Both Robert and I are fond of music, especially classical, blues and some jazz, so this Christmas my present to him was a pair of high quality noise cancelling headphones. When he tried them out he was surprised how effectively they worked. He was listening to Wagner, and he said that all he could hear was the music, and if he closed his eyes he was oblivious to everything that was going on around him. I tried talking to him, and he didn’t hear a thing.

One of the things about being thrashed by me that excites Robert is the suspense, and that got my wicked imagination going. I’d already told him that I was planning a Boxing day whacking for him, and he was anticipating that with a mixture of excitement and dread. On Boxing day morning I informed that he would be secured over our whipping bench at 5.00pm, and that I was going to try something different, and it would be a surprise. No amount of pestering from him during the day persuaded me to give him even a clue as to what my surprise would be. At 4.30 I instructed him to have the whipping bench ready for use by 5.00, and that when I entered the punishment room, I expected him to be in place, over it, naked, and ready to be strapped down. 

On punishment days, Robert is usually wise enough to comply with my instructions, and this was the case on Boxing day. He was well bent over the whipping bench, naked, with his bare bottom nicely presented for punishment. An array of my collection of implements was arranged on a nearby table. I spent some time strapping him in position with the numerous, sturdy, leather restraining straps, making sure they were tight enough to keep him in place, but not so tight as to restrict his circulation.

“The surprise, Robert,” I then told him, “is that you are going to be punished while you are effectively blind and deaf, so you will have no idea what is going to happen to you, or when.”

I left the room, then returned with a blindfold and his new headphones, already tuned in to a classical music station, and set to play loud. I had the streamed music turned on quietly in the lounge, so I was just able to hear what Robert was hearing at full blast.

“To make it more fun, Robert, I want you to make a mental note of your punishment because, when I remove these, I will test you. I will question you on what implements I have used and how many strokes with each. Wrong answers will incur penalties. Understood?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“No buts Robert,” I interrupted, as I slipped the blindfold over his eyes, then tightened it securely

This was followed by the headphones, and I was ready to start. I picked up a senior kooboo cane, then took my position to his side. Robert, of course, was oblivious to this. I placed the cane gently across his helpless bare bottom, and saw him tense, preparing himself for the burn of the cane. I gently tapped the cane, to hone my aim, as I often do, and was pleased to see him further tense. Then I giggled, put down the cane, and left the room for a cup of Earl Grey.

About fifteen minutes later, I slipped back into the punishment room, picked up the cane, and without any preparatory taps, and while Robert was listening to a soothing melody from Dvorak, I administered a superb, blisteringly hard stroke across his unsuspecting, up-thrust bottom. I think he would have hit the ceiling if he hadn’t been strapped down. He emitted a shrill squeak, and the whipping bench almost jumped. I watched his bottom clench and unclench rapidly, waited until he was just beginning to calm down, as the fierce sting would have begun to fade, then administered another eye-watering stroke. He wasn’t quite so shocked this time, but he still entertained me with his energetic bottom cheek clenching. As soon as he had calmed down. I sat down to watch the weals mature. Robert wouldn’t have known where I was.

I gave him a ten minute break, then rose to my feet and picked up my heavy, oval, ebony hairbrush, the one he hates. He especially hates the hairbrush when it’s administered hard and brisk, in the same place, so this is what I usually do. Without warning, while now listening to Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks, he received a flurry of six, very hard spanks on the centre of his right bottom cheek. His entire body jolted, the mad bottom clenching resumed with urgency, and he squealed in agony. Within a second of putting down the hairbrush, I picked up the cane, then gave him six of the best. Robert always did like surprises.

He would obviously have been expecting six hairbrush spanks to his left cheek, as he knows I like to keep things tidy, but I decided to leave them until a bit later. The six cane strokes had him gasping and his bottom dancing delightfully. 

After putting down the cane, I made a note of strokes so far, so I could test him later. While doing so, I could hear that Robert was ‘enjoying’ a Christmas carol at full blast. Only to be expected at this time of the year. It seemed inappropriate music to thrash him to for some reason, so I sat it out. Next up was a delightful Chopin nocturne, so I rose to my feet and picked up my Lochgelly tawse, marked ‘H’ for heavy. A nice hard six with that had him yelping and wriggling.

The next piece was a waltz, and that seemed to be wonderful whacking music, so I decided to make that the finale of part one of his boxing day whacking. During the waltz, Robert ‘enjoyed’ a random number of strokes from a cocktail of implements. It was almost continual, with me pausing briefly to make a note of implement and number of strokes. I concluded with the six outstanding strokes with the ebony hairbrush. Then I removed his headphones and blindfold.

“I’ll give you a minute, or two, to acclimatise, before we move on to part two,” I said.

“I’m very sore, Annie. I’m not sure I can take any more,” he complained, breathlessly.

“Then you had better make sure you do well in your test,” I replied.

Poor Robert did so badly in his test, so his very sore bottom ended up even sorer, but at least he was able to see and hear what was happening to him.

In summary, it was a cracking boxing day whacking. We might make it an annual event.

I’ve just published two short stories called ‘Maintenance and Revenge Canings’: 

The first (not so) short story describes what happens when Hugo inadvertently sends an email to the wrong address, and discovers that his secret need for discipline is a secret no more, with exciting results.

The second is about Eleanor, who shares a dark with her wealthy neighbour, Jeremy. She regards him as an enemy. When an unfortunate event prompts Jeremy to seek Eleanor’s co-operation, she uses the opportunity to get her revenge. 

The new publication is available via my website:

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Robert is almost always in the mood for punishment, and I’m always in the mood to administer a sound thrashing. The result, naturally, is that his bottom is almost always decorated with the marks of a previous thrashing, and I rarely have a ‘blank canvass’ to start with when I punish him.

However, due to circumstances outside our control, including entertaining guests, we recently had to endure a punishment famine, where we didn’t have the opportunity to exercise our passion for over a month. I was getting a bit fidgety, and so was Robert. When it could be seen that the opportunity would shortly present itself, it was Robert, unusually, who took the initiative.

I always cane hard, always, and Robert knows this only too well, and I don’t need any encouragement. However, I was both surprised and delighted when Robert provoked me by complaining that the last caning I’d given him had been ‘far too lenient’. What an unwise remark. When I was a professional disciplinarian I was rarely accused of being too lenient, and those who were foolish enough to do so only did so once. Robert was obviously desperate for a good, hard, caning. I vowed to myself to make sure he got more than he had bargained for.

Funnily enough, I had just finished writing a story, which included a chapter where the gentleman featured was punished by two beautiful disciplinarians in a ‘duet’. Over the years that Robert and I have been partners, he has been punished only by me. In view of his unwise remark, I did wonder if I might arrange to treat him to a ‘duet’. Once the idea had spawned, I couldn’t get it out of my head.

Before I met Robert, when I was a professional disciplinarian, I did occasionally ‘duet’ with others, and one lady in particular, had impressed me with her caning skills. Also, she was left handed, which would suit my plan nicely. Research revealed that she was still active, so I phoned her. Madame K (not her real name), remembered me well, and after reminiscing about canings we had enjoyed, I told her what Robert had said, and my idea, she said she would be delighted to help out. Once the time and date had bee agreed, I told Robert when his next caning would take place, but didn’t tell him that Madame K would be joining us. I had given him two days notice, so he had time to anticipate, and perhaps, regret his earlier comments.

Sure enough, on the morning of the caning, he predictably mentioned that he hadn’t really meant it when he had accused me of being too lenient.

“We’ll address that this afternoon, Robert,” I replied, sweetly. “Make sure you have the whipping bench ready by 3.00pm, and I think, for a change we’ll have set up in the lounge, right in the centre.”

He looked as if he was about to ask why, but then thought better of it, probably reasoning that total compliance, without question, might be a good idea.

Robert looked quite nervous as he mounted the whipping bench. I had suspected he might try to postpone the caning, but he remained compliant. I soon had him well strapped down, with his bare bottom presented perfectly for punishment. The front door bell sounded at 3.15, just as I had finished arranging my selection of canes on the dining table.

“Ah, we have a visitor,” I said, as I made for the door.

“Wouldn’t it be better to pretend we’re not in?” suggested Robert, sounding very concerned.

“No, Robert, I’m expecting a guest.”

He looked alarmed as I left the room.

“I don’t think you’ve met Madame K, Robert,” I said, as I returned with my guest a few moments later, “But you might have heard of her. She won awards as hardest caner at numerous events.”

“I’m delighted to meet you, Robert,” said Madame K, as she took off her coat.

She was dressed in a short, black, short sleeved, dress. Her body was shapely, but sturdy. Her limbs muscular and well toned.

“My word, Katrina, you look in very good shape,” I said, as I took her coat.

“I have my reputation as a hard caner to maintain, so I look after myself, and spend a lot of time in the gym. Ah, you have a nice selection of canes,” she said, as she inspected the array of implements I had laid out.

I was delighted to see that Robert looked horrified, as Madame K flexed one of the heavier dragon canes as if she were reacquainting herself with an old friend.

“So, what’s the plan?” asked Madame K, as she now turned her attention to Robert’s up-thrust, bare bottom.

“As I said on the phone, Katrina, Robert accused me of being too lenient when I last caned him. In fact, he said I was ‘far too lenient’. Obviously, such flippancy cannot go unpunished, and I think he deserves a very severe caning. That’s when I thought of the caning duet we administered together.”

“I remember it well. I was the day we finally broke Simon. The same Simon who had bragged that he would never be broken. A superb caning. Thirty-six of the very best, alternate strokes from you and I, administered briskly, using nice, heavy, dragon canes.”

“Yes, that’s what I had in mind, but in Robert’s case, I think it should be forty-eight strokes.”

“That’s a nice round number,” agreed Madame K, “twenty-four each.”

“No, please, that’s too much,” pleaded Robert, now in total panic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I was saying. I was only joking.”

“Well, we’ll see how funny you find this, Robert,” I said, as I also selected a dragon cane, “and if I want any more advice from you, I’ll ask, so I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself, unless you want your caning increased to sixty strokes.”

No more needed to be said. As Robert sobbed in dread, Madame K took her position to his right, and myself to his left. At a nod and a smile from me, Madame K measured her cane across his helpless bare bottom, adjusting her footing, as I did the same.


Madame K had lost none of her ferocity. The first stroke of forty-eight bit deep into Robert’s deserving bottom with delicious venom.


Not wishing to be outdone, I administered a real scorcher, and to a symphony of pleading, gasping and shrieking, Robert’s caning was administered, briskly and mercilessly.

I don’t think he will accuse me of being too lenient for a while.

I’ve just published a new book called ‘The Anonymous Disciplinarian’, which tell the story of the excruciating adventures of a young man who eventually decides to do something about his craving to be at the mercy of a beautiful woman:

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A favourite spanking game of mine is had by creating a spinning wheel from the website

The default settings can be changed to various punishments to suit your own preferences. I call it the wheel of misfortune. It’s a bit like a roulette wheel, except the numbers are replaced with words.

Last week I was in the mood to put some colour into Robert’s cheeks. He was overdue a good thrashing and was reminding me by being a bit flippant, so I announced that I was resurrecting the ‘wheel of misfortune’.  It’s quick and easy to adapt the wheel to the level of severity required, and I decided to keep this hidden from Robert until I had him safely secured over our whipping bench, with his bare bottom upthrust and helpless. I added a lot of different punishments to the above example, including a few quite severe choices. I announced that I would spin the wheel six times, and after each spin, Robert would receive whichever punishment was chosen by the wheel. I’d divided the wheel up into twenty different punishments, ranging from ‘unlucky’ to ‘very unlucky’. 

I soon had Robert gasping. The first three spins of the wheel resulted in strokes of the tawse, cane and my bespoke ‘hellstrap’. However, he got very unlucky on the 4th spin, which was ‘spin again and double strokes/time’. I spun the wheel again. I had my laptop set up done in front of Robert, so he could watch it spin, then slowly come to a stop, with the pointer falling on the punishment he was about to receive. He groaned in despair when it stopped on ’brisk 30 seconds of hairbrush’. This, of course, now meant I would spank him briskly for a full minute with my ebony hairbrush, and I always spank hard. Ebony is a heavy wood, and as Robert knows, a good spanking with my ebony hairbrush is absolutely eye-watering. A full minute would be breathtakingly painful.

My word, what a fuss he made! I didn’t hold back, and spanked him hard and fast, alternating between his left and right bottom cheeks. I adore watching his bottom dance, jiggle and writhe when the sting becomes unbearable, and the ‘crack – crack – crack’ of the hairbrush was accompanied by a symphony of gasping and squealing. A full minute must have seemed an eternity to Robert, and the whipping bench was put to a real test as he struggled to escape. He knows, of course, that struggling is futile, there is no escape. Nor is there any mercy, I don’t do mercy. Pleading merely encourages me to spank harder.

We were both quite breathless when that long minute finally elapsed. Robert was exhausted from his pointless fight with the clutches of the whipping bench, and his naked body was glistening with perspiration. I decided to take a break to recoup my strength for the final two spins of the wheel, so I retired to the kitchen for tea, leaving Robert strapped over the whipping bench with the cool air soothing his very colourful bare bottom.

I usually set the rules for Robert’s punishments, and I almost always stick to them, no matter how much Robert pleads to the contrary. Robert was due two more spins of the wheel. However, I had enjoyed watching his bare bottom’s bizarre dance under my ebony hairbrush so much, that I decided he should ‘enjoy’ another dose.

The vivid marks I’d decorated Robert’s bottom with had matured by the time I’d returned after my tea break. There were numerous, colourful cane stripes, and some nice ‘wrap-around’ tawse patterns, but the hairbrush had left one very angry red/purple ring on the centre of each bottom cheek.

“I don’t think I can take any more, he whimpered,” as I traced my fingers over his very sore bottom.

“You’re not required to think, Robert,” I replied, “you can leave that to me, and I think you will take more.”

He groaned in despair, bringing a smile to my face. “You knew you were marrying a sadist, so you have no one to blame but yourself,” I added. 

“However,” I continued, “I’ve decided to ditch the wheel for the finale, there’s too much chance of you getting off too lightly, and we can’t have that, can we?”

He didn’t answer.

“I so enjoyed your brisk spanking with my lovely ebony hairbrush, that I’ve decided to conclude with that.”

“Oh, please, no, Miss,” he sobbed. “That’s too much!”

“Silly boy,” I chuckled. “I was planning another minute, but if you are making a complaint, then I’ll be absolutely delighted to increase that to two minutes.”

“No, no. I’m not complaining, Miss!”

“So you think a one minute, brisk, hard, hairbrush spanking is a good idea, then?”

“Yes, Miss. It’s a very good idea,” he urgently agreed.

“Good, that’s settled then,” I said, as I picked up the hairbrush. “I’ll see if I can make it just a little bit harder, and perhaps a little brisker.”

The blissful desperate wriggling of his bottom, and the gasping, began as soon as my wicked hairbrush began its work again. His bottom cheeks looked extremely sore, so I concentrated my efforts a little lower, just where his bottom cheeks meet with his upper thighs.

His squealing brought a smile to my face. Then I gritted my teeth, concentrating on increasing the ferocity of the spanking. Goodness me, how he wriggled! If he hadn’t been strapped down over the whipping bench, I swear he could have climbed the walls with his finger nails to escape the sting of my hairbrush.

It was over all too soon, for me, that is. I could have carried on for another thirty seconds of flat out spanking, perhaps even another minute, but I’m generally a lady of my word. It was time to release Robert from his bonds.

You may, after reading this account, be thinking of me as a cruel lady, and you’d be right, but perhaps I should tell you that later that evening, Robert gave me a gentle kiss on my cheek, then told me that I’d been too lenient with him. I won’t be next time.

I’m still busy writing and my latest book involves a young man who discovers that his neighbours, two attractive ladies, enjoy spanking games. He begins spying on them. Perhaps you can guess what happens when he’s caught. But that’s just the start. The involvement of his landlady adds an unforgettable twist to his journey towards submission. The story is called ‘Contract of Submission’, and is available on amazon as a kindle book:

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To some, chess might appear to be a rather dull, slow game, but not so the game I played with my partner, Robert, recently.

Robert and I are both reasonable chess players, and quite evenly matched, although I usually win. It was Robert’s suggestion a few weeks ago to set the chess board up for an evening chess match. Although I was happy to play, I was more in the mood to cane him, so I suggested that we play with some added rules.

“Perhaps I can come up with some rules that will encourage you to concentrate on your game,” I suggested.

“Well, OK,” he replied, sounding a little unsure. He would have guessed the sort of rules I had in mind. It didn’t take me long to come up with some:

For each pawn Robert loses he goes over my knee for a quick, bare bottom spanking.

For each bishop or Knight he bends over for six strokes across his bare bottom with my Lochgelly tawse.

For each castle he loses he bends over for eight strokes with the tawse, and if he loses his queen that increases to twelve strokes.

If he moves out of position during any tawsing, the tawsing starts again.

If he loses the game he is strapped over our whipping bench for a sound caning across his bare bottom.

“What happens when I take your pieces, or if I win?” he asked, when he had read them.

“Then you can revel quietly in the glory.”

“Seems a bit unfair,” he said, weakly.

“Of course its unfair, Robert, but you know only too well that that’s how things are in this house. I wasn’t all that keen to play when you suggested it, but I am now, so I suggest you set the board up before I get impatient and start modifying the rules. But first, I want you to assemble the whipping bench, so it’s ready for you, just in case we need it later.”

I’m delighted to tell you that it was needed later. We had a glorious game, where Robert was spanked and tawsed frequently and enthusiastically. One delicious part of the game was when I took his queen, which earned him twelve strokes with my Lochgelly tawse. I knew he would struggle to stay in position for twelve strokes, so I had him bend over the arm of the settee, then administered the tawse with as much venom and spite as I could manage. He made it to eight strokes before he leapt up, clutching his burning bottom. I insisted that he bend back over at once, and that the tawsing would start again. This time he managed only four strokes. It was quite clear that he wouldn’t be able to take all twelve without being restrained, so I told him the tawsing would remain unfinished business that I would address at the end of the game.

I won the game. Robert was ordered to the whipping bench and I had him secured, with his very red, bare bottom thrust up, ready to be thrashed.

“Before I cane you,” I said, “I shall address your failure to take twelve strokes with the tawse, twice. For that you will receive twenty-four strokes. Do you have anything to say about that?”

“No, Miss,” he replied.

He knows not to argue when I announce sentence, as I will invariably increase the punishment if he does.

He gasped, squealed and writhed delightfully during the tawsing that followed. It was merciless, the only way I know.

I gave him five minutes to reflect and mentally prepare for the caning.

“Twenty-four strokes,” I announced, as I approached him with my dragon cane.


I began the caning as I intended to continue, with maximum venom. Although I say so myself, I can assure readers that I cane hard. It was a delicious caning, where Robert squealed and writhed in a frenzy. The sturdy restraints of the whipping bench kept his wriggling bottom perfectly presented as I gradually added colourful lattice of angry, raised, colourful weals to his bare bottom cheeks.

“We must play chess more often, Robert,” I said, as I released him from his restraints. He was covered in perspiration and breathless from his futile efforts to escape his bonds. He sank down onto his knees with both hands cupping his blazing bottom cheeks – just how things should be after a sound caning.

The game of chess gave me the idea of including a game in the book I was currently writing. The story is about a young man, Nick, who is caught stealing money from his employer by Miss Proctor, a temporary accounts clerk. I’ve included chess games in this story, with the same sort of rules as above. For good measure, Nick is introduced by Miss Proctor to her friend, a policewoman who is frustrated by the pathetically lenient sentences that are handed down by the courts. I imagine you can guess the outcome of this introduction. The book has now been published and is called ‘Chess and Chastisement’. It is now finished and is available as a Kindle eBook on Amazon.

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Robert and I are only too aware of how fortunate we are during this time of global crisis. We have our health, and we are locked down together, so the canings continue.

I am taking the lockdown seriously. Only yesterday I had Robert locked down over my whipping bench. It was my intention to run through my latest dice game, called ‘ALL SIDE OF A DICE’ (see link at the end of this blog). It’s a fun game that we’ve played three times already, but I felt that Robert had been a bit too lucky with the rolls of the dice, so I’d tweaked the rules to increase the chances of him receiving a more severe thrashing.

I was just about to get started, with the dice in my hand, looking down at his helpless bare bottom, and with an array of canes and tawses to hand. I was thinking to myself that life wasn’t too bad at all. There are some positives to the current lockdown. The background hum of traffic has been largely replaced by birdsong, one of my favourite sounds, second only to the sharp crack of my cane biting into the bare flesh of Robert’s upturned, helpless bottom. Today I would be able to savour both together.

Just then, to my irritation, our neighbour’s petrol mower spluttered into life. I took a look out of the window to see it was the neighbour to our left. He’s fanatical about his lawn and mows incessantly during the summer months.

“I think we’ll forget the dice game for today, Robert,” I announced. “We’ll play a guessing game instead. How many times do you think the mower will stop while he empties the grass box?”

“I don’t know, Miss,” he answered, warily.

“Well I suggest you make a sensible guess, because if you don’t I will make your guess for you, and when he’s finished mowing the lawn, I will administer 6 strokes of the cane for every number your guess is wrong by.”

“Six times, Miss.”

“OK. It usually takes him about half an hour. I wonder how well you will do. In the meantime, to make sure we don’t get bored I shall administer six strokes with the tawse each time the mower stops.”

I picked up my extra heavy Lochgelly tawse, then positioned myself to Robert’s side to look down at his upthrust bare bottom. It was just crying out to be decorated with colourful weals. The next five minutes must have seemed an eternity to Robert, as we waited for the petrol engine to shut down.

Eventually, there was silence. Robert braced himself.

“Might as well wait for the mower to start again. I intend to tawse you hard, the mower will help drown out any squealing.”

It was about a minute before the mower engine started again. I raised the tawse.


Robert’s bare bottom sprang into life, wriggling, clenching and unclenching bizarrely, as the tawse began to weave its pattern of agony and colour.

Our neighbour resumed his mowing, blissfully unaware that he had Robert’s fate in his hands. I sometimes amaze myself with the games I come up with when Robert is secured over the whipping bench. I try to make sure he never has a bored moment.

After Robert’s third batch of six, Robert was quite breathless. The strokes were biting in nice and deep, and having him gasping and wriggling deliciously. I took a look out of the window to see that our neighbour was only about a third of the way through his mowing. Seemed like Robert’s guess was going to be wrong. I didn’t tell him, though, but just chuckled. Robert groaned in reply. He can read me.

“It seems he’s finished,” I said, looking out of the window about twenty minutes later. “Your guess was wrong. You were four out, so that’s twenty-four strokes with the cane.”

Robert groaned in despair again. His bottom was already vividly decorated from the sixty strokes of the tawse he had received. The cane would add some nice raised, purple weals.

My goodness, what a fuss he made as I began his caning. Although he looked very sore, I didn’t hold back. I never do. Robert gasped, squealed and writhed through all twenty-four deliciously hard strokes. His blazing bottom was a picture to behold.

I don’t know why, but I didn’t release him, and it’s just as well I didn’t. Instead I went downstairs to make myself a well deserved cup of tea. Just as I was brewing my Earl Grey, I head the mower engine again, this time from the front of the house. I giggled to myself, realising that Robert would have heard it too.

“Just as well I din’t put my canes and tawses away,”  I said, cheerfully, as I joined Robert upstairs. “I might as well wait until he’s finished completely, so I can recoup my energy while I enjoy my tea.”

I pulled up a chair so I could sit behind Robert and watch the weals on his bottom mature, while I sipped tea and listened to the lawnmower.

By the time I’d finished my tea, our neighbour had finished mowing his front lawn, and Robert was due another dozen with both the tawse and the cane.

“You know the rules, Robert,” I said, as I picked up the tawse. “The final strokes are always the hardest.”

*          *          *

I haven’t published a new book for a while, but there are several nearing completion, and will be published soon.

My latest dice game, ‘ALL SIDES OF A DICE’, can be found on the SPANKING GAMES page of my website:

Spanking Games

Happy Spanking!

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Several years ago I saw the new year in by caning Robert. The caning began as the first chimes of Big Ben wafted from our radio, and continued until the final chime. I haven’t timed it, but it’s a long time, especially if you are caning briskly. It excited me that the last Robert’s final sensation of one year, and his first of the next would be the same – excruciating agony, as the cane bit repeatedly into his writhing bottom. I caned him briskly and hard, and I remember being quite out of breath at the end of it. The chiming seemed to last an eternity, and I can’t imagine how long it must have seemed to Robert. My goodness, what a sore bottom he had!

I decided to do something similar this new year, but instead of Big Ben to accompany the thrashing, it would be fireworks. In our area the first fireworks are often to be heard long before midnight on New Year’s Eve. I instructed Robert to have the whipping bench assembled early in the evening, then informed him that he would be secured over it as soon as we heard the first firework, and that he would remain over it until the crescendo at midnight had tailed off. I told him that he would be punished at my leisure, with plenty of pauses to reflect, but the finale, at midnight, would be brisk and hard. Robert was mortified when we heard the first firework at just after 8.00 in the evening.

“That means I’ll be over the whipping bench for over four hours!” he complained.

“Yes it does,” I agreed, “It does seem rather a long time, but it can’t be helped, rules are rules. I want you over the whipping bench, naked, in less than one minute. Otherwise there will be consequences.” I looked at my watch to emphasise that I wasn’t joking.

Robert knows not to argue with me. He looked terrified as he began to undress. I love it when he’s terrified. But what was I going to do for 4 hours? Imagination was required. As I stood over him, looking down at his perfectly presented, and totally helpless bare bottom, I had a lovely idea. I would treat Robert to 4 hours in a state of heightened suspense and anticipation, punctuated with agony.

We both love classical music, and we have a compact music centre and a pair of high quality headphones. I fetched these from the lounge, together with the first CD I would treat him to: Ravel’s ‘Bolero’. I also fetched the blindfold I keep with my restraint equipment.

“I don’t want to hear a word from you until next year, Robert,” I said, as I placed the blindfold over his eyes. “If I do, your punishment will be even more severe.”

“We’ll talk again next year,” I said, as I placed the earphones over his head.

A few seconds later, the gentle introduction of my first music choice began to fill the punishment room, and also Robert’s headphones. I was quite sure that he would now never know whether I was in the room, or not, and he would never know when agony was about to sear across his helpless bare bottom. I left the room, then went downstairs to select the second piece of music he would ‘enjoy’. I decided to treat him to at least one, perhaps two short thrashings at random times during each piece of music, using a variety of implements. I’d already decided on the finale: the ‘1812 Overture’. It would be quite fun to work out the timings of each piece of music so that the canons at the end of the 1812 would coincide with midnight, and the eruption of fireworks outside. This is when I planned to administer a blistering final caning, starting in 2019, and finishing well into 2020.

As soon as I’d chosen the second piece of music, ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’, I returned to the punishment room to administer Robert’s first thrashing of the night. With Bolero blaring into his ears, and the blindfold securely in place, Robert must have been oblivious to the hellstrap being raised over his bare bottom.


What a shock it must have been for him! His body jerked as the twin tailed leather strap bit into his bare flesh for the first time. I couldn’t stifle a giggle as I unleashed a barrage of six venomous strokes. The music was still pumping out, but now it was accompanied by squealing. His bottom began to writhe deliciously within the confines of his restraints. My hellstrap is very, very stingy, especially when applied briskly and hard.

I waited with Robert until ‘Bolero’ had finished, then put on ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’. I went back downstairs to choose the next piece, then returned to administer the next batch. Robert hadn’t felt the hairbrush for some time, so as Mussorgsky strode solemnly around his late friends art exhibition, I set Robert’s bottom ablaze with my ebony hairbrush.

I had a wonderful evening. Robert and I listened to a glorious selection of music. I tawsed to a waltz, caned to a can-can, and spanked to symphonies.

The final caning was surreal. My timing was perfect. While the canons blasted Robert’s eardrums, and the fireworks glittered, banged and shrieked outside, his bottom writhed in a frenzy as I administered the cane with blistering venom. A perfect start to 2020.

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What is the perfect way to end a good, hard, bare bottom caning? The trouble is (for my partner, Robert, that is), I find it difficult to stop. Once I have his bare bottom dancing, writhing, wriggling, bucking, clenching and unclenching in a wild frenzy, as I enthusiastically decorate it with colourful weals and while I listen to the fierce hiss of the cane, and the sharp ‘crack’ as it bites deep into his raging bottom, laying another line of white hot fire, and delight in his gasping, squealing and pleading for mercy, it makes it even harder to stop. Add to this, the delightful vision of his panic stricken, struggling body, fighting fruitlessly with his restraints, his muscles standing out like rods of iron as he tries to escape the clutches of my whipping bench. He appears so desperate to wrench his blazing bottom out of the reach of my excruciating cane, that I can almost imagine him climbing the walls with his bare hands if he were to escape. But, of course, he can’t escape. He is completely at my mercy, and I can cane him as hard as I like, and for long and I like, and there is absolutely nothing he can do to stop me. The more he pleads for mercy, the harder I want to cane him. Why would I stop, when I am having such delicious fun?

There has been a punishment famine in our house for several weeks. Although both Robert and I enjoy entertaining family and friends, their presence does mean we are unable to indulge in our favourite activity. The famine had gotten so serious that by the time we had a week to ourselves, there was not the hint of a cane mark to be seen on Robert’s bottom. A rare occurrence in this house indeed. But this situation does have its rewards. It meant that I had the rarity of a blank canvas to work on. So when I said: “We have a whole week to ourselves, Robert. What shall we do?” He knew exactly what I had in mind.

Although I delight in the administration of punishment with a variety of implements, the cane is the implement I instinctively reach for as a first choice. The cane faces some stiff competition in our house, but the joy of administering out a good, hard caning to a writhing bare bottom is difficult to beat.

I don’t need to have a reason to cane Robert, but I do tend to cane him with added venom when I do have one, even if it’s contrived. So when I suggested the chore of cleaning the kitchen floor was overdue, and perhaps he should do it, the scene was set.

“You had better do it thoroughly,” I warned him, as he got down on his hands and knees with a scrubbing brush, “I shall be inspecting the finished result and I expect absolute perfection. Anything less will have consequences.”

Whether, or not, the pea was deliberate, or an oversight, was immaterial. When I inspected the floor after he proclaimed it finished, there was a single garden pea just visible under the front of the fridge. I suspected it had been placed there by Robert deliberately. He often uses a bag of frozen peas to cool his burning bottom after particularly sound punishment, and this pea was still glistening and cold, so it hadn’t been there long. I took it as code that he wanted to be punished severely enough to need the frozen peas afterwards.

“I suggest you assemble the whipping bench,” I said, as I held up the offending item between my finger and thumb, before dropping it into the rubbish bin.

“You only found one pea,” he complained.

“Are you suggesting that I might have found more if I’d looked further?”

“No, there aren’t any more.”

“Then that’s all the evidence I need to confirm that you deliberately placed the pea to provoke me. Consider me provoked. Now get the whipping bench prepared immediately. You are to be soundly caned. If you keep me waiting I’ll punish you more severely.”

He did keep me waiting, and I was delighted. He obviously felt he badly needed a good caning, and I was certainly in the mood to oblige. He can normally have the whipping bench ready in about fifteen minutes, but he managed to dawdle his way through more than thirty minutes before he nervously informed me that it was ready. I was more than ready, with a selection of canes, and just itching to decorate his neglected bottom with some colourful stripes.

“Clothes off,” I ordered, “All of them. I want you naked and in position over the whipping bench in thirty seconds. If you take longer, I’ll be delighted to add penalties with my extra heavy Lochgelly tawse. Six strokes plus one for each extra second.” I checked my watch as I spoke.

Robert hesitated, looked at his own watch, then began to undress. He clearly took my threat seriously, and by the way he swiftly tore his clothes off, he obviously thought the cane would be quite enough for him, and didn’t want to feel the tawse as well. He managed to be in position in twenty-eight seconds, but he hadn’t checked his own watch as he’d taken it off, so I guessed he would be unsure about that.

“What a shame,” I said, unconvincingly, as I began to strap him down, “Thirty-six seconds. You almost made it, and if you hadn’t deliberately taken so long to assemble the whipping bench, I might have been inclined to show some flexibility. So it’s the cane and the tawse for you today.”

“That can’t be right!” he protested, as I rendered him helpless. “I was sure I was under thirty seconds.”

“We can argue about it if you wish, but insinuating that I’m a liar will only serve to make me very cross. Do you think that’s wise?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“I’m quite sure it’s not,” I agreed, as I tightened the final restraining strap. “It seems to me that you’re in enough trouble already.”

He decided to keep quiet. I looked down at the unblemished and perfectly presented, helpless bare bottom I was about to thrash, and realised how much I’d missed caning him. I selected a senior kooboo cane, then took my position to his left.

“Twenty-four strokes,” I announced.

He tensed in anticipation as I measure the cane across the centre of his bottom.

“Twenty-four nice, hard, strokes,” I said, as I gently tapped the as yet unmarked twin globes, while adjusting my footing. I wanted the first stroke to be a real shock.


He hissed in air between his teeth, and his body jerked. The stroke had been superb, and had bitten in deliciously deep. Raised, white tramlines marked the line of impact. They began to colour, as I raised the cane. I was intent on bettering strokes one.


I adore it when I manage to place a stroke right in the crease between his upper thigh and bottom cheeks, and stroke two sank in on target beautifully. I can tell from his body language when Robert is unable to cope with the agony, and he certainly couldn’t cope with this one. An involuntary squeal confirmed it. Just as well he was firmly restrained, as he wouldn’t have stayed down for that one.


I was in my element. Weals were springing up on his writhing bottom, the cane was whistling through the air, then biting into bare flesh with a resounding ’crack’. Robert was hissing in air between his teeth, squealing and sobbing as the cane weaved its lattice of agony. Sweat was beginning to cover his torso, as a result of his frantic and totally pointless struggle with his restraints. He knows he can’t escape, but he always tries. That’s when I know my cane strokes are really hitting home. It was bliss.
I’d been listening to classical music earlier on in the day, and as I continued to happily cane him with real venom, I found myself humming a Strauss waltz, and it occurred to me that it would be fun to cane him to music at a future date. I giggled to myself as I then imagined trying to keep up with ‘Flight of the Bumble Bee’. Or how about ‘Can Can’, which I would rename ‘Can Cane’. What would Offenbach have made of it? Or, perhaps something more dramatic would be more appropriate, especially for canings with a judicial flavour  – Wagner would be good.

“I’m afraid I’ve lost count, Robert,” I said, as I paused the caning. “I’ll have to start again.”

“That’s not fair,” he sobbed, desperately.

“I know it isn’t,” I giggled, as I raised the cane.


What a glorious caning I administered. He probably soaked up in the region of thirty-six strokes, and in the space of a few minutes I transformed the blemish free bare bottom to a glorious lattice of colourful and very angry raised weals.

“That was The Blue Danube,” I said, when he had regained some composure. His silence suggested he didn’t know what I was talking about, and why should he.

“Now it’s time for the tawse. I think we agreed twelve strokes with my extra heavy Lochgelly,” I said as picked up the implement.

“No, no, please! I can’t take any more! I don’t deserve any more!” he pleaded.

“Now don’t argue with me, Robert,” I laughed, “or I’ll change that to The 1812 Overture.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” he sobbed.

“I’ll explain later.”


So, as his squealing filled the room again, accompanied by the delicious sound of leather making sharp contact with bare flesh, my mind turned to what might make a fitting finale for this much needed and overdue thrashing.
A final six of the very best with the cane seemed to be a good idea, but then, logically, a dozen would be better. Another eighteen strokes, of course, would be better still. I decided to ask Robert what he thought. I concluded the dozen with the tawse, then waited until his squealing had abated, to explain my dilemma.

“I really can’t take any more,” he sobbed.

Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he. But of course, he could take more, and he would take more. He had no choice in the matter.

“That’s no help at all, Robert,” I replied. “I would have hoped for a little more imagination from you.”

As I looked down at his helpless trembling body, glistening with sweat, and listened to his laboured breathing, the perfect ending to this particularly enjoyable caning suddenly came to me.

“I know what I’ll do, Robert. I’ll start again.”

“No! Please! No! I beg you!”



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I’ve been neglecting my blog a little lately, but I certainly haven’t been neglecting the regular thrashing of Robert’s bare bottom. I like to apply variety to my thrashings, to make sure Robert never knows what to expect, and I’ve recently been using a dice to decide his fate. I’ve developed all sorts of dice games, some of which I’ve detailed in my website, but generally, the higher the number shown by a tossed dice, the sorer his bottom will be. The nice thing about dice games is that it removes decision making. We both agree to abide by the rules of the game, and if the dice don’t roll Robert’s way, then it’s my responsibility to administer the appropriate punishment. My punishments are always delivered hard. That is a rule set in stone, I never moderate my strokes, so if Robert has a run of bad luck, he’s guaranteed a very sore bottom.

I’ve also added two new rules that must be complied with. The first is that, when Robert is secured over my whipping bench, he must always feel the cane. I’m increasingly incorporating the tawse and hellstrap into my dice games (more on the hellstrap later). It’s quite conceivable that we will play an entire game where the cane is not brought into use. The new rule is, that if I announce that a game is over, and the cane has not seen use, then Robert must request six very hard strokes with the cane before I release him from his restraints. If he fails to make the request promptly, or fails to specify that the strokes must be very hard, then I will administer either twelve, eighteen, or twenty-four very hard strokes, using the dice to decide which. Obviously, I prefer it when he fails to make his request.

Being right handed, it is Robert’s right bottom cheek that receives most attention. To make amends for this, I now use my hellstrap more frequently. Regular readers of my blog will know that my hellstrap is a bespoke, shortened tawse, and I use it to curl around his left bottom cheek, resulting in the very spiteful tawse tips biting into the tender flesh between his bottom cheeks. He always wears a protective thong to keep his bits safe. When I employ what I call a ‘wrap-around’ technique, the hellstrap can be excruciating. The problem is, I need to stand close to his head to get real venom into these strokes, so the target area is unsighted, and I can’t always be sure if my strokes are as accurate as they need to be. The tawse tips can often drift over to his right bottom cheek. Robert, of course, will know exactly where each stroke bites in, and the new rule is that he must report any stray strokes to me after each batch. If he reports a stray stroke, then I repeat the entire batch for batches up to six strokes. If I even suspect that he has failed to report a stray stroke, the I not only repeat the batch, but double it.

As you can imagine, Robert is a seasoned recipient of the cane and tawse. When I secure him over my whipping bench he has a pretty good idea of what to expect. To keep him on his toes, I am constantly thinking up punishments to shock him, but I have to confess that there is nothing more exciting than introducing somebody who has never been punished to the cane, and that is something I do miss. When I was a professional disciplinarian, I was privileged to administer quite a few first canings. I was able to witness the shock of a virgin recipient as he felt his first ever stroke of the cane. The moment when fantasy becomes reality can be a real surprise. A cane, applied with some vigour to a bare bottom can be considerably more painful that many imagine, and it can be a joy to behold the reaction. Unfortunately, there can only be one first stroke, and Robert’s first stroke was absorbed by him long before I had the pleasure of thrashing him. It’s now been many years since I enjoyed introducing a cane virgin to the excruciating delights of the real thing, but I am able to write about it.

My latest short story, ‘Fantasy to Reality’ is, I hope you will find, a delightful tale about a young man who craves the kiss of the cane, but lacks the courage to take the first step. Fortunately, an observant neighbour takes the step for him.



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Robert’s final thrashing of 2018 was administered with so much enthusiasm, and his bottom was so vividly decorated, that I knew I wouldn’t have a ‘blank canvas’ to work on until a few weeks into 2019. I do so love decorating an unblemished bare bottom, so sometimes I have to be patient, and that was my intention – until yesterday. Yesterday morning I stumbled upon a photograph on Fetlife that changed all that. I might be infringing some copyright, or other if I reproduced it here, but if you subscribe to Fetlife you will probably be able to find it as a picture I have commented on (I am called ABee on Fetlife).

The picture shows a bare bottom that has been beautifully decorated with what has to be a tawse. The marks are so clearly defined that you can almost count the number of strokes, and it is quite obvious that they were administered with enthusiasm. I can’t begin to understand what happens inside my head, but as soon as I saw that picture I knew that I had to have Robert strapped over our whipping bench as a matter of urgency. To be fair to him, I gave him twelve hours notice. He did feebly suggest that he hadn’t recovered from his last trip over the whipping bench, but he knows not to argue.

He obediently, but nervously, lowered himself over the whipping bench that evening, and I soon had him securely strapped in place, with his bare bottom gaping and perfectly presented for punishment. I checked that his protective thong was firmly in place (It needed to be for what I had planned). He obviously knew he was to be thrashed, but that was all. I’d merely told him that he had a surprise to look forward to.

I began with the cane, selecting a senior kooboo. He gasped and hissed in air through clenched teeth as I administered six, crisp, hard strokes across the upper part of his bottom, just below the top of his bottom cleft. I treated him to a long pause, so I could watch the fresh weals mature and blend into a colourful band, about 25mm wide. I can cane quite accurately when I put my mind to it.

Next, I had him gasping and writhing beautifully, as I placed an identically colourful band right in the crease between his bottom cheeks and his upper thighs – a particularly sensitive spot.

“That’s the boundaries nicely defined, Robert,” I said, “Now I can begin colouring in the area between. It will be a bit like colouring by numbers, except I’ll be using tawses instead of paint brushes, and I’m not going to be happy until every single bit of white flesh has been decorated.”

I selected up my extra heavy Lochgelly tawse, then went to work with relish. Within less than thirty seconds, his right bottom cheek resembled the bottom cheek in the picture that had inspired me. But I had barely started. Robert’s bottom was gyrating wildly, as the tawse cracked down, as he tried, and failed to cope with the fierce sting of the heavy leather tails. His gasps and squealing became more urgent as the tawse revisited already burning flesh, as I sought to colour the last few remaining white areas. It probably took about five minutes before I was satisfied. His right bottom cheek was now a nice blend of red and purple. His left bottom cheek, however, was in need of a lot more attention if it was to match (I do envy disciplinarians who are ambidextrous), and his bottom cleft was unscathed, other than the fading marks of his pre-Christmas thrashing. It was time to switch to my hellstrap, but I needed a break. Robert looked like he could do with one too. He was glistening with sweat and hyperventilating as a result of his utterly pointless efforts to wriggle free from his restraints. I really don’t know why he still tries, as he knows that it’s impossible to escape the clutches of our whipping bench. But it’s enormous fun to watch his futile efforts.

“I think I deserve a cup of Earl Grey,” I told him. “Your right bottom cheek has been decorated to my satisfaction. The remaining areas need a lot of attention.”

“Please, Miss,” he sobbed, “I can’t take any more.”

“Would you like another six strokes with the extra heavy Lochgelly tawse?” I asked him.

“No, Miss,” he sobbed.

“Then you shouldn’t make such ridiculous statements.”

I picked up the tawse, then had Robert howling and his bottom dancing, as I administered another six, venomous strokes. He was still gasping as I left for my tea.

It was a blissful feeling to be relaxing downstairs, sipping my favourite tea, knowing that Robert was upstairs, helpless, with his glowing bottom presented for my attention. I knew he would be dreading the sound of my feet on the stairs. I was in no rush. I let him wait.

The vivid colour of Robert’s right bottom cheek had matured while I had been enjoying my tea, and it contrasted even more with his left cheek and bottom cleft. It was time to rectify the situation. I picked up the hellstrap and went to work within a few seconds of stepping through the door. The first stroke caught Robert beautifully in his bottom cleft and he was squealing and writhing in agony almost at once. This was the sort of thrashing that Robert has told me that he dreads more than any other. It’s when he doesn’t know when it will stop. He’s told me that when I announce a sentence of a set number of strokes, he’s able to count then down. It gives him a target to hold on for. Each stroke takes him nearer to the point when his punishment will be over. However, when he has no idea when the thrashing will stop, as was now the case, he can’t cope. He panics, and that’s how I like things. He was shrieking, blubbering and writhing in agony as I administered stroke after venomous stroke to his wildly gyrating bottom.

It took a lot of time and effort to eradicate the last elusive white bits, but eventually I was satisfied. Robert’s body physically ‘sagged’ when I announced I was satisfied. I had to almost peel him off the whipping bench. He was dripping with sweat. He headed straight to the freezer, to get the large bag of frozen peas we keep especially for soothing thrashed, hot bottoms.

What a delightful start to 2019.

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We love to entertain friends and neighbours over Christmas, but it does stifle some of our other activities. I didn’t point out to Robert that it would probably be the last thrashing I would be able to administer this year until I had him safely secured over our whipping bench. He knows only too well that I’m always looking for excuses to make thrashings ‘special’ and I wanted him helpless and at my mercy before he realised that he was destined for a thrashing that might be particularly severe.

I noticed his body stiffen when I mentioned that I may not have another opportunity to punish him this year, so I thought it might be a good idea to decorate his bottom with a pattern that was sure to last through until 2019. I knew he was frightened – just how I like him to be.

“If I were to ask you which implement you would least like me to use to make sure you were wearing marks until 2019, Robert, which would you choose?”

This was the question I asked him as I arranged my selection of canes and tawses on the table in our punishment chamber. I could almost hear his brain whirring as he fought to come up with an answer.

“Err, the cane, Miss,” he lied. I know for a fact that it’s my hellstrap* he fears the most.

“Well, we won’t use that then,” I replied. “I think it’s time that I reacquainted you with my hellstrap, I’ll see if I can make your final thrashing of 2018 as memorable as possible.”

I thought I heard a groan of despair as I picked up my lovely hellstrap.

“I think I’ll set myself a challenge,” I said, as I approached him, “Six perfect strokes.”

I was sure I heard a sob of dread as I took my position to his left, close to his head. I know exactly where to stand now to ensure that the tawse tails will wrap around his left bottom cheek, causing the spiteful tips to accelerate into his bottom cleft.


The delightful sound of leather biting deep into naked flesh confirmed that the first stroke was on target. Robert squealed and the muscles in his thighs stood out like rods of iron as he tried with all his strength, but failed, to clench his legs and bottom cheeks together. It’s a pointless exercise for him because the latest addition to my whipping bench are two wooden blocks fitted securely to the kneeling platform. With his knees either side of the block, closing his thighs is impossible, and access to his most sensitive areas is guaranteed, no matter how much he struggles.


Another nice, hard stroke found its mark. Robert whimpered, and his body began to writhe. I’d already breached his pain threshold, and I’d barely started. Delicious!


A symphony of screams and gurgling filled the chamber as my lovely hellstrap began to revisit already burning flesh. His body bucked and twisted within the confines of his restraints, but his gaping bottom remained stubbornly presented for punishment.

“Not bad,” I said, when his shrieking had quelled, and I inspected the marks I had produced, “But far from perfect. The fifth stroke didn’t produce the nice, sharp crack I like to hear. Never mind, I’ll try again.”

“Please, no!” he begged. “I cant take it. Please, no!”

“Now you know very well that pleading for mercy is forbidden,” I scolded him. “If I hear any more I’ll be delighted to increase batches from six to eight strokes. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Miss,” he sobbed, as I took my position to his side again.

The chamber filled with hysterical shrieking as my hellstrap went enthusiastically to work again, and another six strokes found their mark with satisfyingly sharp reports.

Inspection of his bottom revealed the first signs of purple, where the tawse tails had revisited already red, burning flesh.

“Perhaps a little better,” I said, as I took my position to his side again, “but still far from perfect.”

And so his punishment progressed. Robert shrieked, writhed and struggled through another four batches of six strokes.

“There’s still room for improvement,” I said, as he groaned in utter despair, “But I think I’ll take a tea break. I think I deserve a nice cup of Earl Grey.”

I left Robert to contemplate his fate. I was back less than a minute later.

“Robert. Why do we have no Earl Grey Tea? I told you buy a packet when you went shopping yesterday.”

“Sorry, Miss,” he whimpered, “I forgot.”

“Then I shall have to make sure that you never forget again, shan’t I?”

“Yes, Miss. I’m very sorry, Miss,” he replied, miserably.

“I’ll have to go shopping,” I said, “I’ll deal with your forgetfulness when I get back, and after I have enjoyed my overdue cup of Earl Grey.”

“How long will you be? What happens if I need to use the toilet?” he sobbed.

“I have no idea how long I’ll be, and if you need the toilet then you had better hold on, because if you don’t, I will add thirty-six very hard strokes with my Lochgelly tawse to whatever I plan for you.”

Poor Robert, with his presented, gaping bare bottom burning and throbbing, was left to contemplate his fate. I took my time, and the weather was pleasant, so I decided to walk. It was exciting and empowering to casually browse in our local convenience store, knowing that Robert was helplessly secured over the whipping bench, with his bare bottom waiting for my attention. With my pack of tea, I made my way back, again taking my time, as I planned how I would punish Robert. I was relishing the prospect.  Back at home, I first made my tea, then sat in the lounge to enjoy it. Robert would have heard me return, so he would know the resumption of his punishment was imminent, and I imagined his nerves were on edge. What I didn’t know at this stage was that, while he had been forced to wait for me, with his throbbing bare bottom thrust up for punishment, his mindset had undergone a transformation.

Robert, underneath all the nerves and dread, actually loves to be punished. He finds the anticipation frightening and exciting, and his fear is usually the most prominent emotion as he is being secured over the whipping bench. But there is also an underlying craving present. He’s always jubilant after punishment, and always grateful to me for punishing him, especially if I have been especially severe. However, just occasionally, his craving to be punished stands out as his strongest emotion, and on occasions like this he is a joy to deal with, as he actually taunts me and encourages me to thrash him harder. While Robert had been waiting for me, his craving for more punishment had taken over his mind.

“I’ve decided on your punishment, Robert,” I said, as I opened the door to the chamber.

I noted that his bottom cleft was now largely purple, and looked very sore and tender. Further application of the hellstrap would be eye-wateringly painful. Robert was silent.

“I’ve decided the second part of your punishment will be called a six stroke ‘hellstrap sandwich’. You will receive, without any pauses, six strokes with the hellstrap, then six with the Lochgelly tawse, then six more with the hellstrap, followed by six strokes with the senior cane, then finally, six strokes with the hellstrap. All strokes will be administered with maximum severity. Have you anything to say before I begin?”

“Yes, Miss,” he replied firmly, “that sounds too lenient. Far too lenient.”

I felt a smile of delight breaking out on my face. I reached down to gently stroke his bottom.

“You’re right, of course, dear Robert. How remiss of me. Far too lenient, you say?”

“Yes, Miss. Far too lenient.”

There were several long seconds of silence. I continued to gently stroke his bare bottom as I pondered my delicious decision. Robert, I knew would be waiting to learn of his new sentence with heightened excitement and dread. It was a magical moment.

“I shall double it to a twelve stroke sandwich,” I said, as the gentle caress ended, and I picked up the hellstrap. “The tawse I shall use will be the extra heavy Lochgelly, and the cane will be the dragon. Do you have anything else to say?”

“No, Miss.”

I thrashed Robert’s bare bottom as hard as I could and without any pauses. He squealed as the first few strokes with the hellstrap bit deep into already very sore flesh, but the squealing then ceased. He writhed though – oh how he writhed! Within the confines of his restraints, he twisted and bucked. His feet gyrated and grasped at air. HIs head twisted and swayed, and he hyperventilated throughout. The Lochgelly tawse rapidly put colour into his unscathed right bottom cheek, and the cane added colourful, raised stripes. It was all over in a few minutes, by which time we were both breathless, and glistening with sweat. I released him with urgency.

I won’t tell you what happened next. That’s private, but I’m quite confident that he will be wearing the marks of this particularly erotic thrashing well into 2019.

I’ve been quite productive in recent weeks. I’ve published two new stories, ‘Allure of the Cane’ and ‘Punishment Project Three’ . The latter written under my pen name, Amanda Barrington. They can both be found here:

I’ve also written a free story called ‘Destined for Punishment’ which can be found here:

I hope you have a happy spanking new year.
* My hellstrap is a bespoke short tawse, 43cm long, split into two tails of heavy, but flexible leather, each measuring 12mm wide x 9mm thick. It is particularly suitable for administering what I call ‘wrap-around’ strokes, where the shorter length enables the tawse tail tips to bite spitefully into the most sensitive areas. I like to think that I am close to perfecting the excruciating potential of this delicious implement. To maximise the ‘wrap-around’ effect, I stand to Robert’s side, close to his head. It is essential that he is securely restrained, well bent over, with his legs spread and his bottom cleft gaping, making clenching of the bottom cheeks impossible. He alway wears a well padded thong to protect vital ‘bits’, while offering minimal protection to his bottom cleft. Strokes are administered to wrap around his left bottom cheek, causing the tawse tips to accelerate into his bottom cleft or inner, upper thigh. The technique takes some practice because the target area is out of sight from where I stand, but a floor standing mirror can help. A reassuring ‘CRACK!’ , followed by frantic struggling, gasping and squealing helps confirm when I am getting it right. When I manage a flurry of brisk, hard strokes, all on target and aimed for the same sensitive area, his reaction is absolutely delicious – he goes berserk, and he tells me that the agony is so intense that it’s not possible to put into words.

I often incorporate the ‘wrap-around’ technique of using a tawse in my stories. So although they are fiction, my experience in this field helps inject realism. Where spanking, caning and tawsing are involved, I know what I am talking about.

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