As I’ve mentioned previously, none of our friends or neighbours know that I regularly thrash Robert’s bare bottom (or perhaps they do know, in which case they are politely giving the impression they don’t).
We were guests at a new neighbours house warming party recently, along with a few other neighbours. Their front garden, beautifully maintained by the previous owners, included a magnificent pampas grass plant.
“I wonder if our new neighbours know that these are supposed to signal that they are into swingers parties?” joked Robert, pointing out the plant, as we approached the house.
“Perhaps I should have bought my canes and tawses with me,” I replied, quietly, as Robert rang the door bell. “I’m certainly in the mood to put them to use, so you had better be on your best behaviour.”
Robert gave me a fleeting look before the door was opened. I can read him like a book. I could see I had sown a seed.
Our new neighbours, who I will call Mr & Mrs Swing (not their real name), turned out to be very respectable, just the sort of people we welcome in our pleasant street. They certainly weren’t the sort of people who you might think were swingers. Mind you, they probably would have never imagined that while we were enjoying polite conversation, I was planning to thrash Robert’s bare bottom at the earliest opportunity.
Robert can be flippant at times, especially when he needs punishing or when we are in a situation where punishing him is not possible. He made several jokes at my expense in front of Mr & Mrs Swing and other neighbours. Nothing too serious, and I politely laughed along, but when the conversation moved to politics and political correctness and Robert joked that if I ever commented on feminine rights he usually tells me to get on with my knitting, I decided it was time to wipe his smug grin off his face.
Again, I laughed along politely with our neighbours, then left the room to visit the bathroom, from where I sent Robert a text message:
‘Tell our hosts that you have a work related crisis to attend to and regretfully must leave to make a few phones. Tell them you will be back as soon as you can. Go straight home, assemble the whipping bench, then lay out my tawses and canes. You are to be in position, over the whipping bench, naked, with your ankles and thighs secured, ready for me to finalise your restraints when I arrive. Sentence will then be announced. Fail to comply with these instructions at your peril.’
He was reading my text as I rejoined the party. He looked up at me nervously, then back down at his phone, before approaching me as I engaged Mrs Swing in conversation about how the previous owners had been such keen gardeners and regularly entered vegetables into competitions held by the local horticultural society.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Swing. Something has come up with my work. Bit of a drama that needs sorting out. I need to make a few phone calls. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Having made his excuses, he shot me another nervous look, then left.
Fifteen minutes later, I checked my watch, then excused myself, explaining that I ought to rescue Robert from his work to bring him back to the party. I paused to look again at the pampas grass in the Swing’s front garden on the way.
Robert was ready for me, as instructed. He rarely defies me as he knows the consequences.
I secured Robert in position with the remaining straps, then, after satisfying myself that his bare bottom was perfectly presented for punishment, I picked up my hellstrap (my short, heavy, flexible, two tailed tawse).
“I had another look at that pampas grass plant, Robert,” I said, as I took my position to his left, laying the tawse across his left bottom cheek, with the tail tips hovering over his gaping bottom cleft. “I guess it has about thirty-six fronds. That’s one of my favourite numbers.”
Robert said nothing, but he tested the restraints by trying, but failing, to clench his bottom cheeks.
“Half now, in silence, then the remainder when we return from the party,” I said, as I raised the hellstrap.
A bullseye! The first stroke bit wonderfully deep into the soft flesh of his bottom cleft. He hissed in a lungful of air and tested the restraints more forcibly. The muscles in his legs stood out like rods of iron and the whipping bench began to creak.
As Robert gasped and squealed and writhed in agony, I delivered a further eight hard strokes, all aimed into his bottom cleft, before turning my attention to his left inner thigh. His squealing rose in intensity and his writhing became more desperate, encouraging me to put ever more venom into the strokes. I love it when I break through his pain threshold.
After another nine delicious strokes, I put down the hellstrap and picked up my new dragon cane, now a firm favourite. Robert went into a wriggling frenzy, squealing and gasping, as I decorated his bottom cheeks and the very tops of his thighs with eighteen colourful, raised weals.
“That was fun, Robert,” I said, as I began to release him from his restraints, “We’re half way through, apart from penalty strokes for making too much fuss.”
Fortunately, there was no broken skin, yet, so no need to worry about blood stains seeping through his trousers when we rejoined our neighbours.
“There’s never thirty-six fronds there,” said Robert, as we walked up our neighbours front path some five minutes later. “I’d be surprised if there where twenty-four.”
We paused at the pampas grass plant as I reassessed.
“I think you might be right, Robert. Thank you for pointing out my error. I’ll add twenty-four strokes with the extra heavy lochgelly tawse to make amends,” I said as I pressed the doorbell.
Robert looked at me with dread. I happen to know that he fears this implement more than just about anything. Although the cane, and especially the dragon cane, is excruciating, the extra heavy Lochgelly tawse’s tails can find their way into those sensitive places where the cane can’t reach. I invariably aim for these areas, and if I manage several strokes in the same spot in succession, he tells me the agony is off the scale – delicious!
We stayed at the Swing’s for another hour. Robert seemed far more subdued than he had earlier. No doubt he was imagining how agonising the balancing strokes would be when applied to his already very sore bottom, and no doubt regretting his questioning of my guess at the number of pampas grass fronds.
We’d left the whipping bench out and the implements laid out ready for use, so when we returned there was little preparation needed. Robert hesitated as he looked at the whipping bench.
“Can we do this another time?” he asked, his eyes pleading with me. “I’m already very sore.”
“No,” I replied, sweetly, “but I shall add add another six strokes with each for having the audacity to ask, and I will add a further six with each if you are not over the bench, naked, within thirty seconds.”
Less than two minutes after we had arrived home, the punishment room was once again filled with the delightful sound of leather cracking down across bare flesh, accompanied by gasping and squealing, together the creaking of the wooden joints of our whipping bench. As I watched him squirm and writhe, and as I watched him desperately trying, but failing, to clench his bottom cheeks to hide the flesh within from the tails of my tawse, I somehow found the power from within to add even more venom to the strokes that were biting hard into his helpless flesh. His squealing rose in pitch as the tawse tails hunted down increasingly scarce unscathed flesh, making contact with the report of a pistol shot – bliss! I made a mental note to have Robert reinforce the joints of the whipping bench before his next thrashing.