Robert and I are faithful to each other, and that extends to the administration of discipline. I haven’t thrashed a bare bottom other than Robert’s for several years, and Robert has received discipline from only me during the same period.

It was not always like this. As a professional disciplinarian I caned, tawsed and whipped a wide variety of bare bottoms, and it was during that time that I met Robert. Robert had reported to numerous disciplinarians for the punishment he needed until he met me. It was an exciting and enjoyable time. It was Robert’s idea to see if we might try to relive the past, and after hearing his idea, I embraced it at once. I would take on a new persona, become a different person. I rarely use bad language, so, to distance myself from Annie Bee, I decided to call myself MISTRESS FUCKING MERCILESS, making it quite clear that the unexpected should be expected. I’m quite sure I will be able to slip into my new role effortlessly. Each time I write a book try to I put myself in the position of the ‘heroine’ so I know how to adjust my mindset. I took over the development of his idea from that point on.

I decided that Robert would only ever meet MFM when he was already secured over the whipping bench. He would never know when she might appear. At some point during a future punishment, I would leave the room. MFM would appear shortly afterwards. She would always wear a mask, making it impossible for Robert to read her face or see her smile. I’ve already bought the mask, and I love the expressionless face (see photograph). There is always the option of painting some features on her at some time in the future.

I have been punishing Robert regularly for so long now that he can sometimes anticipate what I have planned for him. That will change when he makes the acquaintance of MFM. She could even be a different disciplinarian each time he meets her. At the first meeting, I have decided, she will set the bar higher than Annie Bee, taking discipline to a new level. Rules on noise and fuss will be enforced more rigorously and penalties will be harsher. Strokes of the cane and tawse will be administered with maximum severity and nothing but perfection will suffice. If there is the slightest doubt about the severity of just one stroke, then Robert can expect the entire batch to be repeated.

Pleading for mercy will be absolutely forbidden with draconian penalties imposed if MFM so much as suspects the idea is even being considered.

MFM’s idea of fun is experimenting with implements, making strokes as spiteful as possible. If she manages to make her subject squeal, so much the better. There is always a price to pay for fuss. Whole batches will be repeated, or doubled, for the slightest reason. But MFM doesn’t need a reason to repeat batches – she can do so just for the fun of it. She doesn’t need to justify anything she does, but she might enjoy explaining her thought process to her helpless subject. Imagine that she has just administered six agonising strokes with a particularly spiteful implement, that had her subject gasping. I can already hear her voice and imagine the things she might say:

“That was fun. I think I’ll repeat it. On second thoughts, I think I’ll double it.”

“I don’t think they were quite as hard as I would have liked. I’ll have to repeat the whole batch.”

“Stroke number five didn’t sound quite right to me. I think I’ll repeat the whole batch.”

“That still wasn’t quite hard enough. I think I’ll repeat it again.”

“I’m quite impressed that you managed to take those in silence. Well done. However, the reason might be that they weren’t spiteful enough, so I’d better repeat them to see if I can add a bit more venom.”

“You made too much fuss that time Robert. Let’s see if you can show a bit more self control while I repeat the entire batch. I’ll see if I can make it just a little harder this time.”

“Do you think they were hard enough, Robert? Do you think, perhaps, that I should repeat them? I’m disappointed that you don’t agree, so I’m going to double the strokes and make them a bit harder too. Perhaps that will help you realise that you must never disagree with me. My purpose is to make your punishment as painful as possible. Your purpose is to accept whatever I deem appropriate and without question.”

I think you have an idea of her mindset. No matter how hard Robert may try to comply with her instructions, she will always find excuses to repeat and double thrashings.

Annie Bee can sometimes exercise reason and fairness when deciding on punishment. MFM will not be so predictable. Although Annie Bee is a very strict and harsh disciplinarian, she does occasionally exercise compassion. MFM doesn’t know the meaning of the word. As her name suggests, she is totally merciless. When Robert meets MFM it will be the beginning of a journey into the unknown. He won’t be able to anticipate anything. The blank masked face of MFM will tell him nothing. I seem to have written my way into MFM’s mindset already.

Robert hasn’t yet met MFM, and he doesn’t know when he will. Nor do I. She will make her first appearance when Annie Bee feels the time is right to slip into her shoes. He’s told me that the prospect of meeting MFM terrifies him. I’ve told him that I suspect his fears are more than justified. I’ll let you know how their first meeting goes in due course. In the meantime I think I’ll get Robert to reinforce the joints of the whipping bench. They do tend to creak a little when Robert is being subjected to particularly severe punishment. Perhaps MFM will redefine ‘severe’.


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It’s been seven years since I began publishing books, and I feel that some of the covers need freshening up, so I’ve started with my first ever story, “Jonathan’s Introduction to the Cane & Tawse”. I probably wrote this story about ten years ago, so I thought I’d reminisce by reading it through again, and check for errors. I have to confess that I really enjoyed it, and couldn’t put it down. The description of the canings and tawsings really wetted my appetite, and by the time I’d finished I was almost desperate to thrash Robert. He proof reads all my books and I wondered if he remembered my first characters.

“Robert,” I asked him, “Who would you rather be dealt with by, Mrs Weston or Mrs McKay?”

“Er, well, I’m not sure,” he replied, looking exceedingly uneasy.

“In that case you will be dealt with by both of them, or more accurately, by me in the role of both. I’ve just read my first book and I’m in the mood to set your bare bottom ablaze. Get the whipping bench ready. I want everything prepared in fifteen minutes.”

Robert looked very uncomfortable. It is usual for me to give him a day’s notice before I thrash him. It gives him a chance to mentally prepare, but my need to cane and tawse him was too intense. I needed to hear the sound of rattan and leather biting deep into his bare bottom. I needed to see him writhe and squirm as colourful weals sprang up across his helpless bottom. I needed to hear him squeal and plead for mercy. He knows that it is very unwise to argue with me over matters such as this. I timed his preparation.

“That was seventeen minutes, Robert,” I said, looking at my watch, as he stood nervously beside the whipping bench, naked apart from a protective thong. “I instructed you to be ready in fifteen. You obviously need more practice.”

“Sorry, Miss,” was his weak response.

“I’m sure you are, but nowhere near as sorry as you will be in a few minutes time. Place yourself in position over the bench.”

Robert was trembling as he lowered his body over the whipping bench. The first restraining strap was tightened across the small of his back within a few seconds. Wrist and legs restraining straps followed, and he was soon totally helpless, with his gaping bare bottom presented for me to do exactly as I pleased. Apart from the feint bruises left from an appointment with my hellstrap some weeks earlier, his bottom was unblemished and fit for punishment.

“As you may remember, Robert, Mrs Weston likes to use the cane, whereas Mrs McKay has a passion for the tawse. Who do you think should begin?”

“I don’t know, Miss,” he whimpered.

“In that case, I think you should savour the taste of Mrs Weston’s cane first.”

In my opinion, I have a vivid imagination. When I first wrote the story about Jonathan, I could picture the imposing figure of Mrs Weston. I was familiar with her large, somewhat old-fashioned kitchen, with the large old pine table that she tied Jonathan over for his first caning. Even though I’d never been there, I was able to see it all.

Now, as I looked down at the bare bottom that was presented to me for punishment, and with a cane in my hand, I felt I was Mrs Weston. Robert was now Jonathan, and my word he deserved a sound caning today! Jonathan had lied to me about his experience, resulting in me entrusting him to carry out the work of a skilled builder. The plumbing work he’d completed in the loft had been seriously sub-standard, resulting in a leak that had caused dreadful damage to my house. Now he was to pay the price. His caning would fit the crime. I would make sure that Jonathan’s introduction to the cane would be memorable and very painful. He deserved no less.


Ah.. The bliss of seeing a heavy cane bite deep into the soft flesh of a helpless bare bottom. The delicious, sharp ‘crack’ the impact makes. He began to gasp and writhe in agony almost at once.

“You will take your caning in silence,” I instructed. “Just twelve strokes. Less than you deserve, but in total silence. Otherwise I will add strokes. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss,” he sobbed.


Harder. Oh, yes! He certainly felt that one. He just managed to stifle another gasp, but his body language confirmed that it was a real struggle for him. The muscles in his legs stood out like rods of iron and his bottom weaved bizarrely within the confines of his restraints.


Even harder, and resulting in a squeal. I’d broken him already. So after just three strokes we were already into extras. Wonderful!

I caned him hard and mercilessly, and he squealed and writhed at every stroke. I didn’t bother to stop at twelve strokes. He was into extras and he knew it, so I simply continued the caning, maintaining the agony at ‘very intense’ without affording him the luxury of a pause.  He absorbed eighteen of my very best. I put down the cane, then watched the angry weals decorating his bottom  deepen in colour.

“That was fun,” I said, as he whimpered. “I think I’ll retire for a cup of Earl Grey. I suggest you prepare yourself for twelve strokes from Mrs McKay with her tawse. Twelve strokes, with extras, of course, if there is the slightest sound from your mouth. I won’t be able to match the Scottish accent, but I think I’ll let the tawse do the talking.”

I left him to contemplate his fate.

I think you can probably guess what happened when Mrs McKay took her extra heavy, Lochgelly tawse to his writhing bottom when the tea break was over.
I plan to gradually work my way through some of my earlier books, giving them a fresh cover, and reading them again to check for any errors. Perhaps it will also inspire me to step back in time with Robert once again over the whipping bench.


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I’ve received a few comments from readers of my blog suggesting that I am a little harsh when responding to pleas for mercy from Robert during punishment, so I thought I should clarify my position. Before I go any further I should add that Robert knows that I simply do not do mercy. I’ve imprinted this on his mind, via his bottom, relentlessly, for over a decade. So when Robert places himself over the whipping bench and allows himself to be secured and so placing himself at my mercy, he knows there will be none.
Punishment is supposed to hurt. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the whole point, so the more it hurts, the better the punishment. The pain suffered during punishment should be unbearable. That’s why I nearly always restrain Robert. For me the punishment only really starts at the point where Robert feels he can’t take any more. It’s at this point when he can start pleading for mercy. For me, this is one of those magic moments. I have broken through the last chink in his pain threshold. Is now the time to stop? Of course not. Now is the time to get started. Now is the time to administer the strokes with even more venom and spite. Now is the time to lick my lips and grit my teeth so I can delight in the tawse or cane biting deeper and more savagely into his squirming, writhing bottom. To stop now would be rather like abandoning a one hundred meter sprint when you are in the lead with just thirty meters to go. In those final thirty meters you would give it everything, and so is the case when thrashing Robert. When Robert pleads “Please, I can’t take anymore,” I translate this as “You’ve just broken through my pain threshold, so now’s the time to up the game and really start laying the strokes on hard.” Putting it another way, if you were the pilot of an aircraft that is racing down a runway, building up speed, would you throttle back just as the wheels were about lift from the ground? Of course not.

Everyone is entitled to have their own view on this, but I hope this clears up any confusion on my attitude towards mercy.

For the same reasons, I don’t do safewords. As a professional and with my experience it is me who decides when Robert has been adequately punished, not Robert.

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Being my full-time partner means that Robert’s bottom is required to accept regular and severe canings, tawsings and whippings, and is rarely free of marks from a recent thrashing. I wish I was ambidextrous, but I’m not. I’m right-handed, and this results in Robert’s right bottom cheek being subjected to more severe punishment than his left. Sometimes I wish I had a twin sister who was left-handed, so we could thrash him in unison, as in my new book ‘Horsed and Tawsed’, (to be published soon) but on reflection, I think I’ll keep him to myself, and improvise.

Making more use of my hellstrap is one way to even up punishment. My hellstrap is a shorter than normal tawse and I adore using it in a very spiteful way which leaves his right bottom cheek unscathed. To add venom to strokes with my hellstrap I adopt a wrap-around technique, where I have Robert secured, helplessly over our whipping bench with his bare bottom gaping. I stand close to his head, then bring the hellstrap down on his left flank, causing the tails to curl around his left bottom cheek, and with luck, sending the tawse tips to accelerate into his bottom cleft. It’s not easy to get it just right, because the target area is unsighted, but a carefully positioned mirror can help. When I do get it right the result is deliciously excruciating. The hellstrap will bite in with a resounding ‘crack’, and Robert will go into a frenzy of futile struggling and squealing, as he tries, and fails, to clench his bottom cheeks. Robert always wears a padded thong for punishment, and that is essential when using the hellstrap in the way I like to.

Yesterday I decided that, with Robert still recovering from a sound bare bottom caning of just over a week ago, I would amuse myself by treating him to hellstrap workshop to hone my skills. With no particular number of strokes in mind, I began to apply the hellstrap to his naked, gaping bottom, gradually increasing the wrap-around element of each stroke. Robert was soon gasping and wriggling.

I gradually increased the severity and spitefulness until I reached an absolutely exquisite moment when I managed to administer about six, brisk, real crackers right into his bottom cleft in succession. He went into a complete frenzy of writhing and shrieking. And then came the part I always love the most: He started pleading for mercy. It is completely beyond me why, after years as my partner, he hasn’t yet learned that I don’t do mercy. Pleading to me for mercy never, ever, results in anything other than encouraging me to administer strokes with even more venom, and that is exactly what happened. While he writhed and shrieked with even moire urgency, I upped my game to administer another venomous dozen right into his gaping cleft, then continued, gradually working lower, to reach into his inner, upper left thigh. My goodness, what a fuss he made! Delicious.
What fun we had together. After much strenuous and hopeless struggling with his restraints, Robert was sweating so profusely that I almost had to ‘peel’ him off the whipping bench by the time I had eventually finished with him. I was delighted to observe that I had not added a single mark to his right bottom cheek, but looking a little to the left was another story altogether.  He’ll need a few weeks to recover, but I’m already planning his next treat. Another dice game, I think. On the other hand, if we manage to be alone together on the 31st December, I might cane him into the new year to the chimes of Big Ben, as I did a few years ago.


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But it put a smile on his bottom, many smiles. Let me explain: I was rummaging through my old bag of discipline equipment when I came across an implement I had forgotten about. I wasn’t even sure what the proper name for it was. It’s a leather loop with an attractive, turned wooden handle. I applied it to the bare bottoms of a few clients quite early in my career as a professional disciplinarian, and the general consensus was that could impart quite a sting. However, it was the kiss of the cane and the tawse that were usually deemed more appropriate, and my leather loop was forgotten – until last week.

When I showed it to my partner, Robert, he confessed that he’d never felt one applied to his bottom. That situation was soon rectified, and after a few whacks he confirmed that it did indeed sting quite a bit, but I felt it lacked enough weight to really bite in. I like my thrashings to be absolutely excruciating. ‘Sting quite a bit’ is simply not good enough. I did, however, notice that each stroke of the loop left a lovely ‘smile’ shaped red mark on his bottom, and that decided me to get my hands on a loop that would make more of an impression. Robert was given instructions to either acquire or make one that I would meet my requirements. Robert knows that he is most wise to comply with my instructions, so he scurried off to see what he could do.

The following day he presented me with a loop made from a length of round, electrical flex. It has considerable weight and is quite flexible. Giving him a few strokes over his presented clothed bottom was enough to confirm that it was a satisfyingly spiteful little implement with a lot of bite. Like the tawse, it can reach places that the cane can’t, but I soon discovered that it can flick back to catch the administrator’s wrist, so requires the wearing of a long leather glove. I was keen to give it a thorough test, so Robert was instructed to assemble the whipping bench.

I was delighted to see, as I later strapped Robert down, naked, over the whipping bench, that his bottom was already decorated with a few distinct smiles. As these were the result of only moderate/light strokes over clothing, I was very keen to see what nice hard strokes on the bare could achieve. Robert was wearing a protective thong to keep his ‘bits’ safe, so I was free to explore the target presented with cheerful abandon. And that is what I did.

I quickly discovered that, being such flexible implement with a very smooth finish, it had a tendency to glance off his bottom. This had not been such a problem when he had clothing on, but on naked flesh it was. I changed my position to stand closer to his head. This enabled me to administer ‘wrap-around’ strokes. This method worked brilliantly. It means the target is largely unsighted, but I positioned our floor standing mirror to give me a view of where the loop was biting in. Now I was able to really get down to some seriously severe strokes. A good ‘wrap-around’ will accelerate the ‘smile’ part of the loop wonderfully and add real venom.

My word, what a fuss he made! As I began the enthusiastic and vigorous exploration of his gaping, presented bottom, he squealed and wriggled deliciously. It was wonderful to watch white smiles spring up after each stroke, then fill with colour. He went into a frenzy of futile struggling and squealing as I laid a pattern of smiles along his bottom cleft, and was shrieking pitifully as I turned my attention to his upper, inner thigh.

Poor Robert thought it was over when, after about thirty strokes, I put down the loop, then slipped off my leather glove. However, his relief was short lived. I informed him that I was merely taking a tea break to watch his weals mature, before continuing the exercise. He pleaded to be let free, saying that he couldn’t take any more, so I replaced the glove, picked up the loop then administered six, harsh, penalty strokes. He knows only too well that pleading for mercy is strictly forbidden. Will he never learn? I hope not.

“The pattern on your bottom reminds me of the 1950s wallpaper my grandmother had in her lounge,” I said to Robert, as I sat sipping Earl Grey tea, admiring the overlapping red and purple crescent weals my new loop had produced.

Robert, wisely, resisted the urge to plead for mercy again.

“The colour is different, of course,” I continued. “My grandmother’s wallpaper was a sickly green, and your pattern of crescents looks a bit sparse, but I’ll rectify that when I’ve finished my tea.”

I felt a smile appear on my face as Robert groaned in despair. Robert groaned again, several minutes later when, refreshed and rested, I slipped on my glove and picked up the loop. I had the feel of the loop by now and with a little more wrist action I was confident that I would be able to put even more venom into the strokes.

The next few minutes were an absolute joy. As Robert squealed and writhed, I applied the loop to his squirming bare bottom with spite and severity. It was glorious to see it bite deep into his trembling, squirming flesh and to hear the resultant squeals. Once again, the strokes that bit into his bottom cleft and inner, upper thigh produced the most delicious reactions, but I tried to make sure that his bottom cheeks received their fair share of attention too.

The thrashing ceased after about thirty more strokes and his bottom was a mass of colourful smiles. Once again, poor Robert thought it was over. I saw his body gradually relax as the fire in his bottom began to fade.

“You did make rather a lot of fuss, Robert,” I said.

He looked around in dread to see that I was still holding the loop.

“I think you deserve a final six strokes,” I said, “If you take them in silence I will declare your punishment over.”

Poor Robert tried so hard to stay quiet, and I tried so hard to make sure he found it impossible. I put absolutely everything into the six strokes that followed and he squealed and wriggled for all he was worth, so I gave him another six.

What a lovely little implement my new loop has proved to be. Robert tells me the sting is eye-wateringly intense. He tells me that it is made from 7mm diameter electrical flex and it measures about 40cm long as seen in the photograph, but the shape lengthens and narrows when it is wielded, producing a more pronounced ‘smile’ on the flesh. I may get him to make me some variants, perhaps using other materials, such as rubber, or perhaps implements incorporating more than one loop, but I shall definitely have his bare bottom dancing under a loop again before too long.

On other matters: I may have looked to be unproductive this year, but I have several new books almost ready to publish, and I’ve just published ‘Dancing Under the Cane’. Others to follow in due course, including one that just has to include a loop.

Finally – FACEBOOK! Over the years I’ve put a lot of time into building up an entertaining facebook profile. I’ve uploaded many interesting images, keeping them what I believed to be ‘decent’, and I’ve amassed almost three thousand friends. Facebook have closed me down. For the time being I will leave it closed. You can still find me on FetLife where my profile name is ABee.

Happy spanking.


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The heroines in my stories, like myself, usually have, or develop, a passion for administering corporal punishment. They are also usually beautiful, and Robert, wisely, tells me I am too. However, in my stories, my heroines can also have access to anything that my imagination chooses to gift them. In my soon to be published story, ‘Dancing Under the Cane’ Karla is the heroine, and she is based on somebody I once worked with.

Before I became a professional disciplinarian, I worked briefly in an office. I was totally unsuited to the job because I am unable to take instructions, especially from men. (I prefer to give instructions to men, and to cane them.) Karla arrived as a temporary filing clerk, and within a short time had impressed the management with her initiative and energy. On the first day she observed that the filing system was in a mess and asked the office manager if she could tidy it up. She used her lunch breaks over the following days to do just that. I remember thinking to myself that, had she stayed, she might have ended up running the company. In my forthcoming story, she does. She also takes delight in caning and tawsing the male member of staff she appoints as her assistant.

Success in business gives Karla the resources to indulge in her passion for administering discipline, and her imagination leads her to devise, and have made, an ingenious whipping bench that renders her victim totally helpless, bottom presented for punishment, while allowing enough freedom of movement for her to delight in watching his bottom wriggle, weave, clench and unclench, as she decorates it with her canes. I’d love a whipping bench like this, but I don’t have a secret basement to hide it. Karla does. Details of how the whipping bench works, along with another punishment structure Karla commissions, will be in the book, along with detailed descriptions of the delicious thrashings she administers in her punishment chamber.

While I don’t have the resources of Karla, I do have her imagination, and I have a large selection of canes, whips, tawses and hairbrushes. I also have a partner, Robert, who’s bottom needs regular chastisement, so I don’t feel in the least bit hard done by. My latest fun game with Robert has been to hold a quiz night, where I ask him general knowledge questions and he get punished for each wrong answer. Here’s how it works:
(Robert to be secured over the whipping bench, naked)


4 Questions.

2 strokes for each wrong answer, and 4 strokes for the last question plus 4 strokes with each or any implements not yet used.

Toss 8 sided dice after each wrong answer to decide on implement:

1 – 2 = Hellstrap (my short, heavy, two tailed tawse)
3 – 4 = Hairbrush
5 – 6 = Lochgelly Tawse
7 – 8 = Senior Cane

As round one, except increase strokes to 6 for the first three wrong answers.

The penalty for getting the final question wrong is 12 strokes with an implement chosen by the dice, plus penalties, but first he is to receive 6 strokes with each implement that otherwise will not feature in round two.

We’ve tried this quiz, or variants of it, a few times now, and Robert has always ended up with a very sore and colourful bottom. Obviously, as it is I who chooses the questions, they are suitably hard. In fact, I don’t think he’s got a single one right yet.

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I’ve been very excited about the acquisition of my vintage whip and I’ve been itching to christen it on Robert’s bare bottom. He wasn’t quite so keen though. I caught him sneaking a look at it a few days ago. He had taken it from its cardboard tube and he was flexing it. I loved the guilty look on his face when he turned to see that I had stepped quietly into our bedroom.

“Perhaps you are trying to imagine what it will feel like when I take it to your bare bottom?”

“Well, yes,” he admitted.

“Then tomorrow you shall find out. I want the whipping bench assembled by 9am.”

I left him, still holding the whip, now with less than 24 hours to contemplate his fate.

The christening of the whip was to be a punishment whipping for shoddy spell-checking of my last book, ‘Spanking Games’, so I decided that it would be appropriate to incorporate a game into the punishment. Dice games are always fun, so I thought I’d invent a new one. I explained to Robert how it would work later that evening:

His punishment, a hard whipping, would be decided on the throw of a standard six sided dice. Each number on the dice would be allocated a number of strokes of the whip.

Generously, I told Robert that he could choose the first two, then I would choose the remaining four. I could see he was suspicious of my generosity.

“So I can choose any numbers I like? Even very low numbers?” he asked.
“You’re very suspicious, Robert, I can see it,” I said, enjoying his discomfort. “Would it help if I told you that I’ve already decided on my four numbers. You can choose anything you like, but I would like them to be different numbers.”

He wanted time to think about it, which was fine, but I told him he must make his choices before I strapped him over the whipping bench.

Robert was still undecided on his choices when he reported to me that he had assembled the whipping bench the following morning at 8.55. He was frightened, of course, but he was still wary of my generosity in allowing him choose two of the whippings.

“You’ve definitely already decided on your four choices?” he asked.

“Definitely,” I assured him. “Now fetch the whip. Present it to me and tell me your choices. You’ve had quite long enough to think about it.”

“If the dice rolls one, I should receive one stroke,” he said, nervously, as he handed me the whip, “And if it shows a two, I should receive two strokes.”

He was expecting me to object, but I didn’t.

“That’s fine. Now strip and place yourself over the bench.”

“What are your numbers?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you when I have you strapped down,” I said, “But I can tell you that if you are not naked and over the whipping bench within thirty seconds I will add a dozen strokes to each of my choices.”

It was enough. Robert knows I never make idle threats. He was naked and ready to be strapped into position within twenty seconds. It took less than a minute for me to buckle and tighten all the restraining straps. He was mine. His unmarked bare bottom was thrust up, helpless, and perfectly presented for my whip.

“So Robert. It’s time for me to disclose my four choices. I was being quite truthful when I told you that I had already decided on my choices before you told me yours. I decided that my choices would be fifty, minus whatever yours were. So if the dice rolls three or four, you will receive forty-eight strokes, and if it rolls five or six, you will receive forty-nine.”

Robert groaned as I picked up the dice. I gave him a few moments to digest my choices, then tossed the dice onto the floor in front of him. He must have been praying for a one or two.

The dice throw was a little clumsy. It rolled across the floor, coming to a stop against the edge of our Afghan rug. I heard Robert breath out in relief as we both looked down to see the dice displaying a one.

“I’m afraid it’s not conclusive,” I said, as I stepped past Robert to look down at the dice from above. The dice was resting on one of its edges up against the rug. “From here it’s showing both the one and the five.”

Robert probably thought this would mean rolling the dice again. I had a better idea.

“The most logical thing to do, Robert,” I said, as I picked up the whip, “is to count both the one and the five as valid. So your choice earns you one stroke and mine earns you forty-nine. That very conveniently adds up to the very nice round number of fifty.”

I was hoping he would argue. I was really in the mood to make him squirm, and I would have delighted in adding another ten strokes for the slightest protest. Unfortunately he knows me too well. He wisely kept his mouth shut.

I took my position. Raised the whip, then the punishment began.


What a wonderful sound my new whip makes when it bites deep into the flesh of Robert’s bare bottom. My first thought was that it felt a little like using a cane, but it was heavier and had more flexibility, so it tended to wrap-around his far flank. That’s fine, I thought, it still counts as a legitimate target area.
It was quite clear what Robert’s first thought was. His hissed intake of breath and the manner in which his whole body tensed with shock said it all. It was excruciating. Just how it should be. Just how I love it to be.

But there was far better to come. After the first few strokes, which had him gasping and squealing, I instinctively introduced more wrist action into my strokes and the result was blissful. The whip really came to life and began to crack down across his upturned bottom with stunning severity.

Robert squealed and gasped and wriggled and cried his way through all fifty strokes, and what a glorious lattice of weals now decorate his bottom. When he was eventually released from his restraints, he was so covered in sweat from his futile efforts to escape the embrace of the whipping bench that I almost had to ‘peel’ him off it.

My vintage whip is simply wonderful. I’m so taken with it that I’ve written two short stories about ladies who take delight in whipping the bare bottoms of deserving males. It’s called ‘Ladies with Whips’. See my website for further details:


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