I would imagine that if an observer were to enter my punishment chamber while I had Robert secured over the whipping bench, and was enthusiastically decorating his bare bottom with vivid tramlines with one of my many canes, they could be forgiven for thinking that the punishment they were witnessing was not consensual. This might especially be the case if I had managed to get Robert pleading for mercy, and they then were witness to me actually being encouraged to cane him yet harder by his pleas for leniency.
They would be wrong, of course. Our regular indulgence in severe corporal punishment is entirely consensual. Robert actually craves to be thrashed by me almost continually, and it’s such a shame that we have to wait a few weeks after each punishment for his bottom to recover sufficiently for the next session. The strange thing is, however, he has confided in me that, although his craving to be punished is almost constant, that craving disappears as soon as the first stroke of a punishment bites in. As soon as the reality of the pain hits him he is desperate for me to stop. That’s why I secure him. Deep down, he doesn’t want me to stop, and, of course, I don’t. Pleading for leniency has the opposite effect on me. I don’t do leniency.
I haven’t bought any new canes for about a year, so recently I decided it was time to replace some of my older senior kooboo canes. I’ve had some of these for over ten years, so they must have dried and lost some weight. I ordered three new ones, with black, purple and red leather grips respectively. I’d told Robert about the order, so he knew what to expect when the courier arrived with the long cardboard package yesterday. He knew I’d want to try them out.
“These need testing, Robert,” I said, as I removed the canes from their package, “Assemble the whipping bench.” He didn’t argue.
Canes, being natural products, vary in size, weight and flexibility, so my three new canes, although all senior kooboo canes, and all about 75 – 80cm long and about 9 – 10mm in diameter, all had a slightly different feel to them, and I was keen to find which would be my favourite.
Within twenty minutes of the canes arriving, I had Robert strapped, naked, over the whipping bench, nervously awaiting my attention. There were still marks from his birching and caning of about a month ago, but he was fit for punishment.
“This will be a mystery caning, Robert,” I explained, as I flexed each cane in turn. “You don’t know how many strokes you are to receive because I don’t either.”
It really scares him when he is facing an unknown number of strokes. He’s explained to me in the past that if he is subject to a set number of strokes or a set time, then he can attempt to count down the figure in his head as the strokes are applied. He has an end in sight – a light at the end of the tunnel. With no number or time to grasp on to, the caning becomes an agonising journey with no end in sight. Furthermore, without the mental prop of a finite ending, he is more likely to lose control of his ability to cope with the agony, and he knows that if he does so and makes a fuss, I will add penalty strokes. I am always eager to find reason to add strokes.
“I shall try each cane in turn, Robert,” I explained, as I approached him with the red handled cane, “and I will attempt to choose a favourite, then I will administer a sound caning with that one. I want you to observe the usual rules of silence and no fuss. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss,” he replied.
I noticed with pleasure that he attempted to clench his bottom cheeks. It was probably an involuntary gesture as he tried to mentally prepare for the unknown duration of agony that lay ahead for him. It was also a futile action as the whipping bench has been designed to make ‘clenching’ impossible. As regular readers of my blog will know, I like to have full access to all the sensitive areas of flesh of a bottom when I punish, including the bottom cleft, just in case I decide to use the tawse.
I took my position to his left, then after tapping the cane across the centre of his presented bare cheeks a few times to get my position and footing perfect, I administered the first stroke with real venom.
He hissed in a lungful of air as the first stroke bit in hard. The caning had begun and I was now in my element. I know a lot of disciplinarians like to warm up their recipients gradually, but I don’t. I like the first stroke to be a real shock, to take his breath away. As Robert hissed air and stifled cries of agony, I administered four sizzling strokes. I watched with delight as white tramlines sprang up after each stroke, then filled with red.
Without giving him time to recover, I put down the red handled cane, then selected the black handled one. Another four strokes bit deliciously deep into his helpless bottom cheeks. He hissed air in through his teeth as each stroke cracked down, but to his credit, stayed otherwise silent.
Finally, I selected the purple handled cane. Appropriate, I thought, as I raised the cane, because the colour purple was just starting to appear on his bottom. Four, crisp, hard strokes added to the lattice of weals.
“I think I prefer the red one,” I said, as Robert hyperventilated. I noticed he was already sweating profusely. “But the purple one is a close second. I think I’ll administer another four with each to make sure. Do you think that’s a good idea, Robert?”
“Yes, Miss,” he whimpered immediately. It’s amazing how eager he is not to upset me when I’m standing over him with a cane and with his helpless bare bottom already ablaze.
I swiftly administered another four real stingers with each of the chosen canes. I noted, with delight, that he was seriously struggling to cope with the pain now. His feet were starting to gyrate, always a sign that he’s close to the limit of his self-control.
“Now I’m confused,” I said, cheerfully. “That time the purple cane seemed to bite in with a nicer crack. Which did you think is the most effective, Robert?”
“I thought they were both absolutely agonising,” he sobbed.
“Well that’s no help at all,” I playfully scolded him. “I have no choice but to administer another four with each.”
I was sufficiently warmed up by now, so the next eight, venomous strokes where the hardest so far. Robert was beginning to struggle against his restraints, and his heavy breathing was punctuated with stifled squeaks as each stroke added to the fire in his bottom cheeks.
“I was right first time, Robert,” I announced triumphantly. “The red cane is my favourite. I shall administer the proper caning with that.”
His head hung down in despair at the implication that his proper caning was yet to start.
“I need a tea break.” I said, putting down the red cane in front of him. “I need to recover my strength to make sure I have all the energy I need for the deliciously hard caning you will shortly enjoy.”
I love leaving him helpless, forced to wait for his punishment. He doesn’t know how long he will have to wait, and the first he usually knows of his fate being imminent is when he hears a creak of the stairs. As followers of my blog might remember, I even left him secured over the whipping bench while I went to the library once. On that occasion I even took time over a coffee, blissful in the knowledge that back at home his bare bottom remained perfectly presented for punishment, awaiting my return. Yesterday, however, I took my tea into the garden to enjoy the sunny weather.
Robert would have heard our creaky stair about half an hour after I had left him. I opened the door to be confronted by his very beautifully wealed bare bottom, still thrust up, an invitation for me to cane if ever there was.
“Are you ready for your caning, Robert?” I asked, as I picked up, then flexed the red handled cane, straightening out the slight bow the previous strokes had put into the shaft of the implement.
“I’m very sore, Miss,” he whimpered.
“Good, then the caning should be even more painful, but that’s not what I asked.”
“Sorry, Miss. Yes, I’m ready,” he whimpered, sounding decidedly ‘unready’.
“So am I,” I replied, through gritted teeth, as I took my position, intent on making the caning as hard as I could.
He gasped, then whimpered, as the first stroke bit savagely into his already very sore bottom.
I didn’t count the strokes. It was probably about thirty. I just caned him and caned him and caned him, at a nice steady pace, concentrating on trying to make each stroke harder than the previous. It was glorious. I didn’t need to count strokes or wait for a timer to beep, I just caned.
Robert, however, wasn’t doing so well. After just six strokes I could sense from his breathing, squirming and the wild gyrating of his feet, that he was getting close to losing his ability to take the punishment. This encouraged me to put even more venom into the strokes. I love pushing him over the edge when he’s totally helpless. To my delight, he begged and pleaded desperately for the caning to stop all the way through the second half. What a waste of breath!
By the time I had caned him to my satisfaction he was too well marked to take the penalty strokes he had incurred for breaking my rules on silence. I informed him that the penalty strokes would be entered into the punishment book to be discharged in full at a later date. He readily agreed, before I began to release him from the embrace of the whipping bench. He had perspired so much during the final caning that I almost had to ‘peel’ him off the bench.
I can declare my new canes, especially the red one, most satisfactory.
I have two new books well under way at the moment, both already incorporating some very enthusiastic use of the cane. More details to follow.