I decided to cane Robert yesterday, when on the evening before I had told him he was to be caned in the morning, he had complained that he was still bruised from his recent appointment with my hairbrush. Robert knows only too well that he is not permitted to complain about punishment from me, so I had to assume that he wanted the caning to be very severe. However, I could see that his bottom was still clearly showing marks from the hairbrush, so I informed him that he would receive just twenty-four nice hard strokes with my dragon cane. Although many would regard this as a severe caning, and I do cane HARD, Robert was clearly relieved. He is regularly subjected to more severe punishment. I have to confess that I found his obvious relief a little irritating.

Yesterday morning, when I instructed him to assemble the whipping bench, I was further irritated to observe him doing so without his usual nervous reluctance. It seemed to me that Robert thought the caning he was about to receive would not challenge him too much. I think I must have concealed my rising anger effectively, because when I coaxed Robert, naked apart from his compulsory protective thong, over the whipping bench, he did so almost happily and without hesitation. I soon had him firmly strapped into place with his bare bottom pushed up and perfectly presented for punishment. Just how I like him.

I decided to record his punishment on this occasion, so as soon as he was secured, I set up the camcorder on a tripod. This must have unnerved Robert, because I usually only record special thrashings these days.

“So, Robert,” I said, running my fingers lightly over his exposed bare bottom, when the camcorder had been switched on, “Twenty-four nice, hard strokes with my dragon cane.”

“Yes, Miss,” he replied, now with less confidence in his tone.

“But before I cane you, I think I might just take advantage of your helplessness to get in a little practice with the hellstrap.”

It was delightful to watch his torso tense as he realised his punishment might not be quite the walk in the park he had expected.

“Your bottom is still quite bruised,” I conceded, “but the area around your bottom cleft is almost totally unscathed, Robert, and from where I am standing it is crying out for the attention of my hellstrap.”

(For readers who are new to my blog, I should explain that my ‘hell-strap’ is a two tailed tawse that I had specially made for me. It’s a heavy, but very flexible leather tawse and shorter than a typical Lochgelly tawse by about six inches. The purpose of the design is to enable me to curl the tawse tails around Robert’s left bottom cheek so that the painful tawse tips accelerate venomously into his bottom cleft – deliciously painful!)

One of the things I love about Robert is that he’s so trusting of me. He really should have learned not to be by now, but I hope he never does. I do believe he was actually surprised by my trickery.

As I picked up the hellstrap, I was delighted to see his head crane around to see what I was doing. There was real fear in his eyes. He hates the hellstrap. I love it.

“I think I’ll start with six strokes, all aimed at the upper part of your bottom cleft,” I told him, as I traced my fingers of my left hand gently along the target area. “It’s just a practice, Robert, but I want you to treat it as a practice for you too. Practice at taking the tawse in silence. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss,” he whimpered. I suspected he had now sensed familiar menace in my voice, and he was terrified.

I took my position to his left, then laid the tawse gently across his left bottom cheek, with the tawse tips hovering over his gaping cleft. His bottom cheeks twitched as he felt the touch of the leather. He knew that agony was imminent. I raised the tawse.


The glorious sound of leather biting deep into bare flesh filled the room as I delivered six brisk and hard strokes, making sure the tawse tips found the sensitive white flesh of his gaping cleft. Robert gasped and hissed with pain as the tawse discharged its white hot venom. It was delightful to watch his muscles stand out like rods of iron as he desperately tried, but failed, to clench his cheeks to hide the flesh within from the venomous tawse tails. My whipping bench has been specifically designed to make ‘clenching’ impossible.

“That wasn’t bad for a start, Robert,” I said, “but I think I can manage a bit harder than that, so I think I’ll repeat them. And try not to make so much fuss this time, or else I will repeat them a second time.”

As I raised the tawse, I noticed that he was trembling, and his torso was stiff, as if he was straining in some way. I knew exactly what he was up to, I can read his body language like a book. He was holding his breath in an attempt to stifle any sobbing or squealing passing his lips as the second batch of six bit into his burning flesh. I regard this as cheating, and I’ve warned him not to do it.


They were harder, and the strokes bit into exactly the same upper area of his bottom cleft. He squirmed and writhed deliciously, but held his breath throughout. Not a sound passed his lips. A few seconds after the last stroke had bitten in, he let out a lungful of air.

“I think we’ll try it a little lower,” I said promptly, raising the tawse again, before he had even had a chance to breath in.


He gasped as the first stroke bit in, then squealed as the second overlaid the first with as much venom as I could put into it. The four more spiteful strokes that followed briskly, all aimed at the same spot, had him writhing bizarrely as he strained to weave his bottom away from the tails of fire. He failed. Each stroke found its mark.

“You really must learn to comply with my instructions, Robert,” I said, before he had a chance to compose himself, “I told you not to make a fuss, so now I have to repeat them. Now prepare yourself and take them in silence. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss,” he sobbed.

Sometimes I do surprise myself with my kindness and compassion. I allowed Robert a few minutes to recover and mentally prepare himself for the repeated six strokes, otherwise he would be unlikely to be able to take them without more squealing. However, I did decide to temper my kindness by administering the strokes with absolute maximum severity. He braced himself as I laid the tawse on his bottom in preparation.


They bit in beautifully, right into the centre of his gaping bottom cleft. He hissed in breath. His bottom weaved as much as his restraints would allow, and I did hear a muffled squeak, but I kindly decided to overlook it.

“That’s a little better, Robert. I think we can move on to try another six a little lower still. In silence.”

He braced himself again, stifling a sob, as I laid the tawse across the part of his bottom where thigh meets left bottom cheek. This is a very sensitive spot and strokes aimed here would be unthinkable if he had not been wearing his protective thong. Even so, my aim had to be good as I wanted the tawse tips to bite into flesh, not protective padding. I could sense him straining to hold his tongue as I raised the hellstrap.


They must have been excruciating and again they bit in beautifully. He writhed and bucked and hissed, but to his credit, there was no squealing.

“Well done, Robert,” I congratulated him. “You took those quite well, but perhaps it’s because they weren’t quite hard enough. Do you agree?”

Poor Robert. What a delicious dilemma for him. He knows he must always agree with me when he’s being punished.

“Well, Robert,” I prompted him, slapping the tawse casually across his bottom. “Do you agree that the last six strokes weren’t hard enough?”

“Yes, Miss,” he sobbed, “I agree.”

“Thought you might,” I said, smiling, “then perhaps you’d like to ask me to administer them again, harder.”

“Please, Miss,” he asked, with his voice trembling, “Would you repeat those six strokes, harder.”

“With pleasure, Robert.”


It actually wasn’t possible for me to thrash him much harder as I was already giving it my best, but I tried. Robert was almost at the end of his self-control. He tried to suppress his shrieking as the tawse tips revisited perhaps the most sensitive area of his bottom, but he couldn’t manage it. He weaved and bucked and gasped and squealed as the tawse did its work.

“There was a bit too much fuss, Robert, so I have no option to add penalties. I’ll conclude this practice with a dozen of the very best, then I think I’ll take a tea break before I cane you.”


I will never tire of the delights of thrashing bare bottoms hard, and the final twelve strokes were blissful. I really had my eye in by now, and the tawse bit into his helpless, writhing flesh with the report of a six-shooter, except it didn’t stop at six. Robert gasped and shrieked and even pleaded for mercy. He writhed and struggled against his restraints frantically, but to no avail. His bottom remained perfectly presented and accessible throughout. But all good things must come to an end, and after twelve final exquisite strokes of the tawse had explored his most sensitive areas, it was time to put down the hellstrap. Robert’s left bottom cheek was bright red and his bottom cleft was purple, but his right bottom cheek had not received a single stroke and was quite fit for the cane. I left Robert, still breathing heavily and shaking, for my tea break.

The weather yesterday was glorious, so while Robert remained secured over the whipping bench upstairs, I took my cup of Earl Grey tea out into the garden. As I sat at our patio table, enjoying the sun and our beautiful garden, made even more pleasurable by the prospect of caning Robert, my eyes drifted to our greenhouse. To my dismay I realised that our tomato plants were drooping from their supporting canes. They hadn’t been watered. This is Robert’s job! I immediately filled the watering can then watered all the plants, hoping it was not to late. I was fuming, so I sat down with my tea to decide on punishment.
Twenty minutes after leaving Robert, I returned to the punishment room. I had calmed myself down and I am quite sure Robert was expecting his ordeal would be over after a final twenty-four strokes of the cane.

“So Robert, it’s time for me to cane you,” I said, as I picked up my dragon cane. “How many strokes was it?”

“It was twenty-four, Miss,” he replied at once.

“And how hard should they be?”

“Quite hard, I suppose, Miss.”

“I think they should be VERY hard, Robert,” I replied, with real passion in my voice, “ and how many additional VERY, VERY hard strokes should I add for you not watering the tomatoes last night?”

His body tensed as he digested what I had said.

“I’m really sorry, Miss,” he pleaded, “it must have been your announcement that you intended to cane me that caused me to forget.”

This annoyed me even more.

“Are suggesting, Robert, that it is my fault that you forgot?”

“No, Miss,” he back-tracked, panic in his voice.

“Well that’s what it sounded like to me,” I replied. “I’m not going to tell you how many strokes you will now receive because I haven’t decided. I’m just going to cane you as hard as I can until I think you’ve been adequately punished and I am quite sure you will never forget to water the tomatoes again. One thing I can guarantee, Robert, is that it will be far more than twenty-four strokes.”

Before Robert could reply, I raised the cane, then brought it down across his presented bare bottom with every ounce of venom my muscles could muster.


It was only when we played back the video that we counted forty-seven strokes. Robert shrieked and pleaded his way through one of the hardest canings I have administered. It was absolute bliss. I don’t think Robert will ever forget to water the tomatoes again. What a shame.



About Annie Bee Books

I am an author of BDSM fantasy stories.
This entry was posted in BDSM, Corporal punishment, Punishment, Spanking and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.


  1. sissy jamieanne says:

    An absolutely wonderful thrashing, Ma’am! I greatly admire the severity in which you punish Robert, and love your attitude regarding correction of the male! The punishment position achieved by your whipping bench is exemplary (bottom exposed, raised, presented and buttocks separated for maximum vulnerability). A similar bench should be in every female disciplinarian’s home! Thank you for sharing this experience, Ma’am!

  2. Anonymous says:

    Once again Madam you have out done yourself. Robert must still be sitting on a bag of frozen peas.

  3. Master Anton says:

    Fantastic, enjoyable reading. What a woman you’re, Miss Annie: a full-blooded one for a real man’s dream.
    I was in luck, like your Robert, to have married another of your lovely sisters…lol

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