Thirty strokes promised unimaginable pain."You know what to do. Strip and get over the whipping bench," ordered Martha, "You won't be shackled because...I'm not a customer. You will count each stroke. You won't move or try to get up until you are told that you may. Do you understand?" Yes, Madame," said a very frightened Jacqui, quietly.She quickly slipped off her overalls and lay over the whipping bench. She closed her eyes in anticipation of the agony to come when she saw the actual birch cane. 'He is growing into a big boy, your son and my nephew', I said matter-of-factly, but my sister had walked into the kitchen and called out if I wanted Red or White, with reference to wine.I looked down on my young nephew, 'Red', I replied, as I lifted the elastic of his underpants to sneak a look at his flesh.It lay flat, pulsating with a life of its own, looking as if it were trying to free itself of the black cotton encasement.I could hear my sister rummaging around in the kitchen, talking to. More

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