This morning Robert ‘enjoyed’ a second appointment with my hellstrap (my new thick, heavy, short, but flexible, bespoke, tawse). He spent exactly one minute in hell and he claims it was the longest minute of his life.
I’ve been working out at the gym at least three times a week recently, so I’m extremely fit. My tawsing technique has improved considerably, and my new hellstrap is superb. I’d given Robert 24 hours notice of his punishment – I usually do this, so he has the opportunity to contemplate his fate. I told him that I would be using the hellstrap and that he would be thrashed far more severely than his first taste of it because he had made far too much fuss.
It’s strange how moods change – sometimes I’m in the mood to thrash Robert, and other time I’m REALLY in the mood to thrash him. Robert can tell when the latter is the case from the glint in my eye. And so was the case this morning. He was physically shaking with fear as I guided him over the whipping bench. I placed a rolled up pillow under his hips to raise his bottom a little higher than usual, then tightened a sturdy leather strap over the small of his back to keep his back hollowed. This had the effect of spreading his bottom cheeks and keeping his bottom cleft humiliatingly exposed. His thighs, ankles, shoulders, arms and wrists were all tightly strapped down. The embrace of the whipping bench was complete. Robert was totally helpless and his bare bottom was raised and gaping, perfectly presented for punishment. Although I was aching to take the hellstrap to his offered flesh, I had a few things to say to him:
“This is going to be far more severe than the last time I used the hellstrap on you, Robert. This time I am gong to thrash you for a full minute. The strokes will be administered as hard as possible and as briskly as possible. There will be no mercy. You are being punished for making too much fuss last time. I expect you to take your punishment in total silence and without fuss. Failure to comply will result in penalty strokes, and if you make as much fuss as you did last time I will repeat the entire punishment. Is that quite clear?”
It is unusual for Robert to panic at such an early stage, but to my delight, he did, and began to plead for mercy.
“Please Miss, I beg you, not so much. I really won’t be able to take it. I beg you, PLEASE”.
This was wonderful. Trying to contain my excitement, I answered coolly:
“Now you know very well, Robert, that begging for mercy is strictly forbidden, so I will now give you a choice. You can either accept your punishment now, I have increased it to 1 minute 20 seconds, and ask for it, OR, you can continue pleading for mercy, in which case I will double it to a full 2 minutes. What is your choice?”
“I’ll accept the 1 minute and 20 seconds, Miss,” he whimpered.
“Ask for your punishment, Robert. Tell me that you deserve to be punished severely. Ask me to thrash you as hard as possible.”
In a faltering voice, he managed to find the words.
“I deserve to be severely punished, Miss. Please thrash me as hard as possible.”
“It will be my pleasure, Robert,” I whispered.
I use a kitchen timer for timed punishments. I set it to 1 minute and 30 seconds, giving me an additional 10 seconds to get started, then picked up the hellstrap. A ‘beep’ signalled to Robert that the timer had started. He braced himself, with a sob, as I took my position to his left, then raised the hellstrap.
His body froze as the first stroke bit in, then went into convulsions as the second overlaid it. It was one of the most delicious thrashings I have administered. Robert writhed and shrieked his way trough the entire minute and a half. He strained so hard in his attempts to weave and clench his bottom cheeks, causing the joints of the whipping bench to creak, but his bottom remained gaping open and perfectly presented for the hellstrap. His desperate protests merely encouraging me to thrash him harder and harder. Towards the end his shrieking became so shrill and loud, that I did fleetingly worry about disturbing the neighbours.
It’s a good job I work out at the gym. A minute and a half of thrashing a bottom at that intensity is hard work. I was quite breathless as I laid down the hellstrap. Robert’s shrieking faded into sobbing and he was trembling. His entire body was glistening with sweat from his fruitless efforts to escape the clutch of my whipping bench. I almost felt sorry for him, as I picked up my dragon cane.
“You know the rules, Robert. Punishment must be taken in silence. I would hardly call that silence.”
Robert said nothing, wisely, but he was shaking his head in despair as he continued to sob.
“Twenty-four of the very best,” I announced
Although Robert’s bottom cleft was almost purple, and his left bottom cheek was bright red, his right cheek was almost unscathed, This was perfect as the cane would discharge most of its energy here. I raised the cane, and as Robert howled, I decorated his his bottom with another twenty-four vivid weals, then added a further six for the fuss he made during that.
Robert could hardly walk when I eventually released him from the whipping bench, and as I write he is holding a pack of frozen peas against his burning flesh.