When it was only my shirttails that remained between the blue sky and my bare rump, the two boson’s mates seized me and bent me over the cannon, the coldness of it against my belly. I felt then my shirt being pulled up almost to my shoulder-blades.

Oh, what horror and abject debasement was that! And did I not so fervently wish then to be plucked by the unseen hand of some kindly giant from off the deck of this cruel ship?

My nakedness did not alone comprise the flesh of my buttocks, but I was instantly aware of how every one of those silent onlookers could surely glimpse my manhood flesh hanging in such shameful repose between my legs. Moreover, whatever manly substance it might have had was surely now made wilted by my terror. Besides, the only females ever to have laid eyes upon my intimate parts before had been my dear mother and Marie, my nursemaid – and only ever in my infancy.

And now Miss Denby-Wells had surely glimpsed them!

I recall how pathetically had been my attempt at shielding my shameful exposure. I quickly closed my feet together, so as to screen that part of my manly anatomy. But the effort had been in vain.

‘Feet wide apart, mister!’ the captain snapped. ‘You’re not bent over my cannon to PISS upon it, but only to KISS it! Spread your feet wide, so that they are firmly anchored to the deck. That way you shall keep a balance, and you will need it…for I’m not about to tickle your poxy little arse with a lady’s hat-feather. No, sir. It’s a dozen of the rattan cane for you!’

A dozen? That was the first I had been told of my sentence, as much as it had been the first mention of the rattan cane. Yet my mind had taken in these words with scarcely more than fleeting concern. It was the entirety of my humbling plight that paralysed my brain, the precise manner of my flogging having been of such minor significance in the immensity of it all. 

Mercifully, from then on, I could recall only passing images of the ritual. There had been no ominous drum-roll beforehand. Apparently, as I had not been formally sentenced at a court-martial, I was to be spared that ceremonial refinement. Admiralty regulations allowed Captain Stanton to dispense with such formalities in the case of errant midshipmen. But when due punishment began, with each vicious strike, it was Constance Denby-Wells who came to me through my haze of excruciation. So conscious was I of her bright eyes always upon me, I strove to make no sound, knowing how that would only compound my shame.

But after the first three or four agonising cuts, my determination waned. I could no longer contain my piteous groans; and, after a good half-dozen strokes, I began to cry out, oblivious to whether she found it unmanly of me to do so or not. By the tenth cut, I was howling in agony and past caring of any matter upon Earth, except that my ravaged buttocks should belong to some other unfortunate midshipman.

Finally it was over, and by then I was certainly little better than a blubbing wreck, my nineteen years as if reduced to the age of an infant child. I knew that I had not acquitted myself with as much stoic dignity as would have become a junior officer and a gentleman. It was this particular thought that added to my misery as I lay there on my bunk now. How should I look my shipmates in the eye again, let alone look into the eyes of Miss Denby-Wells? She would surely despise me now, if she did not already do so, just as certainly every man and officer aboard would do.

I groaned aloud at this notion as much as I groaned for my throbbing rump. I was engulfed in misery, wanting only that I should be safe in my cosy bed at home, listening to the nesting swallows beneath the gables.

‘Cornelius,’ a soft voice came distantly to me then, as if to disturb my private solitude and despair.

‘Cornelius,’ the voice repeated, this time a fraction louder.

Was I now in some troubled dream? …

 … But no, I was not in a dream. Surely these wretched midshipmen’s quarters were out of bounds to passengers? Nonetheless, she was here, standing over me and gazing down at my streaked and naked impropriety.

With the speed of lightening I hastened to pull down my shirttails which, until then, had been lifted back to allow my buttocks to have a goodly exposure to the cooling air. But I was not quick enough to cover myself, such that even in the dim light of that ugly cabin she had seen everything of me that she had not already seen before, except that now it was all at such close quarters.

‘You poor thing,’ she cooed. ‘Your bottom…from what I can see of it…looks as though the devil himself has scourged you with his claws.

‘W-what…are you d-doing here, Miss Denby…er…Constance?’ I stammered, aghast at her presence.

She replied airily, as if the reason were of no consequence.

‘Lieutenant Crichton said as how I might be permitted a visit to you. He suggested that you would welcome some friendly company…which I’m sure is true…is it not, Cornelius?’ she smiled down at me then sat down on the side of the bunk…

… I saw how prettily her hair was arranged, the golden curls held up in neat bunches by small silver combs. Again she was the very picture of beauty, a creature of such divine creation – and one who sat so daintily on the edge of my bunk and so close to me. I remember my astonishment at the trim narrowness of her hourglass waist, as if it had been compressed so acutely by her corset stays that it was at risk of strangulation. Her slender thighs were no less magnificent, the shape of her tightly-contoured buttocks clearly discernible and not in the least bit tempered by the flowing spread of her skirts – they being so neatly laid out across the edge of my bunk.

I was incapable of speech and, for a moment, there was a silence between us. Only the habitual creaking and groaning of the ship invaded these masculine precincts of lowly midshipmen – a place in which she never should have been…

 ‘Does it hurt much?’ she enquired ever so sweetly, as if her hurt brother might have pricked his finger on a rose-thorn.

I nearly laughed, except that to have done so would most surely have caused me unnecessary movement which my buttocks could ill afford. I did not answer at first, not knowing how to. My toes were curled over in my mortifying embarrassment, every sinew and muscle of my body tensed.

She giggled then.

‘Or is it that your pride is most hurt, rather than your poor backside? Tell me, I pray, Cornelius.’

Now I had to answer. Yet, when it came, it was pitiful, making her giggle all over again.

‘I…I…er…both reasons,’ I mumbled feebly.

‘Both reasons? Do you mean that it’s your lean, manly rump that hurts most from the flogging?’ she persisted. ‘Or do you mean that your pride hurts more, on account of how I had to witness your humiliating punishment? Pray tell me, Cornelius!’ Her tone was so full of teasing wickedness.

Now I was struck dumb again. I knew that she was mocking me. Nonetheless, how should I not desire her presence here beside me, the scent of her skin and petticoats so thrilling to my nostrils? And if it were true that she had been ordered to witness my humbling punishment – which seemed a trifle hard to swallow – I could scarcely lay the blame at her pretty feet. Perhaps our captain had indeed ordered her to, as means of redress for her complicity in my crime.

It was then that I felt her hand move from my arm down to my bare leg. This movement seemed no longer of a sisterly nature, although I could not have said what nature it was. All I could feel was that blissful tingling sensation that travelled up from my leg into the sweaty recesses of my loins.

‘Relax, my poor Cornelius. You are like a block of wood. Although it is pleasant to touch a man’s hard muscle, I prefer it to be supple…and not as if it were the stiff carcass of a dead mule!’

Her voice was more the contented purring of a cat, barely raised more than a whisper, her words so devoid of ladylike purity. Yet, I was no less beguiled by it, every fibre of my mule’s carcass at once loosening to this soft magic. Even my throbbing rump gave me some brief respite, and my mortified embarrassment seemed momentarily in retreat. Her thighs were so near mine, the tightly moulded mounts of her bosom thrust out over me so that I could see the pale sweep of the valley before it disappeared beneath the cotton frills of her bodice.

A wave of some strange emotion that I could not define swept over me. How then should I have desired to melt into her arms and let my head nestle against those tight mouldings of her bosom, and then to kiss the soft flesh that overflowed from those cotton frills! I was overcome with a sense of dreamy unreality, my body paralysed. No movement was possible. All the while the hand that had rested so shockingly on my bare leg had now begun to caress me, making the tiny hairs on my skin tingle with delight.

‘Take your hands away from your shirt,’ she commanded in a voice that was so utterly mesmerizing that it might have come from some siren goddess…

Her teasing caresses went at first to the crook of my knee, and then back up my leg again, travelling in soft little rubbing motions until I felt her hand gently take hold of the tail ends of my shirt and abruptly pull it all the way up my lower spine.

What shocking exposure there was now! The fullness of my hindquarters was so blatantly displayed to her gaze. I remember how a little shudder went through me. Otherwise I remained there motionless on my belly, feeling the sudden airiness about my loins and feeling, too, so completely helpless.

Nothing happened for a moment, but I heard her suck in her breath in an exaggerated manner.

‘Oh, heavens! What punishment your poor cheeks have taken!’ she exclaimed, letting out her breath then with what might have been a little sigh of wicked delight.

I was conscious that she had bent right over me, her face so near to the twinned spheres of her scrutiny.

‘Hmmm,’ she breathed, her eyes so bright with interest. ‘Let’s see. One… two… four… six… nine, and, yes… it’s a round dozen cuts he gave you, my poor Cornelius!’ she announced gleefully. ‘Even though I counted them at the time, I can anyway clearly make out each one now.’

Her hand was resting still upon my leg but just beneath the under-hang of my buttocks. I wondered vaguely if my manhood flesh beneath me were adequately concealed from her view. Yet, from the unwilled repose of my shank, I had visions of its head peeping back from under my legs. Whether it was so or otherwise, it seemed not to have been the object of her particular interest at that moment.

‘Your welts remind me of…what now? Yes, the ruts made by the wheels of a carriage, except that they are not etched upon the road but upon your poor flesh…and they are so VERY red and swollen!’

She might have been having some quiet conversation with herself now, musing pensively upon some diagnostic matter of artistic merit. There was even a seriousness to her voice, yet that tincture of wicked amusement was always there.

But her impure scrutiny was far from over.

‘Your cheeks are so manly and lean, but small and compact, Cornelius! So little flesh on them to cushion the blows! And there’s scarcely a square inch of unpunished skin anywhere. For example here…I can see that he has cut you twice…even three times…on the exact same spot, so that the welt is all the more pronounced. What agony that must have been for you! Poor boy.’

I scarcely needed such a commentary, neither the slightest reminder of the agony, but she was clearly fascinated by the cruel tapestry of my backside. But now, even more shockingly, I felt her hand move softly onto my left buttock. I flinched, but still I did nothing to resist such an irreverent touch. What should I have done?

‘Now, this one here…’ she said, her voice husky now, ‘…is surely one that his cane swiped you with three times. It’s as deep a cut as a ploughman’s furrow…and all the way along both sides! It is only broken by the rift between!’

It was at that moment that I felt her fingertip touch that particular ploughman’s furrow. Despite the numbness that had so mercifully given me some respite from the stinging soreness, I nonetheless realised that she was tracing her finger gently along the core of this furrow, as if fascinated at how the inflamed skin was raised up on either side.

But for the dryness of my mouth I would have gulped. My mind had long since lost all capacity for rational thought. I knew only the gentle fingertip as it continued tracing its improper path. When it came to the end, I felt the finger slip down onto the virgin, unpunished skin of my scarp, hesitating a second before moving across the valley onto the other side. There, it sought the continuation of that same welt, once more beginning to trace gently along it.

‘Is that not soothing?’ she enquired in the manner of someone smearing butter upon a small burn.

‘Yes…th-thank you,’ was all that I could croak, even though her impropriety was more thrilling than it was soothing.

‘Good. What a brave midshipman you are. So very brave, my poor Cornelius!’

All the while she made little cooing sounds like those of an amorous dove. And all the more did I not find myself in a kind of trance – where the frontier between reality and fantasy was undefined? What had started out as utter mortification of my soul had now become something of erotic intrigue. Every second I was slipping further into some hazy stupor – one that was somewhere between blissful pleasure and throbbing incomprehension. No longer was it important to understand how a refined, well-bred young lady of such apparent innocence could be doing this to me. Neither could I think further than of being here in these now cosy precincts of a midshipman’s quarters, nor could I heed the dangers that must surely arise. But the presence of Constance Denby-Wells was more potent than a thousand cuts of the captain’s evil cane...

 …The advance of her fingers was all too real. They moved closer up into the gully beneath my thighs, forcing me to open my legs just a fraction more. But I could feel that what she searched for was already awaiting her, and now the stirring was more as though the wicked serpent had awoken from its slumber.  

‘What manner of things should I find down here, Cornelius?’ she asked in a voice that was little more than a flirtatious whisper. At the same time, I felt those whispered words breathe gently onto my right buttock. Now that she had bent fully over me, her nose was so close against my ravaged flesh.

‘Surely it will be your manhood I shall find hiding down here beneath you?’ she breathed the words again so that they brushed the skin of my buttocks once more.

‘And, my poor Cornelius, I hope that when I encounter it, I shall find it undamaged… and not spoiled by the metal of that beastly cannon when you were so cruelly stretched across it! Your captain’s cane might well have decimated your poor rump…and, even though you wriggled like a desperate eel, I fervently hope that the gun-barrel caused no harm to your masculinity!’

She giggled then.

Not that I had any reply to so shocking a pronouncement, it was at that precise second that I felt her fingers locate that part of my masculinity that she had so fervently hoped had not been harmed. At least, it was the very head of it that she touched, and the sudden touching of it made me gasp aloud.

‘Oh, Cornelius, what IS this thing that peeps out there and which is so soft…like a tiny satin bauble that a kitten plays with?’

Perhaps the finger and thumb that now held my satin head was profoundly better than the claws of a playing kitten, although no less shocking in its tenure.