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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy spanking.


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

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

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

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


4 Questions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, yes,” he admitted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are your numbers?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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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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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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