PUNISHMENT BOOK ENTRIES DISCHARGED & A GHOST STORY

Robert’s tawsing was successfully administered yesterday, and he now has a VERY sore bottom. As it was to be a particularly severe tawsing, I gave him 48 hours formal notice, informing him at what hour he must have the whipping bench prepared, and at what time the first stroke would be administered. I placed my extra heavy Lochgelly tawse in water the night before, to give it more weight (more bite). I realise, of course, that this may shorten the life of the tawse, but I can buy another if this one loses any severity.

Robert has been so well behaved since I made my entry in the punishment book, so I have had no reason to add to the 36 stroke sentence – a shame. He was very quiet the night before sentence was due to be carried out. I noticed him glancing at the clock. I imagine he was counting the hours and minutes before the first stroke would bite hard into his bare bottom. After I had dropped the tawse into the filled sink in the utility room, I made a point of asking him to check if we needed any more dishwasher tablets, as I was making a shopping list for the following day. I did this deliberately, because we keep the tablets in the utility room and I wanted to make sure he knew the tawse was being prepared for his punishment. His face was a picture when he came back. Delightful! I love watching his mental torment prior to a thrashing. I gave him a knowing smile. Nothing was said.

I didn’t need to say anything the following morning either. He knows only too well that I am always eager to add strokes to a punishment, so at an hour before the appointed time he dutifully began to assemble the whipping bench in the punishment room. At five minutes before the hour, I entered the punishment room, with the soaked tawse, now transferred to a washing up bowl filled with water. I’d decided to keep the tawse wet throughout, so I would immerse it back into water after every six strokes. Robert was standing next to the whipping bench, naked, apart from his protective thong, his head bowed. He looked briefly at the tawse, still in water, then shuddered.

“Place yourself over the whipping bench, Robert”, I ordered.

He looked just for the briefest moment into my eyes. It was a joy to see the fear there.

Within a few seconds he was obediently in position, so I began the task of strapping him into place with the numerous leather restraining straps. I tightened them a little more than usual. I wanted his bottom as stationary as possible and I wanted to make it impossible to clench his bottom cheeks.

The whipping bench is designed to keep his bare bottom presented exactly as I like it – upturned, with the bottom cleft exposed, and legs spread apart to give me access to his sensitive inner thighs. The restraints are far more robust than they need to be to make absolutely sure he is unable to wriggle his bottom out of the path of my implements of correction, no matter how desperately he tries. The thong is substantial and padded, to keep his ‘bits’ safe. This is important, as it allows me to curl the tawse into the most sensitive parts with reckless enthusiasm.

“My word, this tawse feels heavy!” I said, as I lifted it from the water and shook the excess off. “Prepare yourself for thirty-six of the very best.”

Robert actually squeaked with fear as I slapped the heavy, cold, wet tawse across his bare bottom in preparation to administer the first stroke.

“It’s two minutes to the hour, Robert,” I said, “but I think I’ll make a start. The strokes will be in batches of six. I’ll give the tawse a dip in the water between batches to replenish any lost weight. Sorry the water’s so cold, I should have been more thoughtful and used warm water. Mind you, I don’t think you will be complaining about lack of heat.”

For some reason, Robert didn’t appear to be amused by my little joke. No matter, it simply gave me even more reason to make the tawsing as hard as possible.

For this thrashing I was wearing long leather boots and long leather gloves to protect me from any wild strokes that might glance off or flip back. Stray strokes have caused me some discomfort in the past and I didn’t want anything to deter me from putting absolutely everything into each stroke.
When I raised the tawse over my shoulder, the additional weight actually propelled the twin tails to kiss my own bottom. I made a mental note to wear a leather skirt for the next ‘wet’ tawsing.

CRACK!

The tawse bit savagely into his offered bottom with the most delightful sound I have ever achieved with a tawse. It must have been because I had soaked it. The effect on Robert was spectacular. I have rarely had him writhing and shrieking so energetically after just one stroke. This was wonderful, and encouraged me to make stroke two even harder. I would just have to put up with the tawse occasionally slapping my own bottom, and the damp patch that was forming on the back of my cotton skirt.

After Robert had gurgled, screamed, pleaded and writhed his way through the first six strokes he was treated to a short break while I immersed the tawse back in the water. The strokes so far had been across the centre of his bottom and it was already displaying a vivid red band, turning purple, with some particularly angry spots on his right bottom cheek, where the tawse tips had bitten in.
The next six were what I call ‘wrap-around’ strokes. Totally ignoring his frantic pleading, I shook excess water off the dripping tawse, then took a position closer to his head. This allowed me to curl the tawse around his left bottom cheek, causing the heavy, wet tawse tips to accelerate into his bottom cleft. This is excruciating, and Robert’s reaction confirmed it. I had to pause for a few moments after just two strokes because Robert was using almost superhuman strength in an attempt to spoil my aim by wiggling his bottom from side to side. I dropped the tawse back in the water, while I tightened the restraining straps by another notch.

“Those two didn’t count, Robert.” I said, as I picked up the tawse again.

The symphony of shrieking that filled the room was blissful as the tawse tips found the most deliciously sensitive parts of his bottom.
The remainder of the thrashing was completed quite quickly because I had some concerns that the tightness of the restraining straps might be restricting his circulation. I still replenished the tawse with water every six strokes, however.

The next six strokes were ‘cracking’. They put some beautiful weals into his left inner thigh. I did have some concerns that he might be damaging his vocal chords, but not enough concern to moderate my strokes.

The next six were aimed so the tips bit into the crease between his right buttock and the top of his right thigh.

During the final two sets of six I amused myself aiming for any white spots that remained visible in my target area – there weren’t many.
I almost had to ‘peel’ Robert off the whipping bench when it was over. He was dripping with sweat from his futile efforts to escape. My own bottom was quite wet and a little sore from the the numerous slaps it had received from the tails of the dripping tawse.
I hope the tawse recovers – I do fear the soaking and drying out will cause it to become brittle.

Robert is currently nursing his blazing bottom with a bag of frozen peas. It will take quite some time to recover from this particularly enjoyable tawsing, so I will have to amuse myself completing a story I am working on.

I don’t spend all my time punishing Robert. One of our pleasures is visiting the treasures English history has to offer. We recently visited Ham House in Richmond, on the river Thames, and we learned that the building was reputed to be haunted by a Duchess. As we toured this beautiful house, soaking up the atmosphere, my imagination was conjuring up some delicious images of ghosts and birchings. The result is a short ghost story set in a, Victorian house. Not as grand as Ham House, but sharing that haunted atmosphere, Pike Hill House hides secrets of past birchings, until they are unlocked by a young man researching his family tree.

I had fun writing this story which I have called “Victorian Birching” and I hope you enjoy it too: http://anniebeebooks.com/id8.html

About Annie Bee Books

I am an author of BDSM fantasy stories.
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4 Responses to PUNISHMENT BOOK ENTRIES DISCHARGED & A GHOST STORY

  1. sissyjamieanne says:

    Good morning Ma’am! I’ve just read this wonderful writing, and I believe it (and You) may well qualify as one of “England’s Treasures”! I can say, without exaggeration, that You are the very best writer of Female administered discipline I’ve ever had the privilege of encountering, Ma’am! And, I’ve been reading this genre for 30 plus years! I also suspect You’re one of the greatest Disciplinarians of a generation!

    I love the way You set the stage for corporal punishment…to me, this is what truly makes a wonderful “spanking story”…the preparation, the positioning, the securing of the miscreant to the punishment bench…all so absolutely delicious! Thank You, Ma’am!

    I’ve read several of Your works from Amazon, and intend to read them all!

    In humble respect,

    sissy jamieanne

  2. Crimson Kid says:

    Damn, that was a “good and proper hiding,” as they sometimes say here in the Lone Star State!

    Hopefully, Mistress Annie bought herself a leather skirt to protect her own derriere, even though the stings it received were perhaps 1% of what Robert’s bare behind must have endured.

    Robert’s such a lucky guy, I hope he realizes what a treasure his severe, strict ‘spankmistress’ truly is… –C.K.

  3. ArchivalLolo83 says:

    Severe Education ! mistress strict !

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