The below is one of my favorite passages from the book "The Birch in the Boudoir," which I must have bought at Borders back around 1990 something, and which is freely available at https://www.scribd.com/doc/239856074/Birch-in-the-Boudoir or https://horntip.com/html/books_&_MSS/1900s/1905_birch_in_the_boudoir_(HC)/index.htm and which is apparently so literary as to deserve the following gloss from Vice: https://www.vice.com/en/article/ppqda7/cliterature-birch-in-the-boudoir If you read this excerpt you'll see immediately how much inspiration I've drawn from it in my own writing, as I say it I purchased the book (paper book OMG!) in the 90s, it lives on in my head and on my iPhone still.
Perhaps there are other moralists who would persuade you to leave the ways of the libertine. You may take your choice here. What of the learned Dr. Jacobus, that master of moral science? You might watch his antics through these private windows here. See, this is one which looks into the tiled toilet suite.
This time it is Noreen, on hands and knees, who plies the cloth and bucket. No one denies that this nineteen-year-old strumpet is a suitable object of disciplinary zeal. See her straight, strong back and bold, young breasts in the clinging singlet. Observe the impudence in her strong, pale features and brown eyes, in the flick of her dark fringe as the straight hair brushes her collar. Observe the pale-blue jeans cloth, drum skin-tight, over firm, muscled thighs and the sturdy statuesque cheeks of Noreen’s bottom!
Dr. Jacobus observes her too. He watches her at her task. Noreen shakes her level fringe clear and stares back at him with contempt. She squirms in the grip of the two valets as they place her on her belly over another fixed stool on the tiled floor, securing her so that Noreen too is conveniently and tightly strapped on all fours over the apparatus.
Now Jacobus is no imperialist tyrant. He believes in the virtues of discipline and purity. Noreen shakes back her dark hair and cranes ’round at him. Jacobus squats, admiring how the tight jeans seat moulds the firm, big cheeks of Noreen’s arse. He undoes her belt and lowers the jeans. Now he can tighten extra straps ’round her thighs. His long, learned nose approaches the dividing cleft of the pale, sturdy mounds of Noreen’s buttocks.
“Ever had a punishment enema before, Noreen?” the sage inquires. “No? You’ll get one every day from now on until your manners improve. Two quarts. Three, if your insolence persists.”
He takes a penis-shaped nozzle, soaps it, and threads it deep into Noreen’s behind. A tube runs up from it to the stand above, the stand as yet empty. Noreen’s impudence falters, for her ordeal has the dread of the unknown.
Dr. Jacobus leaves her for a moment, during which Noreen squirms her head desperately to see the apparatus of punishment. He returns with a large, two-quart glass jar, made for this purpose. Grinning at her, he makes Noreen look into its contents. Leavings of the Arab boys’ tosspots and the guards’ spittoons, no doubt, with other copious contributions from Tania, Maggie, and Julie. Making Noreen watch, he adds the contents of the liquid soap bottle at the hand basin.
“One quart, Noreen, to begin with. Then the birch for ten minutes. Then the second quart. Then the birch again. The nozzle to remain in place for quite half an hour.”
At nineteen years old, Noreen is a quite tall and strongly made girl. Yet the straps are stout enough to render this vain. Jacobus places the jar on the stand, attaching the rubber tube with a clamp upon it. He pauses, having leisure to kneel and fondle his culprit. Under the pretext of adjustment, he buggers Noreen with the nozzle while his other hand tickles her love-pouch.
“Now you shall be punished, Noreen,” he says at last, “with a bellyache to drive the insolence from you!”
He releases the clamp and the noxious flood surges down the tube and up Noreen’s bottom, into her tripes. She cries out in dismay, and laments her aching guts. Jacobus grins with moral gratification. Seizing the triple-switched prison birch, he thrashes the back of her knees and up the rear of her strong, young thighs. Despite the tube running out from between them, he can birch the pale sturdy cheeks of Noreen’s bottom with great vigour. He raises a weal with every swish, continuing until the two mounds of Noreen’s arse are birched raw. Then the clamp is removed a second time and Noreen screams even before the effect of the surging flood makes itself felt. Groaning under the labour pains of her double arse-load, she endures a second prison birching.
Noreen, a strapping young wench of nineteen, is strong enough to eject the nozzle by arse contractions before the time is up. With what results! Maddened by the birching, she emits a fountain gush from her rear, soaking her seat, her legs, and the floor around her. As she lies forward on her belly over the stool, thrashed and exhausted, the fruit of Jacobus’ zeal peeps rudely out from Noreen’s behind! In his triumph, he thrashes dementedly with the birch until the proofs of his victory lie in a lewd curve down Noreen’s bottom-cheeks. How the moralist clutches himself at this! The thick and juicy salvos of his passion add a further adornment to the state of Noreen’s backside.