I’m talking about perfect tawse strokes, specifically with my bespoke ‘hellstrap’. This is the shorter tawse I had specially made for me. It’s made from thick, heavy hide, but not so thick that it loses flexibility. The flexibility is essential for my favoured ‘wrap around’ technique. I’ve attached a photograph to demonstrate just how flexible it is.
For those of you who might be interested, my ‘hellstrap’ weighs just 100 grams. It’s 43cm long overall, and each of its two 10mm wide leather tails are 21cm long and 9mm thick. The sole purpose of this design is to cause as much agony as possible to Robert’s gaping bottom. As I’ve described on numerous occasions, my whipping bench is designed to hold Robert down with his bottom up, his legs spread wide and his bottom cleft gaping open. In this position, with all the restraining straps in place, clenching of the bottom cheeks is imposable so all those extra sensitive areas, including his inner thighs, are accessible to my tawses. My objective is to stand close to his head so that I can apply strokes to the side of his left bottom cheek, causing the tawse tails to ‘wrap around’ his buttock and the tawse tips to accelerate into the sensitive flesh of his bottom cleft. It’s not an easy stroke to perfect because his bottom cleft is unsighted. However, the reward, when one gets it right, is delicious.
I instantly know when I’ve hit the sweet spot. First the noise – the tawse tips bite in with a beautiful sharp CRACK, almost like the crack of a whip. All the energy drains from the tawse as it momentarily grips his left bottom cheek, almost as if it were a claw. And then of course there is the best bit of all: Robert’s reaction. I can tell when he’s in absolute agony. The hissing of air between his teeth. His desperate, but futile struggling with his restraints as he strains to clench. The cries of despair when he can’t and he sees me raising the tawse again. It’s bliss. If I manage to hit the same spot several times in succession, he goes berserk.
Perfecting this ‘wrap around’ was my sole aim as I secured him over the whipping bench this morning. He’s had well over a month to recover from his last caning, so, unusually, his bottom was almost unblemished. He was wearing his mandatory protective thong to protect his ‘bits’. I hadn’t told him exactly what I had planned, just that I needed a bit of practice. I noted he began to look very concerned when I produced my long leather gloves. I now always wear these when I administer serious tawsings because the tawse does sometimes whip back, catching my arm, and this can be painful and can deter me from putting maximum venom into my strokes.
When I set the floor standing mirror behind him, then picked up the hellstrap, he knew what he was in for. As he glanced into my eyes I saw panic – perfect.
“I’ve decided to perfect the wrap around stroke, Robert,” I said, as I took my position close to his head. “This could take some time.”
And it did. I decided I would administer twenty-four perfect strokes. To be perfect, the stroke should land with the report of a pistol shot and should be exactly on target, with the tawse tips biting either deep into his bottom cleft or his left inner thigh.
It took me a few strokes to get the first stroke that was good enough to count, even so, he was gasping and squealing after just two non-qualifying strokes. The first perfect stroke sent his body into delicious convulsions, and when I managed to later place three perfect strokes in a row all in the same sensitive, spot I did worry he might damage the whipping bench with his frantic efforts to escape its clutches.
He knows he’s forbidden to beg for mercy, but I’m delighted to say that he’s a very slow learner. I was only half way through when he started begging for the tawsing to stop. Obviously I didn’t. It simply encouraged me to thrash him harder, making a mental note to add penalty strokes at the end.
I eventually completed my twenty-four perfect strokes, and what a fuss he made. His bottom cleft and inner thigh were by now purple, but his right bottom cheek was unscathed and his left just a nice shade of red, so he would be fit for the cane with immediate effect. I was tempted to use the cane for the dozen strokes I had decided would be his penalty. But I changed my mind. I wanted him fit for a proper caning next week.
“You have earned twelve penalty strokes, Robert,” I said, “I will administer them briskly and hard with the hellstrap.”
Robert simply couldn’t face the prospect, and began begging for it to be postponed, so I added another six, with the promise of another six if he didn’t cease his fuss at once. He wisely saw sense and shut up. I began the hard, brisk tawsing immediately. I aimed twelve strokes into his already burning bottom cleft, then concluded with six applied to his inner thigh. He squealed, gasped, gurgled, writhed as my beautiful hellstrap found its mark again and again. His feet gyrated and his head shook like that of a mad dog. What a waste of energy! But it was delicious to watch.
Next week, the cane.