SENTENCE CARRIED OUT

Sometimes I’m in the mood to administer a caning. Other times I’m REALLY in the mood to administer a caning. At times like this I can feel such a powerful yearning that it can seem almost painful. When this magical chemistry occurs inside me Robert is in for a caning of canings. If it wasn’t for this sadistic drive I don’t think I could put so much passion into my caning and tawsing stories.

The chemistry was powerful yesterday. The date and time had been set in stone – 10.00am on Monday 14th July 2014 – Robert was to be caned, severely. He had been given several days notice to enable him to mentally prepare for thirty-six hard strokes across his bare bottom with my finest dragon cane. He was required to be in position over the whipping bench, bare bottom presented by 9.45am at the latest. This would give me time to make sure all restraints were in place and secure well before the first stroke. I also wanted to set up our camcorder as I wanted a record of this caning. And, of course, it would also give Robert time to contemplate his fate while helpless and at my mercy.

I arranged a clock, with a sweeping second hand, to be in our sight so we could watch the final minutes and seconds pass. Robert was instructed to remain silent. I didn’t want anything to distract his anticipation of the first stroke, and I wanted to psyche myself up to ensure that the first bite of the cane was spectacular. No warm up for Robert. He was to receive the most severe thirty-six strokes I could administer from cold.

I stood beside Robert, in position, cane in hand, while we both watched the sweep of the hand. Each second brought his caning one second nearer. It must been as frightening for him as it was exciting for me. At one minute before ten I raised the cane, then laid it gently across the the centre of Robert’s presented bare bottom. I was pleased to see his bottom cheeks flinch as he felt the gentle touch of the unyielding rod that would soon lay a line of white hot fire across his flesh.

In that last minute my eyes moved slowly between the clock and Robert’s bottom. My concentration was total. All thirty-six strokes needed to be superb – exceptionally hard and accurate.

Robert had been instructed previously that the caning was to be taken in complete silence, and that failure to do so would result in penalties. I was determined to have him squealing before he had received even six strokes.

At two seconds before ten, the cane was raised away from his bottom to begin a graceful sweeping stroke over my shoulder. At one second before ten, with my body twisted to give the cane maximum arc, I released all the energy that I had built up. I twisted my body back towards Robert’s bare bottom, and the cane began to hiss its way to his twin globes. Wrist action, perfected over many years, added to the venom of the stroke.

CRACK!

There is nothing like the sound of a cane biting hard and deep into the flesh of a helpless bare bottom. The caning had began and the first stroke was magnificent. Robert’s bottom shuddered as the cane all but buried itself into his bottom cheeks. He was gasping after the first stroke. I was intent on making stroke two even harder.

Robert took only the first four strokes in silence, then the whimpering began. By stroke eight he was crying out. The shrieking began at stroke thirteen. The caning was going superbly and his writhing bottom was already spectacularly wealed.

Robert can take a good caning, but this one broke him, and for me a good caning only really starts when we reach the point at which he can’t take any more.

“Please, Annie, please stop. I beg you. I can’t take it,” he sobbed hysterically, as the caning passed the half way mark.

The forbidden plea merely encouraged me to cane him harder.

The integrity of the whipping bench was thoroughly tested during his delicious caning. He writhed and struggled and shrieked and pleaded for all he was worth, but his bare bottom remained perfectly presented for the cane and I continued mercilessly.

“You have earned twelve penalty strokes, Robert,” I said, quietly, a few minutes after the caning had finished. “I will administer them in batches of six. I will use the tawse and you will take them in complete silence. Failure to comply will ensure the whole batch of six is repeated. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Miss,” he whimpered.

I’d decided to use the tawse because his right bottom cheek was too severely wealed to take much more, but his bottom cleft was unscathed. This is where I would aim the tawse tips. Twelve penalty strokes was probably a bit lenient considering all the fuss and noise he had made, but I was quite sure I could coax some more squealing and gasping out of him, so there would be repeats.

“Prepare yourself for the first six,” I instructed, quietly, as I reached for my extra heavy, two tailed Lochgelly tawse.

Robert took a deep breath. I knew what he was doing. He was going to attempt to hold his breath through all six strokes to help hinder any involuntary gasps or squeals. I was wise to this trick and had a plan.

CRACK!

I curled the tawse around his left bottom cheek, causing the tawse tips to bite excruciatingly into his sensitive bottom cleft. His body tensed and his muscles stood out like rods of iron as he fought to suppress a scream.

I continued the tawsing, steadily and hard, all strokes aimed in the same way. Robert continued to hold his breath, but his body was shaking from the strain of coping with the agony. To his credit, he took six spiteful and hard strokes in silence. He let all the air out of his lungs in some relief at managing the first six.

“Second six,” I said immediately.

Before he had even a chance to catch his breath, the tawse bit in again. He shrieked in shock and agony. I was happy. I had outwitted him. I had an additional six to administer. To his credit, he took them well.

At this very moment, as I review the recording of his punishment and write this report, he is dismantling the whipping bench, still naked, and occasionally holding a packed of frozen peas to his burning bottom. It helps reduce the swelling of the weals.

In conclusion, a most satisfactory caning. Robert’s reaction to the punishment will inspire my writing, so I will continue with my latest book while his bottom recovers.