It’s been seven years since I began publishing books, and I feel that some of the covers need freshening up, so I’ve started with my first ever story, “Jonathan’s Introduction to the Cane & Tawse”. I probably wrote this story about ten years ago, so I thought I’d reminisce by reading it through again, and check for errors. I have to confess that I really enjoyed it, and couldn’t put it down. The description of the canings and tawsings really wetted my appetite, and by the time I’d finished I was almost desperate to thrash Robert. He proof reads all my books and I wondered if he remembered my first characters.
“Robert,” I asked him, “Who would you rather be dealt with by, Mrs Weston or Mrs McKay?”
“Er, well, I’m not sure,” he replied, looking exceedingly uneasy.
“In that case you will be dealt with by both of them, or more accurately, by me in the role of both. I’ve just read my first book and I’m in the mood to set your bare bottom ablaze. Get the whipping bench ready. I want everything prepared in fifteen minutes.”
Robert looked very uncomfortable. It is usual for me to give him a day’s notice before I thrash him. It gives him a chance to mentally prepare, but my need to cane and tawse him was too intense. I needed to hear the sound of rattan and leather biting deep into his bare bottom. I needed to see him writhe and squirm as colourful weals sprang up across his helpless bottom. I needed to hear him squeal and plead for mercy. He knows that it is very unwise to argue with me over matters such as this. I timed his preparation.
“That was seventeen minutes, Robert,” I said, looking at my watch, as he stood nervously beside the whipping bench, naked apart from a protective thong. “I instructed you to be ready in fifteen. You obviously need more practice.”
“Sorry, Miss,” was his weak response.
“I’m sure you are, but nowhere near as sorry as you will be in a few minutes time. Place yourself in position over the bench.”
Robert was trembling as he lowered his body over the whipping bench. The first restraining strap was tightened across the small of his back within a few seconds. Wrist and legs restraining straps followed, and he was soon totally helpless, with his gaping bare bottom presented for me to do exactly as I pleased. Apart from the feint bruises left from an appointment with my hellstrap some weeks earlier, his bottom was unblemished and fit for punishment.
“As you may remember, Robert, Mrs Weston likes to use the cane, whereas Mrs McKay has a passion for the tawse. Who do you think should begin?”
“I don’t know, Miss,” he whimpered.
“In that case, I think you should savour the taste of Mrs Weston’s cane first.”
In my opinion, I have a vivid imagination. When I first wrote the story about Jonathan, I could picture the imposing figure of Mrs Weston. I was familiar with her large, somewhat old-fashioned kitchen, with the large old pine table that she tied Jonathan over for his first caning. Even though I’d never been there, I was able to see it all.
Now, as I looked down at the bare bottom that was presented to me for punishment, and with a cane in my hand, I felt I was Mrs Weston. Robert was now Jonathan, and my word he deserved a sound caning today! Jonathan had lied to me about his experience, resulting in me entrusting him to carry out the work of a skilled builder. The plumbing work he’d completed in the loft had been seriously sub-standard, resulting in a leak that had caused dreadful damage to my house. Now he was to pay the price. His caning would fit the crime. I would make sure that Jonathan’s introduction to the cane would be memorable and very painful. He deserved no less.
SWISH – CRACK!
Ah.. The bliss of seeing a heavy cane bite deep into the soft flesh of a helpless bare bottom. The delicious, sharp ‘crack’ the impact makes. He began to gasp and writhe in agony almost at once.
“You will take your caning in silence,” I instructed. “Just twelve strokes. Less than you deserve, but in total silence. Otherwise I will add strokes. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss,” he sobbed.
SWISH – CRACK!
Harder. Oh, yes! He certainly felt that one. He just managed to stifle another gasp, but his body language confirmed that it was a real struggle for him. The muscles in his legs stood out like rods of iron and his bottom weaved bizarrely within the confines of his restraints.
SWISH – CRACK!
Even harder, and resulting in a squeal. I’d broken him already. So after just three strokes we were already into extras. Wonderful!
I caned him hard and mercilessly, and he squealed and writhed at every stroke. I didn’t bother to stop at twelve strokes. He was into extras and he knew it, so I simply continued the caning, maintaining the agony at ‘very intense’ without affording him the luxury of a pause. He absorbed eighteen of my very best. I put down the cane, then watched the angry weals decorating his bottom deepen in colour.
“That was fun,” I said, as he whimpered. “I think I’ll retire for a cup of Earl Grey. I suggest you prepare yourself for twelve strokes from Mrs McKay with her tawse. Twelve strokes, with extras, of course, if there is the slightest sound from your mouth. I won’t be able to match the Scottish accent, but I think I’ll let the tawse do the talking.”
I left him to contemplate his fate.
I think you can probably guess what happened when Mrs McKay took her extra heavy, Lochgelly tawse to his writhing bottom when the tea break was over.
I plan to gradually work my way through some of my earlier books, giving them a fresh cover, and reading them again to check for any errors. Perhaps it will also inspire me to step back in time with Robert once again over the whipping bench.