Oh, the illictit thrill…
Of making a girl wait, stripped for her punishment? Of arriving (to her surprise) dressed in my Regency finery to administer her thrashing? Of making her bend over the bed, and hold the rope tight? Of whipping her first for thirty seconds with the short spray birch, then with sixty quick-fire strokes of its much longer and more severe sibling?
Of watching her writhe, hearing her scream? Of taking the freshly-made, carefully-soaked Manx birch? Of breaking her with the fourth of six excruciating strokes?
Of roleplay at the most perfect level – a terrified girl punished by her stepfather, for inappropriate conduct with one of the maids?
Actually, no. I was thinking of the thrill of wandering around an area of forest, trying not to be seen stripping branches from trees by more innocent visitors, and stealthily sneaking back to the car with a large bundle of implement ingredients! And the thrill of the anticipation that followed.