The formal birching scene was a mainstay of Victorian era flagellation literature. You'll find plenty in books like "The Pearl" and other classics of that era. Here is my take on it. First, a little background. This is a scene from The Mills Governess, a spanking erotica farce that combines elements of Glassco's The English Governess with the nuttiness of a time travel comedy.When the protagonists travel in time, they inhabit the bodies of characters in the past and live through them, hence the confusing names. Anyway, the plot is that Gordon Mills wants to use the time machine he invented to witness a formal birching of his cousin. It turns out he gets much more than he bargained for.....but I digress. Why the birch? Because it was the predominant formal punishment implement of its time for domestic and school use. It was always applied to the bare bottom, predating the cane and the paddle which could be used through clothing.
So it was then that at precisely 4:00 on August 24, 1897 Emily Hollings was ushered into Cedric's study escorted by Jenny and Mrs Carstairs. She wore a thin white chemise with drawers underneath. Emily gasped when she entered the study. She had been told what her punishment would be, but the color left her face when her eyes lighted on the stool with buckling straps flanked by a bucket holding several birch rods. The rods were willow, made up of half a dozen slender switches bound by ribbons at the top.
Emily's was terrified. She was to be whipped, and the hour of her execution was here. She was helpless. Involuntarily she clenched her buttocks in apprehension.
Inwardly Gordon gloated. This was so perfect. Better, in fact, than he had imagined. He was not Richard, a teenage boy, watching passively, oh, no. He was Cedric and in control. He wondered if Emily/Barbara had any idea.
But unbeknownst to Gordon, Barbara was gone. She had been extracted as she had previously ordered, that very morning.
"As your uncle, Emily, your conduct is my responsibility. You have behaved abominably. Imagine! Cavorting with a stable boy. Can you imagine the disgrace? But you probably never thought of that, did you?"
Emily hung her head, ashamed. If only...
"So you will be thrashed by your governess. Thirty-six strokes, delivered with the full force of Miss Harwell's stout right arm."
Emily's head shot up. So many. It would be unbearable.
"No...no..." she began to sob.
"Prepare her," said Cedric gruffly to Mrs Carstairs.
The two servants pushed Emily over the stool face down. They buckled her wrists and her legs to the legs of the stool. In this position her buttocks jutted prominently, positioned over the stool's top. Emily squirmed, testing the restraints, but it did no good, it only made her bottom jiggle lewdly.
Miss Harwell took up a birch rod and swished it experimentally. It made a whining sound. Emily stiffened and looked back, her eyes wild-eyed with fear.
"Face the front please, Emily, and try to conduct yourself with some dignity," said Miss Harwell as she tucked the birch under her arm. She reached for the hem of Emily's chemise, and grasping it, lifted it up to expose Emily's lushly rounded bottom clad only in thin drawers. Emily protested this indignity, but then shrieked when Miss Harwell placed her fingers in the drawstring of the drawers and slid them down, baring Emily's bottom.
"No, no, please," wailed Emily in total embarrassment.
Miss Harwell took her stance to Emily's right. She carefully measured the birch rod so that the splayed end would fall across both cheeks evenly. Emily flinched as she felt her bottom tapped lightly. Satisfied that her position was correct, she drew back her arm. The birch rod made a whining sound as it descended and a dry thwack! as it landed. Emily screeched in pain. It was worse than any of Miss Harwell's previous punishments.
"One", intoned Mrs Carstairs.
Parallel pink lines sprang up on the crowns of Emily's buttocks where the rod had struck. Emily wriggled and cried out. Miss Harwell lined up the rod again.
Swiiishh...thwack! The impact caused a fleshy ripple of the cheeks of Emily's rear. Another pitiful cry from Emily.
"Ouch, please, it hurts so!"
Swiisshhh...whick! Another hard swipe from the rod made Emily arch her head back in pain. It must be stinging like holy hell, thought Gordon. Good. Serves her right.
But all the squirming did was made her fanny jiggle lasciviously. Gordon felt Cedric's turgid prick straining against his trousers. It was hard as a rock. Gordon noticed Richard and smiled inwardly. His eyes were wide as saucers and his cock pushed out, tenting his shorts. Richard didn't know how this had happened but he was enjoying every minute.
Swissshhh....huick! Number 4. Another cry from Emily.
Swiishhh....thwack! "5". Emily thrust forward, tiptoes drumming the floor with her toes in distress. The pink lines were merging into an overall hot pink hue.
"Ow! Ow!" she yipped.
Having found a rhythm, Miss Harwell now started whipping in earnest, delivering a stroke, pausing, then pulling back her arm for the next one. Emily grew more vocal now, yelping as the birch striped her nude fanny which grew redder with every swish. As the rod landed she would tense and throw her head back. Her bottom jiggled as the rod struck.
At number 12, Miss Harwell stopped to get another rod. Emily sagged over the stool crying. Emily's rear was striped red. The birch wasn't heavy, it was more supple and swishy than anything else, but the cumulative effect felt like bee stings on top of bee stings.
Miss Harwell was ready to start up again. Cedric said,
"Please continue. I don't think you have had nearly enough, Emily."
The whipping commenced again, stroke after swishy stroke delivered rhythmically, painting Emily's buttocks a deeper red and making the girl scream in anguish.
Emily cried hoarsely, "arrrhhh...ahhh...uhh" at each lick. Goggle-eyed, Richard watched her squirm like she was doing a fanny jiggling dance in tune to the birch that scorched her shapely seat in such a pitiless manner.
Miss Harwell prepared the final rod, shaking the withes to spread them out. As she swooshed it through the air, Cedric could see Emily flinch at the sound. This time she laid them on in hard even strokes. As each swishing lick struck Emily raised up, her buttocks jiggling with the splat of the rod. Then she cried out in pain and drummed her feet on the floor. She was no longer in control of her body but was writhing to the tune of the punishing birch.
Cedric motioned to Miss Harwell.
"Finish it," he said. No mercy for you, Barbara, thought Gordon.
Miss Harwell nodded and drew back her arm, determined to make the last few memorable.
Sweee....thwack! "34." Emily's fanny bounced lewdly.
Swiiissshhh....thwick! "35". Emily humped up and down, in a frenzied motion.
Swiisshhh....huick! "36". Emily was sobbing and blubbing in anguish, probably unaware that all thirty-six stripes had been delivered.
Cedric turned to Miss Harwell. "Well done. I think Miss Emily has been appropriately chastised."
"Thank you sir," she replied and placed the rod in the bucket with the other spent birches.
"Will you ever do anything like this again, Emily?"
"No, no, oh, no, sir," blubbed Emily.
"Miss Harwell, I would have a word with you."
"Yes, sir," said Miss Harwell.