Now on to business.
This time we’ll take a look at Mr. PN Dedeaux. Mr. Dedeaux by all accounts is no longer with us, but he wrote some of the most memorable, and some say the most severe, flagellation novels ever. In fact he glorifies flagellation, practically wallowing in it. As you might expect he writes a spanking scene with great focus and attention to detail. This particular novel is called “In the Territory” and describes the introduction of a young woman named Joanna to the unique society in which her sister lives. It is a male authoritarian society in which the women are routinly punished for each and every fault imaginable. Dedeaux’s love is the cane, although there is a birching scene and I know that in one version of this novel there was a paddling with a sorority paddle. There are no erotic hand spankings in a Dedeaux novel. Oh no. It’s full on six or eight or twelve strokes with a whippy cane that leave big red welts, weals and ridges, and if you mess up you’ll get it again tomorrow. The conceit here is that such a terrifying atmosphere leads to great sex, and the women of the Territory accept it as long as it keeps erections stiff and husbands randy.
In this first passage Joanna overhears her sister being summoned by her husband for punishment. We don’t actually see it happen, but we see what it could be through Joanna’s imagination. It’s a very effective POV technique.
“Mummy's going to get...it,” said the girl softly, looking very directly at Joanna. She shut the book. Awkwardly, in a hushed voice, she asked, “By 'it' you mean...?”
“A thrashing with the cane.”
“A thrashing with the cane.”
“How...can you be so sure?”
“I know. Listen.”
The silence seemed to last forever. Suddenly it was broken by the sound of brusquely drawn curtains. But this whirring of air, this beating of big wings, was completed by the same snapping of the dry twig she had heard upstairs her third day, and it struck into her soul now as it had then.
“One,” said the girl staring at her steadily. Thwhhlcck!
“Two.” Joanna groaned and sat back, closing her eyes. She heard what she knew she heard—bare female flesh cut into four, five, six times by hard whippy wood. There was a lava inside her. She felt herself tottering. After a long pause there were two more sharp strokes, a stifled cry, a man's placid growl. She realized that in some manner she seemed to be practically sitting on Pamela's right hand which had insinuated itself under her, under her skirt hiked against crushing...she stood up hotly.
Alec Reddick came along, whistling. “All ready? Let's go.”
He led the way out to the car. At the turn by the stairs Joanna nearly bumped into Cynthia and gasped. It was one thing to see a teenager like Pam in the extremities of corporal correction; it was another to see a grown woman, her hands clasped under her skirt behind, gasping with twisted face, half-doubled.
“Bad luck, Mumsie!” said the girl.
There are of course numerous incidents involving the citizens of the Territory and the tension mounts as to when Joanna is going to get it. Finally, she actually volunteers, confessing to a fault that got her sister in trouble.
“You are about to be beaten for being late. Do you have anything to say?”
“Do you wish to appeal?”
She gave her ritual answers fatally, from her depths. The sense of ceremony was exact as he bent his head and again inscribed her punishment in his book.
“Very well. You will receive six strokes with the cane. Go through and I'll deal with you in a minute.”
As if some burden had been lifted from her, in a total surrender of her will, she walked to the far end of the room, where there was a door, which she opened, closing it behind her. It gave onto a large, bare expanse of polished wood, resembling a small gymnasium—in fact, Alec used it as a keep-fit room There were bars, a leather horse, stools and weights, but chiefly her eyes were drawn to the impedimenta hanging on the walls, the straps, well oiled and used-looking, and the rack of canes, one above the other. Chiefly, also, her eyes were held to the short, hip-high structure riveted to the flooring by one wall. That'll keep you nice and tight, she told herself grimly. She was already quivering all over, and perspiring. It was very simple really, resembling some iron towel rack or suchlike. Cynthia had explained it perfectly. The top bar, adjustable, was about on the level of your, well, your lap and you duly bent over it; not before, however, you had stepped between the two ankle-level bars at the bottom. One of these could be opened and closed like a gate and made it impossible to kick back, or forward for that matter! So standing, two further simple bars pressed horizontally at the front of the legs, one at the shins beneath the knees, one at the thighs above them. The culprit's legs were braced ineluctably back, tight. So long as she was holding onto the lower bar in front with her hands she could not reasonably move her parted, tightened ass.
“Shoes off,” said a voice. Alec had come in. She shucked them, seeing with a sudden flutter that he had donned tennis sneaks and rolled his right sleeve up high. He went to a wall, selected his instrument, swished it through the air a couple of times, and came forward thoughtfully. Just like a doctor, she told herself, feeling with sudden panic a desire to pee. She thought of the Gladiator's story, what would happen if she...the sensation increased dreadfully.... “Stand there,” he said, pointing with the cane-tip, “and take down your clothes. Right down, if you please. Now bend over and grip the lower bar.” He did not seem surprised that she knew how to do so at once, but he spent some time positioning her to his satisfaction. “Get a really good hold of it. I think you know it's two extra every time you leave go of the bar.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Three if you rise before Permission.” His thumb prodded her inspectively. Bent as she was, she felt all buttock. The bars did not merely brace back her knees, they seemed to bend her legs in a bow so that all her weight fell forward, on her hands in front. Her cunt pouched back at the division of her legs and hips, but Cynthia said the cane never hit in there, at least not hard. The hips were always sufficiently curved enough to...she stared miserably at the puerile wrinkles in her panties at her ankles. Would Alec be able to see the sodden patch in their center?
“Head down.” Ah yes, to draw the flesh up fully at her seat. The cold cane touched her, measuring.
“This is Canadian acajou. Whippy, but not too.” After tucking her sweater needlessly high, he turned and went from her—perhaps to get some other frightful thing, she thought, when with a thudding rush he bounded athletically at her and into her. The limb stirred the air with a breathless whirr, a strangely peevish sound, and the cane thrashed full across her seat with its now characteristic rap. Her head came back at the shock, but she thought, I can take it. Then the true wave flamed up her skin. She contrived a grunting pant. Whrrrr-upp! The second whipped into her after a pause. It was agony. The tip seemed to burrow and she felt herself give an instinctive buttocky wriggle to throw it off. Two. Hold on, she told herself desperately, hold on. She did so until the fourth had splatted powerfully, with a ringing echo, round her hips. She tried to stamp, emitted a short, shaming fart. Alec stood behind her calmly. It was like being struck by the sun.
“Relax,” he said. “It'll hurt you less that way. You're trying to fight it.”
“I'm s-sorry....I've never been caned like this...before.”
“Always co-operate with the cane.” His fingertips touched her scorching weals. “I'm going to give you these last two hard. Concentrate on your posture, please.” There was that savage swaying in the air again and a fiery razor sliced across her skin—Phhhrr-ruppp!
“Ow!” she cried. The last followed crisply on top of it.
“Don't get up until I tell you.”
It was the hardest thing Joanna had ever done. The pain became an unspeakable flame, drenching her impossibly. She hung over, mouth open, drooling. “Ooooh... auuuuu... aaaaah!”
“All right.” She arched erect, hissing, clutching her buttocks and, feet still fettered in the system of bars, sat down heavily on the floor behind her, on her hands. She looked up at him miserably, beaten, fearful, her cunt lips shimmering as if in the heat waves from her tortured flesh. She saw him reflectively stroke the ascending chord at the center of his being and then he ordered, “Get up and put your clothes on. Let that be a lesson to you.”
Yeouch! Dedeaux doesn’t fool around. This is punishment, hard and brutal. And that’s not all. There is figging, anal sex, the works. The way he writes is blow-by-blow, almost. With a defined caning that consists of a set number of strokes, a writer can do this without being boring or repetitious. Why? Because a good writer can turn each stroke into an event--the thoughts of the spankee, what she hears and feels, her emotional state. One or more of these can be described with every stroke. Notice here the POV focus is on Joanna---what she thinks and feels. Alec, we don’t know. He’s just an implacable force. It’s very effective.
I’m generally not this severe because I’m more into loving correction, but each to his own taste and in his day Dedeaux had his ardent followers. He did not write much. There are maybe 4 or 5 other works, but they are all of equal intensity—hard, severe, and uncompromising.