Perhaps I should remind you of my blog of a few days ago: To celebrate the publishing of my latest short story ‘ONE CANING IS NEVER ENOUGH’, I thought it would be appropriate to visit a nice restaurant for lunch with Robert. I had the fun idea of giving six of the best across the seat of his trousers before we left, so he would have a nice, sore bottom to sit on while we enjoyed lunch, as a constant reminder that he would receive a dozen of the very best on the bare bottom when we returned.
I decided to use my favourite senior cane and to cane him in the lounge. I waited until the very last moment before we were due to leave for the restaurant before producing the cane. He probably thought I’d forgotten.
“Close the curtains, please, Robert, then bend over the back of the settee,” I instructed him.
He drew the curtains shut then bent over as instructed. As the fabric of his thin trousers tautened across his buttocks, I stepped forward to pull the rear of his shirt out from the waist of his trousers, just in case they offered extra protection.
“Chin on the seat, please, Robert, and toes on the floor.”
Robert lowered his torso so his chin touched the seat, causing the fabric of his trousers to tauten further as his bottom elevated. It was an excellent position for a caning as I would be able to cane from above, so gravity would add to the energy of the cane.
“Six strokes, Robert,” I said, as I tapped his upturned bottom with the cane, “To be taken in complete silence and without moving out of position. Is that quite clear?”
“Yes, Miss,” he whispered.
I delivered all six strokes with as much venom as possible, each biting into his trousered bottom with a beautiful, resounding ‘crack’, I thought I heard a gasp as the final stroke coaxed a little dust from his trousers.
I know his body language intimately, and I could see they really hurt him. He made to get up.
“I have not given you permission to rise, Robert,” I said, quite sternly, “and you failed to take the caning in silence. The caning will be repeated.”
I was quite sure I heard him groan as he lowered himself back into position.
“Plus an extra three strokes for groaning,” I said, as the cane tapped his bottom.
He managed to take nine further, blisteringly hard strokes. He had tears in his eyes and was shaking a little, when I gave him permission to rise. He wiped his eyes, and a few minutes later we were on our way.
“Don’t forget, Robert,” I reminded him, as the car pulled away. “You will receive a dozen of the very best on the bare as soon as we get back.”
Lunch was delightful, but neither of us consumed alcohol. I never drink and cane, and I certainly wasn’t going to allow Robert any anaesthetic value that alcohol might offer. I loved sitting opposite him, knowing that his bottom must have been throbbing and how much he must have been dreading the caning on the bare that was coming. Robert was dragging his feet as we made our way back to the car. It was just a ten minute drive home. His caning on the bare was imminent.
“Trouser and pants down, Robert,” I said as soon as we were home. “Then back in position over the back of the settee, chin on the seat.
I picked up the senior cane, flexing it impatiently.
As Robert peeled down his underpants, I caught my first sight of the marks from his earlier caning. The weals were impressive indeed. He looked very sore – perfect!
“Don’t forget, Robert,” I said as the cane tapped his upturned bottom, “Complete silence and stay in position.”
As I raised the cane, I was absolutely determined to make him howl. A Dozen strokes, I decided, wasn’t enough. I had to coax some reaction from him. This seemed to give me added strength. The cane strokes were venomously hard and quite brisk. Many bit deep into already sore weals.
I was too much for poor Robert! At stroke eight, he leapt up, gasping, clutching his burning bottom. I was delighted. It took me several minutes to get him back over the arm of the settee to resume the caning. Twice more he jumped up, howling and clutching his hands to his bottom. This would never do!
“You have totally failed to take your caning as instructed, Robert,” I said, as he cowered in front of me, still clutching his bottom, “So now, instead of relaxing after lunch, I will have to spend a good part of the afternoon punishing you. Assemble the whipping bench at once.”
For a moment, he looked as if he might argue, but thought better of it.
While Robert assembled the bench in the punishment room, I checked to see if there was any feedback from the publication of the latest book.
Fifteen minutes later, Robert was strapped down over the bench, bare, wealed, bottom perfectly presented for the cane.
“Obviously, Robert,” I said, as I took my position to his left and placed the cane across his bottom cheeks, “I will repeat the twelve strokes you so pathetically failed to take while not restrained. This time you have no choice. In addition, I am adding another six each for moving out of position a further two times. So that makes twenty-four.”
He was whimpering with dread, now.
“But there is more,” I said. His whimpering stopped. I had his full attention. “I’ve just checked my feedback. There are two spelling mistakes in my latest book. Mistakes that you should have corrected. I will add six strokes for each, making thirty-six strokes in all.”
The whimpering and sobbing intensified.
Robert howled and shrieked through all thirty-six strokes. I can’t remember the last time I had caned him so severely. The weals were a joy to behold.
“One caning is never enough, is it Robert?” I said, as I began to unbuckle his restraints.