DANCING UNDER THE CANE

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:
GENERAL KNOWLEDGE QUIZ
(Robert to be secured over the whipping bench, naked)

ROUND ONE:

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
ROUND TWO:

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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CHRISTENING MY WHIP

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.

CRACK!

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: www.anniebeebooks.com

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VINTAGE WHIP

The caning had to be postponed. Robert was due to be soundly caned about a month ago, but I pulled a muscle in my caning arm at the gym, so he enjoyed a reprieve. Very frustrating for me, but the upside is that his bottom has had a rare, extended break from punishment, meaning that when I inspected him recently I was delighted to find that I had a almost totally unmarked bottom to decorate. A rare treat indeed in this house.

I’m pleased to report that my arm has now recovered and I’m ready to get thrashing, but it will not be the cane I will be using to put the badly needed colour back into Robert’s deserving bottom cheeks. I shall be using my latest purchase. A purchase I am very excited about. I have bought a used, vintage riding whip, and it really is the most beautiful object. It measures 70cm in length and tapers down to from 14mm diameter at the grip to 10mm at the business end. It’s finished in fine braided leather and is quite flexible. It is a high quality, antique whip and made by a long established English whip maker of repute. I’ve tried using riding crops in the past, but never really got on with them, usually finding them a bit too short, but this one is really lovely. I simply can’t wait to take it to Robert’s bare bottom.

The arrival of my new whip has coincided with a lovely review of my latest book, ‘Spanking Games’. The reviewer, generously left by an author of erotica, gave the book five stars but mentioned that there were several spelling mistakes. It’s Robert’s job to spell check my books and he has clearly failed in his duties. What a perfect reason to christen my new whip. I shall be giving my lovely new whip a thorough workout on Robert’s bare bottom within the next few days and I will report on the whipping in due course.

I have shall also be featuring this whip in one of my forthcoming stories.

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PERFECT STROKES

I’m talking about perfect tawse strokes, specifically with my bespoke ‘hellstrap’. This is the shorter tawse I had specially made for me. It’s made from thick, heavy hide, but not so thick that it loses flexibility. The flexibility is essential for my favoured ‘wrap around’ technique. I’ve attached a photograph to demonstrate just how flexible it is.

For those of you who might be interested, my ‘hellstrap’ weighs just 100 grams. It’s 43cm long overall, and each of its two 10mm wide leather tails are 21cm long and 9mm thick. The sole purpose of this design is to cause as much agony as possible to Robert’s gaping bottom. As I’ve described on numerous occasions, my whipping bench is designed to hold Robert down with his bottom up, his legs spread wide and his bottom cleft gaping open. In this position, with all the restraining straps in place, clenching of the bottom cheeks is imposable so all those extra sensitive areas, including his inner thighs, are accessible to my tawses. My objective is to stand close to his head so that I can apply strokes to the side of his left bottom cheek, causing the tawse tails to ‘wrap around’ his buttock and the tawse tips to accelerate into the sensitive flesh of his bottom cleft. It’s not an easy stroke to perfect because his bottom cleft is unsighted. However, the reward, when one gets it right, is delicious.

I instantly know when I’ve hit the sweet spot. First the noise – the tawse tips bite in with a beautiful sharp CRACK, almost like the crack of a whip. All the energy drains from the tawse as it momentarily grips his left bottom cheek, almost as if it were a claw. And then of course there is the best bit of all: Robert’s reaction. I can tell when he’s in absolute agony. The hissing of air between his teeth. His desperate, but futile struggling with his restraints as he strains to clench. The cries of despair when he can’t and he sees me raising the tawse again. It’s bliss. If I manage to hit the same spot several times in succession, he goes berserk.

Perfecting this ‘wrap around’ was my sole aim as I secured him over the whipping bench this morning. He’s had well over a month to recover from his last caning, so, unusually, his bottom was almost unblemished. He was wearing his mandatory protective thong to protect his ‘bits’. I hadn’t told him exactly what I had planned, just that I needed a bit of practice. I noted he began to look very concerned when I produced my long leather gloves. I now always wear these when I administer serious tawsings because the tawse does sometimes whip back, catching my arm, and this can be painful and can deter me from putting maximum venom into my strokes.

When I set the floor standing mirror behind him, then picked up the hellstrap, he knew what he was in for. As he glanced into my eyes I saw panic – perfect.

“I’ve decided to perfect the wrap around stroke, Robert,” I said, as I took my position close to his head. “This could take some time.”

And it did. I decided I would administer twenty-four perfect strokes. To be perfect, the stroke should land with the report of a pistol shot and should be exactly on target, with the tawse tips biting either deep into his bottom cleft or his left inner thigh.
It took me a few strokes to get the first stroke that was good enough to count, even so, he was gasping and squealing after just two non-qualifying strokes. The first perfect stroke sent his body into delicious convulsions, and when I managed to later place three perfect strokes in a row all in the same sensitive, spot I did worry he might damage the whipping bench with his frantic efforts to escape its clutches.

He knows he’s forbidden to beg for mercy, but I’m delighted to say that he’s a very slow learner. I was only half way through when he started begging for the tawsing to stop. Obviously I didn’t. It simply encouraged me to thrash him harder, making a mental note to add penalty strokes at the end.

I eventually completed my twenty-four perfect strokes, and what a fuss he made. His bottom cleft and inner thigh were by now purple, but his right bottom cheek was unscathed and his left just a nice shade of red, so he would be fit for the cane with immediate effect. I was tempted to use the cane for the dozen strokes I had decided would be his penalty. But I changed my mind. I wanted him fit for a proper caning next week.

“You have earned twelve penalty strokes, Robert,” I said, “I will administer them briskly and hard with the hellstrap.”

Robert simply couldn’t face the prospect, and began begging for it to be postponed, so I added another six, with the promise of another six if he didn’t cease his fuss at once. He wisely saw sense and shut up. I began the hard, brisk tawsing immediately. I aimed twelve strokes into his already burning bottom cleft, then concluded with six applied to his inner thigh. He squealed, gasped, gurgled, writhed as my beautiful hellstrap found its mark again and again. His feet gyrated and his head shook like that of a mad dog. What a waste of energy! But it was delicious to watch.

Next week, the cane.

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TESTING NEW CANES

I would imagine that if an observer were to enter my punishment chamber while I had Robert secured over the whipping bench, and was enthusiastically decorating his bare bottom with vivid tramlines with one of my many canes, they could be forgiven for thinking that the punishment they were witnessing was not consensual. This might especially be the case if I had managed to get Robert pleading for mercy, and they then were witness to me actually being encouraged to cane him yet harder by his pleas for leniency.

They would be wrong, of course. Our regular indulgence in severe corporal punishment is entirely consensual. Robert actually craves to be thrashed by me almost continually, and it’s such a shame that we have to wait a few weeks after each punishment for his bottom to recover sufficiently for the next session. The strange thing is, however, he has confided in me that, although his craving to be punished is almost constant, that craving disappears as soon as the first stroke of a punishment bites in. As soon as the reality of the pain hits him he is desperate for me to stop. That’s why I secure him. Deep down, he doesn’t want me to stop, and, of course, I don’t. Pleading for leniency has the opposite effect on me. I don’t do leniency.

I haven’t bought any new canes for about a year, so recently I decided it was time to replace some of my older senior kooboo canes. I’ve had some of these for over ten years, so they must have dried and lost some weight. I ordered three new ones, with black, purple and red leather grips respectively. I’d told Robert about the order, so he knew what to expect when the courier arrived with the long cardboard package yesterday. He knew I’d want to try them out.

“These need testing, Robert,” I said, as I removed the canes from their package, “Assemble the whipping bench.” He didn’t argue.

Canes, being natural products, vary in size, weight and flexibility, so my three new canes, although all senior kooboo canes, and all about 75 – 80cm long and about 9 – 10mm in diameter, all had a slightly different feel to them, and I was keen to find which would be my favourite.

Within twenty minutes of the canes arriving, I had Robert strapped, naked, over the whipping bench, nervously awaiting my attention. There were still marks from his birching and caning of about a month ago, but he was fit for punishment.

“This will be a mystery caning, Robert,” I explained, as I flexed each cane in turn. “You don’t know how many strokes you are to receive because I don’t either.”

It really scares him when he is facing an unknown number of strokes. He’s explained to me in the past that if he is subject to a set number of strokes or a set time, then he can attempt to count down the figure in his head as the strokes are applied. He has an end in sight – a light at the end of the tunnel. With no number or time to grasp on to, the caning becomes an agonising journey with no end in sight. Furthermore, without the mental prop of a finite ending, he is more likely to lose control of his ability to cope with the agony, and he knows that if he does so and makes a fuss, I will add penalty strokes. I am always eager to find reason to add strokes.

“I shall try each cane in turn, Robert,” I explained, as I approached him with the red handled cane, “and I will attempt to choose a favourite, then I will administer a sound caning with that one. I want you to observe the usual rules of silence and no fuss. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss,” he replied.

I noticed with pleasure that he attempted to clench his bottom cheeks. It was probably an involuntary gesture as he tried to mentally prepare for the unknown duration of agony that lay ahead for him. It was also a futile action as the whipping bench has been designed to make ‘clenching’ impossible. As regular readers of my blog will know, I like to have full access to all the sensitive areas of flesh of a bottom when I punish, including the bottom cleft, just in case I decide to use the tawse.

I took my position to his left, then after tapping the cane across the centre of his presented bare cheeks a few times to get my position and footing perfect, I administered the first stroke with real venom.

SWISH-CRACK!

He hissed in a lungful of air as the first stroke bit in hard. The caning had begun and I was now in my element. I know a lot of disciplinarians like to warm up their recipients gradually, but I don’t. I like the first stroke to be a real shock, to take his breath away. As Robert hissed air and stifled cries of agony, I administered four sizzling strokes. I watched with delight as white tramlines sprang up after each stroke, then filled with red.

Without giving him time to recover, I put down the red handled cane, then selected the black handled one. Another four strokes bit deliciously deep into his helpless bottom cheeks. He hissed air in through his teeth as each stroke cracked down, but to his credit, stayed otherwise silent.

Finally, I selected the purple handled cane. Appropriate, I thought, as I raised the cane, because the colour purple was just starting to appear on his bottom. Four, crisp, hard strokes added to the lattice of weals.

“I think I prefer the red one,” I said, as Robert hyperventilated. I noticed he was already sweating profusely. “But the purple one is a close second. I think I’ll administer another four with each to make sure. Do you think that’s a good idea, Robert?”

“Yes, Miss,” he whimpered immediately. It’s amazing how eager he is not to upset me when I’m standing over him with a cane and with his helpless bare bottom already ablaze.
I swiftly administered another four real stingers with each of the chosen canes. I noted, with delight, that he was seriously struggling to cope with the pain now. His feet were starting to gyrate, always a sign that he’s close to the limit of his self-control.

“Now I’m confused,” I said, cheerfully. “That time the purple cane seemed to bite in with a nicer crack. Which did you think is the most effective, Robert?”

“I thought they were both absolutely agonising,” he sobbed.

“Well that’s no help at all,” I playfully scolded him. “I have no choice but to administer another four with each.”

I was sufficiently warmed up by now, so the next eight, venomous strokes where the hardest so far. Robert was beginning to struggle against his restraints, and his heavy breathing was punctuated with stifled squeaks as each stroke added to the fire in his bottom cheeks.

“I was right first time, Robert,” I announced triumphantly. “The red cane is my favourite. I shall administer the proper caning with that.”

His head hung down in despair at the implication that his proper caning was yet to start.

“I need a tea break.” I said, putting down the red cane in front of him. “I need to recover my strength to make sure I have all the energy I need for the deliciously hard caning you will shortly enjoy.”

I love leaving him helpless, forced to wait for his punishment. He doesn’t know how long he will have to wait, and the first he usually knows of his fate being imminent is when he hears a creak of the stairs. As followers of my blog might remember, I even left him secured over the whipping bench while I went to the library once. On that occasion I even took time over a coffee, blissful in the knowledge that back at home his bare bottom remained perfectly presented for punishment, awaiting my return. Yesterday, however, I took my tea into the garden to enjoy the sunny weather.

Robert would have heard our creaky stair about half an hour after I had left him. I opened the door to be confronted by his very beautifully wealed bare bottom, still thrust up, an invitation for me to cane if ever there was.

“Are you ready for your caning, Robert?” I asked, as I picked up, then flexed the red handled cane, straightening out the slight bow the previous strokes had put into the shaft of the implement.

“I’m very sore, Miss,” he whimpered.

“Good, then the caning should be even more painful, but that’s not what I asked.”

“Sorry, Miss. Yes, I’m ready,” he whimpered, sounding decidedly ‘unready’.

“So am I,” I replied, through gritted teeth, as I took my position, intent on making the caning as hard as I could.

SWISH-CRACK!

He gasped, then whimpered, as the first stroke bit savagely into his already very sore bottom.

I didn’t count the strokes. It was probably about thirty. I just caned him and caned him and caned him, at a nice steady pace, concentrating on trying to make each stroke harder than the previous. It was glorious. I didn’t need to count strokes or wait for a timer to beep, I just caned.

Robert, however, wasn’t doing so well. After just six strokes I could sense from his breathing, squirming and the wild gyrating of his feet, that he was getting close to losing his ability to take the punishment. This encouraged me to put even more venom into the strokes. I love pushing him over the edge when he’s totally helpless. To my delight, he begged and pleaded desperately for the caning to stop all the way through the second half. What a waste of breath!

By the time I had caned him to my satisfaction he was too well marked to take the penalty strokes he had incurred for breaking my rules on silence. I informed him that the penalty strokes would be entered into the punishment book to be discharged in full at a later date. He readily agreed, before I began to release him from the embrace of the whipping bench. He had perspired so much during the final caning that I almost had to ‘peel’ him off the bench.

I can declare my new canes, especially the red one, most satisfactory.

I have two new books well under way at the moment, both already incorporating some very enthusiastic use of the cane. More details to follow.

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PICNIC PUNISHMENT

“We haven’t been out for a picnic for a long time. The weather’s lovely. What do you think?” asked Robert, yesterday.

What comes to mind at the mention of a picnic? Birds singing? Sun shining in the countryside? A wicker basket and a spread of sandwiches, snacks, drinks, and perhaps wine?

That was the image that used to spring to my mind, but now I have other ideas. It’s my own fault. I wrote my first discipline related story, ‘Jonathan’s Introduction to the Cane and Tawse’ over five years ago, and in one scene Jonathan spills wine on Mrs McKay, resulting in a bare bottom birching.

The first image that sprang into my mind was birching his bare bottom while he was bent over the trunk of a fallen tree.

“What a good idea,” I replied, “I know just the ideal place.”

Although my stories are fiction, I usually have a vision of a real location in my mind while I am writing, and this had been the case when I had written the picnic birching scene in my story about Jonathan. Robert proof-reads all my stories, so he is familiar with them all, but as far as I was aware, he didn’t know the location I had had in mind for the birching scene.

An hour later, with our picnic basket in the boot of the car, we set off for the Sussex countryside. Robert had put together our picnic basket, but just before we had left I had slipped a few additional items under the pack of sandwiches.

“So where in Sussex are we going?” he asked, as we turned out of the drive.

“Do you remember a walk we went on about five years ago? We found a secluded bluebell wood surrounded by farmland. There was a small clearing in the wood, with some wild grass and a few fallen trees. I mentioned at the time it would be an ideal place for a picnic.”

“No, I don’t,” he replied.

“Well, while you were making the sandwiches I managed to find it on Google Earth, so that’s where we are going.”

It’s still possible to escape from people in England, as long as you are prepared to walk some distance from the nearest car park. We found our secluded clearing and apart from the birds and bees, we had the place to ourselves. It was much as I remembered it, and I was delighted to see that the fallen trees were still where they had been and the birch tree I remembered was still there. I laid our ground sheet down close to a large log, then offered Robert a sandwich, keeping the sandwich box to my side. We enjoyed our food to birdsong.

“Do you remember the birching scene in “Jonathan’s Introduction to the Cane and Tawse’?” I asked, after we had been relaxing for about half an hour.

“Yes, of course.”

“I based it here. That’s the birch tree Jonathan would have cut the switches from.” I said, pointing at the tree.

“Oh,” he said, sensing danger. “It’s just as well we didn’t bring the secateurs,” he joked.

I reached into the picnic basket, then handed the secateurs to him, with a smile on my face. I was delighted to see him sit up stiffly with a look of fear spreading across his face.

“You can’t birch me here,” he protested, “Somebody might see us.”

“I doubt it, Robert, but I’m happy to take a chance. Besides, they might enjoy watching your bare bottom dancing to the tune of the birch you are about to make for me.”

“But I haven’t recovered from the last caning,” he pleaded. I could see he was starting to panic.

“Yes you have,” I replied, still smiling. “I had a good look last night while you were asleep. Now go to that birch tree and cut me five switches. I want them about two and a feet half long and I want them to have enough weight to bite nice and deep into your bare bottom, but at the same time, flexible and whippy enough to curl around your bottom cheeks.”

Robert remained sitting, with the secateurs in his hand, looking at me in despair.

“I have a specific number of strokes in mind for your birching, by the way,” I said, still smiling, “But if you don’t start cutting those switches in the next ten seconds I will be delighted to increase that number by another dozen.”

Robert knows only too well that I do not make idle threats. He was on his feet within a second, then ran to the birch tree.

“Make sure they are nice switches, Robert,” I called after him, “Because if I deem any of them unsuitable I will choose alternatives myself. You would be most unwise to give me the opportunity to do so.”

There’s something quite special about watching a person preparing for their own punishment. As Robert carefully selected, then cut the switches I bathed in his mental turmoil. He knew I would expect him to select only switches that would really hurt when applied to his bare bottom, but his temptation would be to select switches that were a little more lenient, but that risked me rejecting them, then choosing something far more severe. Quite a balancing act for him. I watched with amusement as he made his choices, then nervously approach me with his offering. I took the five switches from him, still smiling.

He watched me as I carefully examined each one in turn, flexing each, then swishing them through the air to get a feel for their weight and flexibility.

“You normally make it a rule to give twenty-four hours notice,” he complained. “You’ve broken your own rules.”

I looked up at him with some irritation. I got the feeling he was warming to the idea of a thrashing, so was now goading me to make me angry.

“Let’s remind ourselves about the rules, Robert. Quote me RULE 1.”

“Mistress is always right,” he replied.

“And RULE 2?”

“If Mistress is wrong, see RULE 1.”

“I think that takes care of your complaint, Robert. Now cut me some proper switches,” I said, tossing the ones I was holding aside. “These pathetic lightweight twigs are next to useless. Cut me some with bite.”

Robert swallowed, and I saw fear in his eyes, but he was seriously up for it and I intended to make sure he got it. The next five switches he presented me with were beautiful specimens. They would bite really deep into his bare flesh.

“These will do,” I said, after flexing them. “Bind them into a lovely birch for me.”

I reached into the picnic basket, then handed him a roll of duct tape and a pair of scissors. He knew what to do, he’s made them before. He bound the thick ends of the switches tightly together with the tape to form a firm handle, then bound them again just over a third of the way further down from the handle. This second binding is to prevent the birch rods from splaying apart too much during use. Nervously, he handed me the completed implement.

“This is perfect, Robert,” I said, giving it a swish through the air. It hissed. Robert shuddered. It was a heavy implement, but I’m quite strong. I was confident I could do it justice.

“Wouldn’t it be better to do it at home,” he suggested, looking around. “I’m frightened somebody might see us.”

“I will do it at home,” I replied, “If it survives the birching I’m going to administer here. And if it doesn’t survive I’m going to cane you at home. So you have a lot to look forward to. Now strip.”

Reluctantly and slowly, and nervously looking around, Robert began to remove his clothes. Eventually, he stood before me naked. His eyes dropped to look at the formidable implement of his creation. The implement that was about to bite into the bare flesh of his bottom.

I ordered him to lie along the top of a fallen tree trunk with his knees forward, either side and to hug the trunk with his arms. The position left his bare bottom wonderfully exposed. It seemed to be saying ‘birch me hard’. I intended to accept the invitation.

“I have a number of strokes in mind, Robert,” I said, as I stepped over his head with my left leg to straddle him, “We are going to play a game. I want you to guess the number. If you guess too low you will receive three strokes, and if you guess too high you will receive two strokes. When you guess the number correctly, then that is what you will receive, plus I will add a stroke for each wrong guess. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss,” he whimpered.

I adjusted my stance to line the birch up along the line of his gaping bottom cleft. I don’t think I have ever thrashed him from this angle. With the strokes delivered from over my shoulder, it promised to be a very interesting prospect.

“Your first guess, please, Robert,” I said as I rested the birch switches on his right bottom cheek. “And, by the way, if I catch you looking up my skirt I’ll add a dozen strokes.”

“Yes Miss. Twelve strokes, Miss.”

“Wrong,” I said, as I raised the birch.

The birch hissed as I brought it down with all my strength, then watched in fascination as the switches fanned out to bite into a pattern across his right buttock. It was Robert’s turn to hiss. As he drew his breath in sharply through clenched teeth, I raised the birch again, to bring it down hard across his left buttock. He gasped in pain as I raised the birch again to bring it down venomously into his gaping bottom cleft. He squealed. It must have been excruciating. Instinctively, his legs shot back so he could clench his bottom cheeks. It was, of course, too late to save the flesh within from the fire of the birch, but it was a forbidden action.

“Put your knees back where they should be at once,” I ordered. “If you do that again I will add strokes.”

Hesitantly, trembling, his knees slowly parted, then dropped either side of the trunk to once again leave his bottom cleft helplessly and perfectly exposed. Already, his bottom and upper thighs were sporting a multitude of red weals. It seemed that I had stumbled upon a deliciously spiteful and sadistic way to present a bottom for discipline. I started thinking I might incorporate something like this in my next book.

“Your second guess, please.”

“Eighteen.”

“Wrong again,” I said, cheerfully, as I raised the birch.

Robert squealed as the birch bit deep into first his left, then his right bottom cheek. Of course he had no idea, yet, if he was to receive a third.

HISS-CRACK!

As the third stroke cracked down into the flesh around and into his gaping bottom cleft, he shrieked in agony. His legs shot back as his bottom clenched shut.

“Present yourself for punishment immediately, Robert,” I said, firmly. “You were warned not to do that. The last stroke will be repeated.” He whimpered as he hesitantly offered himself for the birch again.

HISS-CRACK!

He squealed again, as the birch found the sensitive, burning flesh of his gaping cleft. His legs looked as if they might shoot back again as he writhed in agony, but he just managed to control himself. What a shame.

“Your third guess, please.”

“Twenty-four,” he sobbed.

“Correct, Robert. Well done. So that’s twenty-four, plus two for wrong guesses, making twenty-six. You must stay in position for all twenty-six if you want to avoid extra strokes. Is that quite clear?”

“Yes, Miss,” he sobbed.

The birching began with sadistic enthusiasm. He writhed and squealed deliciously as the birch bit into his right cheek, then left cheek, then his gaping bottom cleft. I maintained this sequence of strokes throughout. He really struggled to keep his knees down, but managed almost until the end. But I was delighted when his will power failed him as a particularly savage stroke impacted beautifully into his bottom cleft. He was soon persuaded to present himself again, and I awarded him another six strokes, promising him another twelve on top of that if he clenched again.

He squealed and writhed like a cut worm as the final strokes were administered with absolute maximum venom, but his knees stayed in place. I was a little disappointed as I was in my element. I adored this method of birching and would have loved to administer another dozen. However, the birch had been slowly disintegrating, and was past its best. I made a mental note to have Robert make up two or three birches next time we went for a picnic.

“I didn’t realise how much I like picnics,” I said as we packed our picnic basket, “We must do it again, soon.”

I had Robert assemble the whipping bench when we arrived home, then I soundly caned him. I don’t need to give Robert a reason to cane him, but I did. He had made too much fuss during his birching, and also I wanted transform the lattice of weals that ran in and parallel to his bottom cleft into a lattice of crosses, by laying thirty-six weals at right-angles to them with the cane. My word, what a sore bottom he now has.

I shall definitely be incorporating ‘tree truck hugging’ in my next book.

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AN EXERCISE IN MEMORY IMPROVEMENT

I decided to cane Robert yesterday, when on the evening before I had told him he was to be caned in the morning, he had complained that he was still bruised from his recent appointment with my hairbrush. Robert knows only too well that he is not permitted to complain about punishment from me, so I had to assume that he wanted the caning to be very severe. However, I could see that his bottom was still clearly showing marks from the hairbrush, so I informed him that he would receive just twenty-four nice hard strokes with my dragon cane. Although many would regard this as a severe caning, and I do cane HARD, Robert was clearly relieved. He is regularly subjected to more severe punishment. I have to confess that I found his obvious relief a little irritating.

Yesterday morning, when I instructed him to assemble the whipping bench, I was further irritated to observe him doing so without his usual nervous reluctance. It seemed to me that Robert thought the caning he was about to receive would not challenge him too much. I think I must have concealed my rising anger effectively, because when I coaxed Robert, naked apart from his compulsory protective thong, over the whipping bench, he did so almost happily and without hesitation. I soon had him firmly strapped into place with his bare bottom pushed up and perfectly presented for punishment. Just how I like him.

I decided to record his punishment on this occasion, so as soon as he was secured, I set up the camcorder on a tripod. This must have unnerved Robert, because I usually only record special thrashings these days.

“So, Robert,” I said, running my fingers lightly over his exposed bare bottom, when the camcorder had been switched on, “Twenty-four nice, hard strokes with my dragon cane.”

“Yes, Miss,” he replied, now with less confidence in his tone.

“But before I cane you, I think I might just take advantage of your helplessness to get in a little practice with the hellstrap.”

It was delightful to watch his torso tense as he realised his punishment might not be quite the walk in the park he had expected.

“Your bottom is still quite bruised,” I conceded, “but the area around your bottom cleft is almost totally unscathed, Robert, and from where I am standing it is crying out for the attention of my hellstrap.”

(For readers who are new to my blog, I should explain that my ‘hell-strap’ is a two tailed tawse that I had specially made for me. It’s a heavy, but very flexible leather tawse and shorter than a typical Lochgelly tawse by about six inches. The purpose of the design is to enable me to curl the tawse tails around Robert’s left bottom cheek so that the painful tawse tips accelerate venomously into his bottom cleft – deliciously painful!)

One of the things I love about Robert is that he’s so trusting of me. He really should have learned not to be by now, but I hope he never does. I do believe he was actually surprised by my trickery.

As I picked up the hellstrap, I was delighted to see his head crane around to see what I was doing. There was real fear in his eyes. He hates the hellstrap. I love it.

“I think I’ll start with six strokes, all aimed at the upper part of your bottom cleft,” I told him, as I traced my fingers of my left hand gently along the target area. “It’s just a practice, Robert, but I want you to treat it as a practice for you too. Practice at taking the tawse in silence. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss,” he whimpered. I suspected he had now sensed familiar menace in my voice, and he was terrified.

I took my position to his left, then laid the tawse gently across his left bottom cheek, with the tawse tips hovering over his gaping cleft. His bottom cheeks twitched as he felt the touch of the leather. He knew that agony was imminent. I raised the tawse.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The glorious sound of leather biting deep into bare flesh filled the room as I delivered six brisk and hard strokes, making sure the tawse tips found the sensitive white flesh of his gaping cleft. Robert gasped and hissed with pain as the tawse discharged its white hot venom. It was delightful to watch his muscles stand out like rods of iron as he desperately tried, but failed, to clench his cheeks to hide the flesh within from the venomous tawse tails. My whipping bench has been specifically designed to make ‘clenching’ impossible.

“That wasn’t bad for a start, Robert,” I said, “but I think I can manage a bit harder than that, so I think I’ll repeat them. And try not to make so much fuss this time, or else I will repeat them a second time.”

As I raised the tawse, I noticed that he was trembling, and his torso was stiff, as if he was straining in some way. I knew exactly what he was up to, I can read his body language like a book. He was holding his breath in an attempt to stifle any sobbing or squealing passing his lips as the second batch of six bit into his burning flesh. I regard this as cheating, and I’ve warned him not to do it.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

They were harder, and the strokes bit into exactly the same upper area of his bottom cleft. He squirmed and writhed deliciously, but held his breath throughout. Not a sound passed his lips. A few seconds after the last stroke had bitten in, he let out a lungful of air.

“I think we’ll try it a little lower,” I said promptly, raising the tawse again, before he had even had a chance to breath in.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

He gasped as the first stroke bit in, then squealed as the second overlaid the first with as much venom as I could put into it. The four more spiteful strokes that followed briskly, all aimed at the same spot, had him writhing bizarrely as he strained to weave his bottom away from the tails of fire. He failed. Each stroke found its mark.

“You really must learn to comply with my instructions, Robert,” I said, before he had a chance to compose himself, “I told you not to make a fuss, so now I have to repeat them. Now prepare yourself and take them in silence. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss,” he sobbed.

Sometimes I do surprise myself with my kindness and compassion. I allowed Robert a few minutes to recover and mentally prepare himself for the repeated six strokes, otherwise he would be unlikely to be able to take them without more squealing. However, I did decide to temper my kindness by administering the strokes with absolute maximum severity. He braced himself as I laid the tawse on his bottom in preparation.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

They bit in beautifully, right into the centre of his gaping bottom cleft. He hissed in breath. His bottom weaved as much as his restraints would allow, and I did hear a muffled squeak, but I kindly decided to overlook it.

“That’s a little better, Robert. I think we can move on to try another six a little lower still. In silence.”

He braced himself again, stifling a sob, as I laid the tawse across the part of his bottom where thigh meets left bottom cheek. This is a very sensitive spot and strokes aimed here would be unthinkable if he had not been wearing his protective thong. Even so, my aim had to be good as I wanted the tawse tips to bite into flesh, not protective padding. I could sense him straining to hold his tongue as I raised the hellstrap.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

They must have been excruciating and again they bit in beautifully. He writhed and bucked and hissed, but to his credit, there was no squealing.

“Well done, Robert,” I congratulated him. “You took those quite well, but perhaps it’s because they weren’t quite hard enough. Do you agree?”

Poor Robert. What a delicious dilemma for him. He knows he must always agree with me when he’s being punished.

“Well, Robert,” I prompted him, slapping the tawse casually across his bottom. “Do you agree that the last six strokes weren’t hard enough?”

“Yes, Miss,” he sobbed, “I agree.”

“Thought you might,” I said, smiling, “then perhaps you’d like to ask me to administer them again, harder.”

“Please, Miss,” he asked, with his voice trembling, “Would you repeat those six strokes, harder.”

“With pleasure, Robert.”

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

It actually wasn’t possible for me to thrash him much harder as I was already giving it my best, but I tried. Robert was almost at the end of his self-control. He tried to suppress his shrieking as the tawse tips revisited perhaps the most sensitive area of his bottom, but he couldn’t manage it. He weaved and bucked and gasped and squealed as the tawse did its work.

“There was a bit too much fuss, Robert, so I have no option to add penalties. I’ll conclude this practice with a dozen of the very best, then I think I’ll take a tea break before I cane you.”

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

I will never tire of the delights of thrashing bare bottoms hard, and the final twelve strokes were blissful. I really had my eye in by now, and the tawse bit into his helpless, writhing flesh with the report of a six-shooter, except it didn’t stop at six. Robert gasped and shrieked and even pleaded for mercy. He writhed and struggled against his restraints frantically, but to no avail. His bottom remained perfectly presented and accessible throughout. But all good things must come to an end, and after twelve final exquisite strokes of the tawse had explored his most sensitive areas, it was time to put down the hellstrap. Robert’s left bottom cheek was bright red and his bottom cleft was purple, but his right bottom cheek had not received a single stroke and was quite fit for the cane. I left Robert, still breathing heavily and shaking, for my tea break.

The weather yesterday was glorious, so while Robert remained secured over the whipping bench upstairs, I took my cup of Earl Grey tea out into the garden. As I sat at our patio table, enjoying the sun and our beautiful garden, made even more pleasurable by the prospect of caning Robert, my eyes drifted to our greenhouse. To my dismay I realised that our tomato plants were drooping from their supporting canes. They hadn’t been watered. This is Robert’s job! I immediately filled the watering can then watered all the plants, hoping it was not to late. I was fuming, so I sat down with my tea to decide on punishment.
Twenty minutes after leaving Robert, I returned to the punishment room. I had calmed myself down and I am quite sure Robert was expecting his ordeal would be over after a final twenty-four strokes of the cane.

“So Robert, it’s time for me to cane you,” I said, as I picked up my dragon cane. “How many strokes was it?”

“It was twenty-four, Miss,” he replied at once.

“And how hard should they be?”

“Quite hard, I suppose, Miss.”

“I think they should be VERY hard, Robert,” I replied, with real passion in my voice, “ and how many additional VERY, VERY hard strokes should I add for you not watering the tomatoes last night?”

His body tensed as he digested what I had said.

“I’m really sorry, Miss,” he pleaded, “it must have been your announcement that you intended to cane me that caused me to forget.”

This annoyed me even more.

“Are suggesting, Robert, that it is my fault that you forgot?”

“No, Miss,” he back-tracked, panic in his voice.

“Well that’s what it sounded like to me,” I replied. “I’m not going to tell you how many strokes you will now receive because I haven’t decided. I’m just going to cane you as hard as I can until I think you’ve been adequately punished and I am quite sure you will never forget to water the tomatoes again. One thing I can guarantee, Robert, is that it will be far more than twenty-four strokes.”

Before Robert could reply, I raised the cane, then brought it down across his presented bare bottom with every ounce of venom my muscles could muster.

SWISH-CRACK!

It was only when we played back the video that we counted forty-seven strokes. Robert shrieked and pleaded his way through one of the hardest canings I have administered. It was absolute bliss. I don’t think Robert will ever forget to water the tomatoes again. What a shame.

DSC_1558

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