I had a multitude of jobs before I became a professional disciplinarian, and was never really suited to any of them. I’m not subservient, and that makes me just about unemployable. One job I did quite enjoy, however, was a Saturday job I had when I was a teenager, in a cake shop. I don’t like cakes, but I was a natural at cake decoration, and my talents were soon exploited by the owner of the cake shop. I decorated some of the special orders for wedding cakes and the like. I didn’t realise at the time that I could earn far more money and have so much more fun decorating bare bottoms with canes and tawses, but that was to come later. My cake decorating skills, however, remain, and are occasionally sought out by neighbours and friends.
One my neighbours, Melody, had arranged to call around at noon with a cake she was making to celebrate her sister’s wedding anniversary. She wanted help with the decoration and I was only too happy to assist.
However, the night before I decided I was in the mood to discipline Robert. He’d recovered sufficiently from his last thrashing, so I gave him notice that I wanted the whipping bench assembled, and him over it by 10.00am the following morning. That would give me time to deal with him before Melody arrived with her cake.
I like to try different things, so the following morning I informed Robert that I was going to treat him to some ‘character enhancing’ therapy, as I guided him over the whipping bench. Normally, I have Robert trussed up so securely that he can hardly move, but on this occasion I secured his wrists, ankles and knees, but left the strap over his back unsecured. With this arrangement, Robert would be kept in the bent over position, but would be free to arch his back enabling him to clench his bottom cheeks. With Robert prepared, all I needed was a dice, my tawses, and a strong right arm for the lesson to begin.
“Right, Robert. Listen carefully. I shall toss the dice to decide on the number of strokes. I will then instruct you to present yourself for the tawse. When I issue this instruction you must immediately hollow your back and thrust your bottom up. I want the tawse to have full access to all parts of your bottom. If you fail to comply to this instruction at once there will be painful consequences. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss,” he replied, nervously.
“Good. I will then administer the number of strokes shown on the dice while you demonstrate your will power by keeping your bottom perfectly presented. You will maintain this position until all strokes have been administered to my satisfaction and I have given you permission to relax. If you fail to keep your bottom perfectly presented I will allow you a short break, after which you will be given a second chance. If you fail again I will regard it as a refusal to accept punishment. The penalty for this is double the number of strokes with all restraints in place, thereby ensuring that your bottom is presented perfectly by force. There will be four throws of the dice in total. Is there anything you don’t understand?”
“No, Miss,” he whimpered.
“Very well,” I said, picking up the dice, “then let’s begin.”
Robert looked intently down at the floor as the dice rolled. It came to a stop showing a two. A relatively easy introduction.
“Now, Robert,” I said, as I picked up my hellstrap (a favourite of mine – a short, heavy, very flexible two tailed tawse), “Present your bottom for the tawse.”
Hesitantly, Robert hollowed his back a little, and pushed his bottom out.
“Further,” I demanded, pressing down on the small of his back with my left hand.
Reluctantly, he complied.
“I expect you to maintain that position exactly,” I reminded him.
“I’ll try, Miss,” he whispered, in dread.
His bottom flinched, but remained presented to my satisfaction, as I measured the tawse across it. I arranged my footing with the intent of curling the tawse around his left bottom cheek to ensure that the tawse tips accelerated into his exposed bottom cleft. I wanted the first stroke to be spectacular.
Superb! With the report of a pistol shot, the tawse tails bit deep into the sensitive flesh of his bottom cleft. Robert hissed in air between his teeth, and his back jolted up as he clenched his bottom cheeks together. As his clenched bottom squirmed from side to side, he expelled the air from his lungs in a pain racked whimper. I waited a few moments for his writhing and groaning to subside.
“This will be your second and final chance to accept your due punishment,” I said quietly, as I hovered over him with my tawse at the ready. “Present your bottom for the tawse.”
I don’t like to ever show the slightest weakness when I’m dealing with Robert. ‘Give an inch and he will take a mile’ is the assumption I make when dealing with him. So when Robert failed to unclench his bottom cheeks immediately I went into action at once. I raised the tawse then brought it down hard across the top of his left thigh, causing the tawse tips to wrap around to bite into his sensitive inner thigh.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
As Robert shrieked in agony, the tawse bit four times into the same spot. There was nothing he could to to close his thighs, such is the design of my whipping bench.
I waited a few moments for him to recover a little, before quietly repeating my instruction.
“Present your bottom for the tawse.”
Hesitantly, trembling, his back slowly lowered. I pressed down with my left hand onto his back to encourage complete compliance.
His gaping bottom was trembling delightfully as I raised the tawse.
Spot on! Right in the cleft. Robert groaned and his bottom wavered, but to his credit, he didn’t clench.
It was too much for him. As soon as the second stroke bit hard into the same area of bottom cleft, his self-control deserted him. He cried out and clenched so quickly that I thought he might grasp the tawse before it bounced out.
“What a shame, Robert,” I said, as I reached across to tighten the restraining strap over his back. “You’d taken your two strokes. All you needed to do was wait for my permission to relax. Hollow your back, please. Rules are rules. You are to receive four penalty strokes.”
As I tried to tighten the strap over his back, to force proper presentation of his bottom, he resisted. I wasted no time in administering another four strokes to his inner thigh. That did the trick, especially when I mentioned I would double it to eight if he resisted again.
With his back nicely hollowed, and to the accompaniment of much gasping and squealing, I delivered four hard strokes with the hellstrap, all aimed into his bottom cleft.
With the penalty strokes complete, I released the back strap, then tossed the dice again. He groaned when it came to a rest showing five.
“Present your bottom for the tawse.”
My previous reaction to hesitant compliance bore fruit. Robert, sobbing with fear, presented his bottom immediately. His bottom cleft was displaying some very colourful weals by now, but there was still plenty of white bits for the tawse to seek out.
It was an absolute delight to watch Robert struggling against his irresistible urge to clench his bottom cheeks as the tawse found an as yet unexplored part of his gaping cleft. He partially clenched, while gasping with agony, then thought better of it, and presented his bottom again. It was weaving from side to side, as he tried to dissipate the agony, but I decided to let this go because it was so delicious to watch.
To his credit. He managed to keep in position. He squealed, and his bottom writhed from side to side, but the area I was aiming for remained accessible.
I think I must have found a particularly tender spot for what was my hardest and most satisfying stroke so far. Robert went berserk. He squealed pathetically, as his bottom waved wildly from side to side, clenching and unclenching frantically, as it appeared to be almost ‘eating’ the air, as he desperately fought to keep his bottom presented. It was a delicious sight.
“You may have a few moments to compose yourself, Robert, then we will try for a second and final time.”
“I won’t be able to do it,” sobbed Robert. “It’s impossible. My reaction is involuntary.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense,” I replied. “Of course you can do it. It’s mind over matter – self control. You just need to use logic. If you comply, you receive five strokes, if you don’t you are restrained how I like you to be, and you receive ten. Simple. You can do it the easy way or the hard way, the choice is yours. Anyway, that’s quite enough chatter. Present your bottom.”
Robert chose the hard way. He took another two strokes, while he squealed and writhed his bottom around, before the frantic clenching began again. I haven’t had so much fun for ages. I was about to tighten the strap across his back in preparation for his ten penalty strokes, when the front door bell sounded.
“I shall continue when I have dealt with whoever that is, Robert,” I said, as I left, closing the door to the punishment room.
It was Melody with her cake. She apologised for being an hour early, and offered to come back later if her timing was inconvenient. I assured her that it was fine and invited her in.
It was an hour and a half later that I bade Melody goodbye with her decorated cake, then climbed the stairs to resume Robert’s training.
“You’ve had a nice, long break, Robert,” I said, as I entered the room, closing the door behind me. “I trust you’ve had sufficient time to reflect and have decided it wise to exercise more self control?”
His grunt in response did not fill me with confidence. The weals decorating his bottom had matured and darkened. I imagined he must be very sore, so fresh strokes would be extremely testing for him. Excellent!
I tightened the strap across his back and reminded him that he had ten penalty strokes due before we continued. He whimpered as I raised the tawse and shrieked hysterically as the hellstrap found it’s mark again and again.
“I trust you can now see the wisdom of exercising self control,” I said, as I loosened the strap across his back.
He was still trembling and hyperventilation as I tossed the dice again. It was a three. A little disappointing for me, but no doubt some relief for Robert.
To my surprise, Robert clenched even before the first stroke made contact. It was a good stroke spoiled. I issued Robert with a warning, then repeated the stroke. When he clenched again immediately before impact, I realised what he was doing. Robert had given up. He had resigned himself to always failing to take the required strokes and had concluded that he might as well fail immediately, with the result that he would receive just two strokes before the inevitable penalties. This was totally unacceptable.
“I think I know what you are up to, Robert,” I said, as I tightened the strap across his back, “I am going to double your penalties to twelve strokes, then I will make a rule change for the last throw of the dice.”
The twelve strokes were administered with added venom due to my irritation. Robert shrieked and squirmed hysterically as the tawse tips bit savagely into his tender flesh. I noted with some satisfaction that his back was glistening with sweat, such was the effort he had put into his futile struggle with his restraints.
“Right, Robert,” I said, when his hyperventilating and gasping had subsided. “Listen carefully to the rule changes. The first rule change is that I will disregard any dice throw that are less than four, and second. If you fail to keep your bottom presented for the duration of the punishment you will be fully restrained to receive penalty strokes of four times the remaining strokes. So I hope you understand that it is in your won interests to use all your self control to keep your bottom presented as instructed.”
I could tell from the groan of despair that he understood completely.
The atmosphere was quite charged as I tossed the dice. The first throw was a two, but the second was a five. I was delighted. Robert wasn’t.
“Present you bottom for the tawse,” I said, firmly, as I picked up the hellstrap.
Wisely, Robert complied at once. His wealed gaping bottom was trembling. His knuckles showed white as he clung onto the whipping bench legs, straining to stay in position. I was satisfied that he was now putting every effort into taking the punishment as instructed. It was a battle between us now – a contest. I was intent on administering the strokes so hard and so spitefully that it would break his self control, forcing him to clench, and Robert would now do all he could to fight his urge to clench. This was how I liked it.
A beautiful stroke. Hard, accurate and no doubt excruciating.
He squealed. His body shuddered, his feet gyrated and grasped at the air, his bottom weaved from side to side, but he managed not to clench.
Another wonderfully savage stroke found the same spot.
His writhing and squealing became more intense, and there was the slightest clenching of his bottom cheeks, but he just managed to keep it under control.
The third, blisteringly hard stroke, broke him. As the tawse tips bit deeply into the weal of a previous stroke, his self control deserted him. His wildly clenching and unclenching bottom signalled defeat. With just two strokes remaining, he would receive eight penalty strokes.
“I thought you did quite well, Robert,” I said, as I tightened the strap across his back, “But not quite well enough.”
“You obviously need more training,” I said, as I raised the tawse.
A symphony of screams filled the room as the eight penalty strokes found their mark.