Being my full-time partner means that Robert’s bottom is required to accept regular and severe canings, tawsings and whippings, and is rarely free of marks from a recent thrashing. I wish I was ambidextrous, but I’m not. I’m right-handed, and this results in Robert’s right bottom cheek being subjected to more severe punishment than his left. Sometimes I wish I had a twin sister who was left-handed, so we could thrash him in unison, as in my new book ‘Horsed and Tawsed’, (to be published soon) but on reflection, I think I’ll keep him to myself, and improvise.
Making more use of my hellstrap is one way to even up punishment. My hellstrap is a shorter than normal tawse and I adore using it in a very spiteful way which leaves his right bottom cheek unscathed. To add venom to strokes with my hellstrap I adopt a wrap-around technique, where I have Robert secured, helplessly over our whipping bench with his bare bottom gaping. I stand close to his head, then bring the hellstrap down on his left flank, causing the tails to curl around his left bottom cheek, and with luck, sending the tawse tips to accelerate into his bottom cleft. It’s not easy to get it just right, because the target area is unsighted, but a carefully positioned mirror can help. When I do get it right the result is deliciously excruciating. The hellstrap will bite in with a resounding ‘crack’, and Robert will go into a frenzy of futile struggling and squealing, as he tries, and fails, to clench his bottom cheeks. Robert always wears a padded thong for punishment, and that is essential when using the hellstrap in the way I like to.
Yesterday I decided that, with Robert still recovering from a sound bare bottom caning of just over a week ago, I would amuse myself by treating him to hellstrap workshop to hone my skills. With no particular number of strokes in mind, I began to apply the hellstrap to his naked, gaping bottom, gradually increasing the wrap-around element of each stroke. Robert was soon gasping and wriggling.
I gradually increased the severity and spitefulness until I reached an absolutely exquisite moment when I managed to administer about six, brisk, real crackers right into his bottom cleft in succession. He went into a complete frenzy of writhing and shrieking. And then came the part I always love the most: He started pleading for mercy. It is completely beyond me why, after years as my partner, he hasn’t yet learned that I don’t do mercy. Pleading to me for mercy never, ever, results in anything other than encouraging me to administer strokes with even more venom, and that is exactly what happened. While he writhed and shrieked with even moire urgency, I upped my game to administer another venomous dozen right into his gaping cleft, then continued, gradually working lower, to reach into his inner, upper left thigh. My goodness, what a fuss he made! Delicious.
What fun we had together. After much strenuous and hopeless struggling with his restraints, Robert was sweating so profusely that I almost had to ‘peel’ him off the whipping bench by the time I had eventually finished with him. I was delighted to observe that I had not added a single mark to his right bottom cheek, but looking a little to the left was another story altogether. He’ll need a few weeks to recover, but I’m already planning his next treat. Another dice game, I think. On the other hand, if we manage to be alone together on the 31st December, I might cane him into the new year to the chimes of Big Ben, as I did a few years ago.