quite loud yelps. Hopefully the dense stone walls of the convent prevented anyone from overhearing.

As I buckled my shoes there was an air of awkwardness between the two of us. I had voluntarily submitted to a subordinate, and she had fulfilled her adopted role with relish - yet now it was over we both felt the need to reestablish our habitual roles and boundaries. Sister Molly said nothing as she returned the cane to its tall earthenware jar and bowed her head as if in supplication.

"Thank you, Sister Molly, good job," I said, feeling that praise was the best way to restore my authority.

"I do hope I was not too severe, Mother," came the somewhat sheepish reply.

"My dear Sister, I knew exactly what I was letting myself in for when I asked you to discipline me! Why do you think I made you Disciplinary Sister after knowing you all these years? No, that was exactly what I deserved, and I thank you.

"Now, would you please check if the coast is clear? I mustn't be seen hobbling back to my den!" Fortunately nobody was in the corridor as I limped painfully back to my office where I spent the rest of the day recovering as I caught up with the contents of my in-tray.

***

The punishments I have described thus far have all been administered in private. In the majority of cases this is appropriate, and I rarely endorse public floggings. But in the event of serious infractions, humiliation before the whole community is sometimes called for.

The dreadful leather scourge that was still in use when I took my vows was retired after the death of Sister Sarah, Molly's cruel predecessor as Disciplinary Sister. That abomination will not be missed, as witnessed by the scars that still decorate the backs of some of the older nuns. No, there is only one implement that I wholeheartedly approve of when it comes to communal discipline: the beautiful, time-honoured, fragile, yet ferocious birch rod! I love the variety it offers, with different materials available in our extensive grounds - not just birch, but hazel (famed for its use in the notorious Manx rod), apple (once the standard material in use at Winchester school) and various species of willow.

The efficacy of the birch comes from its light weight and supple fangs. Unlike the cane, which (when applied at full force, as it should be) bruises and injures the deep subcutaneous tissue, the effects of the birch are both less concentrated and more superficial. In the earliest stages of a birching, many a girl will feel it less severe than the cane, but before long the cumulative effect of lacerating strokes will cause an almost geometric progression of pain. Whereas the cane can become less effective after half a dozen strokes, due to a certain numbing effect, the birch relentlessly excites the victim's nerve-endings in a diabolical vortex of pain.

There is also a psychological aspect to the birch's fearsome reputation. Whereas the cane, by its nature and design, delivers a standardised, predictable type of pain, the birch, due to its diverse construction methods and scattered impacts, creates a sting that can vary wildly, both between rods and between strokes from the same instrument. The sufferer simply does not know either where the next stroke will fall, or how the individual withes will make themselves felt. A skilled bircher (and both myself and Sister Molly fall into that category, even if I say so myself!) will vary his or her strokes to cover both buttocks and thighs, and try to coax the longer twigs to 'wrap around' and cause exquisite agony in the inner folds of her victim's most intimate parts. Whenever I discuss a girl's punishment with her after the event, as I always do, she usually describes a sense of panic as the fire rages out of control and she simply doesn't know where the next searing flame will be ignited.

Readers who are familiar with my earlier memoir will recall the savage birching Sister Molly endured at the hands of her predecessor. One detail of Sister Sarah's methods that I have changed is the orientation of the birching block. Whereas poor Molly had her exposed posterior and private parts facing the audience, an indignity magnified a thousandfold when she wet herself under castigation, under my regime nuns always face the audience when held down on the block. This is not only more modest and dignified, but ensures that the girl's suffering is on full display in her facial contortions, even if she manages to stifle her cries.

***

Case Study 4: Sister Janice

I explained earlier my liberal approach to masturbation among the nuns at Peelham Down. However, this permissive approach to self pleasure does not in any way weaken the prohibition on sexual activity between the women. All Sisters must be alone in their cells between the hours of 9.00pm and 6.00am, and any breaches of this rule are treated seriously.

One such infraction involved Sisters Haley and Janice, two nuns in their late thirties. Sister Molly, who suffers from bouts of insomnia, heard a sound in the corridor one night when she was lying awake, and on opening her cell door saw Janice approaching. On questioning, Janice claimed to be having trouble sleeping and to need a brief walk. She knew of course that this would lead to a thrashing, and was duly punished by Sister Molly the following morning with the hairbrush.

I became suspicious that there may be a deeper issue when Molly told me that she was regularly hearing soft footsteps and doors creaking in the night, although she had not been able to catch any more nocturnal wanderers. I decided to investigate myself, and several nights running I patrolled the corridors at around the time Molly had been hearing sounds.

It was on the third of my nocturnal perambulations that I was shocked to hear moans coming from the cell of Sister Hayley, who I knew to be a close friend of Janice. Not wishing to embarrass myself by catching the miscreants en flagrante, I simply stood outside the door and waited for Janice, who I assumed to be in there, to emerge. In the meantime I was treated to the most obscene pornographic sound show - not only could I clearly hear sundry moans, grunts and later squeals of pleasure from both women, but through the heavy oak door I could even make out slurping sounds and kisses. Of course, despite my sexual inexperience I was clearly able to perceive when each of the sordid sisters was reaching her peak of ecstasy.

Indeed, I was led to wonder whether their shrieks of wicked indulgence might have penetrated the thick stone walls to the neighbouring cells, and hence whether Janice's neighbours might be concealing knowledge of the affair. I decided there and then that a public display of discipline would be needed. If there was indeed a conspiracy of silence - or, worse still, a wider outbreak of sexual depravity in my convent - a severe castigation before the whole community, preceded by a stern warning speech, should nip the problem in the bud.

I shall never forget the look of horror and shock on the face of Sister Janice when that oaken door finally creaked open and she emerged, clad only in her nightgown, to be confronted by the stern countenance of her nemesis. I confess that in my anger I was perhaps a little rough in manhandling her back into Hayley's cell, the latter looking equally mortified as she sat up in bed, covering her bare nipples with bedsheets.

"You don't need to say anything. I have been standing outside this cell for the last twenty minutes and know exactly what the two of you have been up to. You will both report to my office after breakfast tomorrow morning for sentencing, but be under no illusions as to the severity of the punishment you can expect." And with that I marched back to my cell to try (unsuccessfully) to get some sleep.

As the two miscreants stood before me in my office, both with eyes red from tears and lack of sleep, I tried to maintain a stone-faced countenance despite my own lack of rest. Janice looked the more penitent of the two, her stumpy frame shuddering as she gazed in abject submission at the floor. Hayley, whilst clearly upset, was able to meet my stern gaze with a resolute expression.

I will not recount in detail the haranguing I gave the two nuns, other than to say that they were each given a choice: either leave the community in disgrace, or submit to a severe birching in front of the entire community. The flogging, should either woman accept this option, would be performed with three rods prepared by the recipient herself under the supervision of Sister Molly, and would continue until all three rods were exhausted, unless I saw fit to end the punishment early for reasons of safety.

Sister Hayley was the first to speak. "Mother Superior, I have been feeling for a while that I lack the resolution to spend the rest of my life under holy orders. I have the greatest love and respect for my Sisters and for your good self, but sadly feel that it would be in everyone's best interests if I departed." I nodded my assent, said a few kind words and bade her begin making arrangements for her departure.

Sister Janice looked devastated at the loss of her friend, but reluctantly consented to the birch. I told her that her punishment would be deferred until after the departure of Hayley, which would likely take a few days due to the need for her to arrange alternative accommodation. I also told her that the birch-rods that she would be required to construct would need at least 24 hours to soak before they reached the necessary degree of strength and suppleness, a fact that seemed to alarm her.

Later that morning, whilst I was supervising some of the novices in the convent garden, I watched the tearful sinner as she followed Sister Molly into the copse beyond. Half an hour later the two women returned, each carrying a bundle of lengthy withes of varying species. I made a point of looking in on the calligraphy workshop after lunch, where I knew Sister Janice would be trained in the art of rod-making whilst her colleagues were absorbed in the painstaking work of copying manuscripts. Her first rod, composed of birch sapling, had already been bound up, and was clearly well designed, the rich red stems fanning out at diverse angles so that the buds and tips would not interfere with one another's torturous sting. The remaining switches, which appeared to be a mix of straight fruit tree limbs (perhaps apple or pear) and hazel, were at that moment being sorted. It appeared that her session in the refectory would consist of three courses, each with its own distinct flavour of pain. I noted a subtle smile on Sister Molly's face, an uncomfortable reminder that neither she nor I are guiltless when it comes to the lascivious enjoyment of another's suffering.

On the day of her punishment I felt a little sorry for Sister Janice. Her 'best friend' (hmmm...) had departed the day prior, and she had nothing to look forward to except the humiliation and exquisite agony of the birch. She stood on the dais wearing nothing but a coarse linen shift - although the women are now permitted to choose their own underwear, I insist that for public punishments they must wear the uncomfortable garments that nuns of my generation had to suffer on a daily basis! Flanking the miscreant were Sisters Chloe and Jasmine, two novices who had volunteered for the unpleasant but necessary role of 'holders down'.

Sister Janice is, if I am honest, an unprepossessing creature. Whilst she has a heart of gold, her dumpy frame and plain face make her the sort of girl who one suspects chose her vocation out of a lack of confidence in her ability to attract a good husband. Having said that, I have always found her to have as sweet and pious a disposition as an abbess could hope for - a fact that makes her transgression all the more disappointing.

I kept my speech to a minimum out of empathy for the poor woman's mental anguish, which was evident in her puffed up cheeks, bloodshot eyes and uncontrolled shivering. Tears began to run freely down those chubby cheeks as I uttered the fateful instruction "please kneel on the block and bend forward."

My dear friend Sister Molly still wore her rather distasteful smirk as she withdrew the first rod, the one comprising birch twigs, from its watery home. I must have a word with her, I thought - it is not seemly for the other nuns to see her deriving pleasure from the grave and solemn duty of severe discipline.

As the sobbing brunette hung her head in shame over the front of the block, her two holders positioned themselves either side so as not to obscure the view of the congregation. As I mentioned earlier, I think it important for the face of the sufferer to be on full display whilst her private parts are only only seen by her executioner. Chloe and Jasmine, on my prior instruction, each placed one hand firmly on the small of Janice's back so that her bottom would inevitably be held in a tight and prominent attitude, and the other on her shoulders to stifle any attempt to reach back.

"Our Father..." As always, the Lord's Prayer preceded Janice's castigation, and I told her in advance that I expected her full participation. I was pleased to see her hands pressed together in supplication before returning to the floor where I told her I expected them to remain for the duration of her chastisement.

"Sister Molly, please uncover her bottom." I improvised this addition to the ceremony to emphasise the humiliation of the baring process, now that it was less visible to the audience. Molly fought to suppress her glee as she lifted Janice's shift and surveyed the blank canvas on which she was to exercise her painful art. I now issued the fateful command: "Proceed."

I was standing just close enough to the block to feel the familiar cool spray of water as Molly tested the rod with a few practice swishes. Janice visibly winced in anticipation. For the first time since mounting the block she looked ahead into the room, as though seeking moral support from her sisters.

Having personally trained Sister Molly, I know from first-hand experience just how efficient her birching technique is. Indeed, up until that day I believe mine was the only bottom she had practiced upon. As those eight or nine sapling twigs, swollen with water, thwhacked against Janice's plump hemispheres I felt myself twinge as though I could feel their chaotic sting. But it was Janice's reaction that caught the attention of every onlooker. Her eyes opened wide in astonishment at a fiery sensation she had never before experienced, her rapid breathing testament to the lighting up of myriad nerves.

The first few strokes yielded no vocal reaction, Janice bravely trying to pant and wince her way through the advancing wildfire of pain. I scanned the room, and could see Janice's grimaces reflected, mirror-like, in the faces of most of the nuns. I say 'most' because I noted with disapproval the odd sadistic smirk - but perhaps I am not best placed to condemn that vice in another!

It was around what I took to be the mid-point in the tragically short life of the first rod that Sister Janice showed the first signs of losing her composure. Chloe and Jasmine, who had had little work to do in holding her in position up until that point, were now visibly straining to keep her torso in contact with the block. Janice's breathing was hoarse and rasping, and as her head thrashed from side to side I could see copious tears glistening on her ruddy cheeks.

Sister Molly was clearly warming to her task now. Her face was as flushed as Janice's, though I dare say for a different reason, as her slender yet athletic physique lent brutal energy to those lithe twigs. The rod danced, flexed and swooshed through the chilly morning air, slapping and wrapping around buttocks that I could see were now decorated with a maze of lacerations. Janice's heavy breathing had now morphed into grunts and sobs as tears, no longer able to cling to her animated features, scattered around the front of the stage.

Janice's first cries emerged as the birchen rod neared the end of its dozen-stroke lifespan. As small buds and fragments of birch-twig flew through the air, a litany of yelps and squeals satisfied me that her pain threshold had been breached. I allowed myself to smile as I compared her sounds to those she had forced me to endure a few nights prior, and noted with some satisfaction that she had well over half her punishment yet to endure.

Sister Molly paused to inspect the now ragged instrument and glanced toward me for guidance. I nodded my assent for her to move on to the second rod.

I was taken aback by how different the next instrument of torture was from its predecessor. The five apple twigs, as I later confirmed them to be, were almost perfectly straight and near-identical in length. It was apparent from the aeolian harp they created as Molly shook them dry that they were more springy and dense than the ruddy and irregular shoots that make up the true birch.

The whistle those parallel fronds made as they sang through the air put me in mind of a choir, but there was nothing musical about the roar that they elicited from their supplicant. I could feel the breeze from Janice's brown locks as she writhed in what must have been hellish pain. Whilst I was beginning to feel a little sympathy for her suffering I could not but feel that her cries were a suitable recompense for the wicked ecstasy I had heard her enjoy with Hayley.

For the first time I detected a subtle hint of discomfort on the face of Sister Molly amidst the suffering she was inflicting. I shot her a glance which I hoped would convey the right mix of encouragement and menace. Sentence had been duly passed and I expected my Disciplinary Sister to execute it, or else! I am pleased to report that the message got through, and I soon perceived an increased urgency in Molly's work as she slashed the now fraying tips on what must by then have been fearfully lacerated buttocks.

As the second rod neared the end of its life, which I measured at a not inconsiderable eighteen strokes, Molly began to aim lower, eliciting piercing shrieks as the two novices wrestled to hold Janice in place. I knew from experience of Molly's technique that she reserved the thighs for that stage in a flogging when the sufferer's buttocks appear unable to take much more. As she finally threw the expired apple rod back into its bucket she once again looked to me for guidance.

I have to admit I was a little shocked at the state of Janice's rear end when I finally walked around and stood beside her torturess. The straight weals left by the apple switches had fallen on top of an already angry pattern of irregular pink marks left by the birch, and the tips had left a peripheral pattern of purple bruising and haematomas that threatened to yield blood. Yet there was no bleeding thus far, and the fact that she had managed to control her bladder satisfied me that she could withstand more. Having said that, when I looked at the fearsome Manx-style hazel rod that Molly was now holding it was clear that I would have to waive a little of her sentence: to exhaust such a stout implement on a bottom so raw would have caused fearful injury.

"Just six more should suffice," I declared, realising as I said it that even those few strokes would have been considered a severe sentence on a Manx teenager. Molly glanced again at the bruised, blistered and lacerated backside of her sobbing victim and still seemed reluctant to continue her castigation. "Would you like me to complete the punishment?" I asked. With a faint nod, Molly handed me the bundle of hazel fronds.

I was a little taken aback by the weight of the last instrument. It felt less like a birch-rod and more like five medium-weight canes all bound together, and I shared Molly's misgivings as to its likely effect on already well-punished flesh. But I could not allow my authority to be diminished by showing weakness in the presence of my entire flock, and steeled myself.

The first stroke made Janice's buttocks ripple and quiver with the impact, and there was a slight delay to her subsequent roar as five ugly stripes appeared over the existing wounds. Warming to my unexpected participation in Janice's chastisement I delivered the next two a little lower, cutting into thighs that had only recently been decorated with apple-welts. For the first time, Janice was kicking as well as fighting against her valiant holders, and howls of anguish filled the room.

The fourth stroke, delivered to the centre of Janice's prominent gluteal region brought the reward I did not like to admit to myself I was looking for. A small puddle appeared on the lower step of the block, accompanied by sobbing cries that I interpreted as expressing shame as well as pain.

My final two lashes were delivered in quick succession, as I had no desire to prolong the poor child's humiliation now that I had 'drawn' all but blood. Both strokes slashed into her 'sit spot', the crease between buttocks and thighs, where most girls have the greatest sensitivity, and the resultant screams made for a satisfying finale to her symphony of suffering. I threw the road back into the bucket, making a mental note to keep it in my office, as it still had life remaining and might serve as a suitably frightening deterrent for any girls called in for a reprimand.

As Chloe and Jasmine helped the distraught and quivering wreck to her feet I surveyed the many shocked, and a few faintly smiling, faces of the assembled community. My first severe public disciplinary session appeared to have had a suitably salutary effect on the women. I made a point of giving Janice a warm hug and praising her for her bravery. Needless to say, she was excused from any work that day, and given good care to aid her recovery.

***

I do hope this account has given a flavour of the disciplinary techniques I have employed over my first year in this wonderful position. The fact that Janice is the only one of my community to have suffered public castigation since my accession gives me hope that my severity is in fact an act of kindness, and that my tenure as Abbess will be characterised by virtue, chastity and discipline among the community at Peelham Down.

But I can't deny that corporal punishment is one of the 'perks of the job' and I would be a little disappointed if my nuns learned their lessons too well! Now, I think I need to go into my lavatory and sin a little. Don't worry, that Manx-style birch is still in excellent condition after just six strokes, and now lives in a pail of water in Sister Molly's office. After my climax I will be paying her a salutary visit!