And well deserved it is too!
I’ve been quiet for a while here, but that doesn’t mean that I haven’t been keeping Robert well caned and tawsed. On the contrary, my appetite for setting his bare bottom ablaze is more intense than ever. Rare indeed have been the times when his bottom is not sporting the vivid marks from a recent caning or tawsing since we first met. However, recent circumstances, where we had house guests for a few weeks, followed by him needing to work abroad for a further month, left a serious corporal punishment deficit.
In the many years that Robert and I have been together, we have never had to deal with such a long thrashing famine. As the weeks passed, I longed to see the cane biting deep into his squirming, writhing bottom. I yearned to hear the hiss and the sharp crack of the cane making contact with his naked flesh, followed by the gasp of agony. I felt myself becoming increasingly irritable as the abstinence continued.
Robert, too, I discovered, was suffering from punishment withdrawal. We don’t discuss things like this directly, as it would spoil the fun. Everything is in a code that we both understand. Robert knows, from painful experience, that if he is flippant in his communications with me, he will ignite a fire in me that can only be extinguished by thrashing him. So I knew, as soon as Robert started sending me increasingly flippant emails while he was working abroad, that he was pining for the kiss of my numerous corporal punishment implements. Here is an example of one such email:
‘My Dearest Annie,
I miss you. You might be surprised to learn that the marks from your last punishment have now completely faded. Personally, I wasn’t particularly surprised because I remember thinking during the caning that it was a bit namby-pamby. You concluded with the tawse, and that too was a bit lacklustre. Perhaps you’re going soft, my dearest?
Never mind. I’ll be home in just over a week, so perhaps you might want to ‘chat’ about it then.
Lots of Love, Robert’
And here’s how I replied:
I miss you too. What a short memory you seem to have. I distinctly recall your last appointment with my whipping bench, and there was an awful lot of squealing, pleading and sobbing going on as I decorated your very deserving bare bottom. However, in view of your comments, we most certainly will have a little ‘chat’ just as soon as you get home.
I can’t wait to get my hands on you.
Much Love, Your Dearest, Annie’
Correspondence such as this fuels the anticipation for both of us beautifully. I could just imagine that Robert now expected to be ordered to prepare the whipping bench the moment he stepped through the door, before receiving a very enthusiastic caning and tawsing. But I decided that I would surprise him. He usually loves surprises, but I wondered if he would love this one.
I don’t use the hairbrush as often as I should, and I decided that it was time his bare bottom was well and truly roasted with one. I have two lovely, heavy brushes that I use for spanking. They are actually clothes brushes, and they are a beautiful, oval shape, with rounded edges, and made from hard, polished wood. I thought it would be fun to get another one, perhaps a little heavier, as a welcome home treat.
Over the following days, I visited numerous antique shops, and was at the point of abandoning the search, when I found just what I wanted. In the dusty, rear corner, of a rather run-down antique shop in London, I picked up a very dark, heavy, hairbrush. I guessed it might be made from ebony. It was the perfect, oval shape, with beautifully rounded edges, and most important of all, it felt just right in my hand, a perfect fit. I gave my left palm a firm slap in delight, then winced at the intense sting. The shop owner, an elderly gentleman, looked up from the newspaper he had been reading. I wondered if he had guessed what I wanted it for. I tried to conceal my excitement as I handed over the £3 price that was written on a scuffed label on the rear, as I imagined how agonising my new acquisition would be when applied briskly and hard to Robert’s bare bottom in just a few days time.
I always love trying a new implement, but I was more excited about this one than usual. Back at home, I carefully cleaned, then polished it, then could resist giving my own, fully clothed bottom a playful slap. My goodness! What an intense sting it had! I decided to carefully bind the handle, using a roll of self-adhesive, black, cloth tape that I’d found in Robert’s bicycle ‘bits’ cupboard, in the garage, as I was concerned the implement might otherwise slip out of my hand when used with real enthusiasm.
Now all I had to do was to wait for Robert to arrive home. I was amused that, as the day of his return drew closer, the flippant remarks were in evidence less and less. Robert knew he had over-stepped the mark, and now he was trying to back-peddle. Too late for that now, Robert, I thought, as I toyed with the new brush.
I was delighted to see my dearest, when he stepped through the door, late the following morning, presenting me with a bouquet of mixed roses.
“How sweet of you, Robert,” I exclaimed, as I thought to myself: ‘If you think this is going to help you, you are sadly mistaken’.
I put the flowers in water, then turned to Robert, who was hovering, nervously.
“Why don’t you take a shower, then we can have our chat.”
He was probably confused because I hadn’t ordered him to assemble the whipping bench. I knew he’d been anticipating that. He hesitated, and seemed about to say something, then thought better of it, and left for the shower.
As he stepped from the shower, I was in the bathroom waiting for him, holding a pair of handcuffs behind my back. He nervously took the towel I offered him, then dried himself off, as I watched.
“Now, let’s have that long overdue chat,” I said, as he finished drying himself.
Before he knew what was happening, I grasped him arms, firmly, then cuffed his wrists. I took hold of his arm, then led him, naked, to the bedroom.
I sat on the bed, hitched my skirt, then parted my thighs to guide him over my left thigh. I scissored him between my thighs as his torso dropped onto the bed to my left. I don’t think he saw the hairbrush on the bedside table.
“I think ‘namby-pamby’ was one of the expressions you used to describe your last punishment from me,” I said, as I picked up the heavy, polished, brush.
“I was only joking,” he whimpered.
“Then let’s see how funny you find this,” I said as I raised the brush.
I brought it down with all my strength, and the flat, back of the brush made resounding contact with the centre of his right bottom cheek.
He squealed with shock and agony, but I’d barely started.
I’m well aware that the build up of sting, when a hairbrush is used to spank the same area, briskly and hard, can be unbearable, so I rained down another five hard spanks right in the centre of his right bottom cheek. The heavy brush flattened his bottom cheek with each resounding ‘crack’. Robert struggled desperately over my lap, and squealed for all his was worth as the brush set his bottom ablaze. I’d forgotten just how delicious it was to have a squirming, naked man over my lap as I spanked him.
His right bottom cheek developed a vivid, red and purple, circular weal, like a hoop, before I switched my attention to the centre of his left bottom cheek. His writhing became more frantic as the brush cracked down with undiminished venom, and I had to tighten the vice like scissor grip of my thighs to keep his bottom where I wanted it. I produced an exact matching ‘halo’ on his left cheek.
He knew what was coming next, because I always spank the same way with the hairbrush. He started to plead for me to stop, as, after six hard spanks to each cheek, I paused to adjust my position. Silly man! He knows only too well that pleading for mercy merely encourages me to spank harder.
He really howled as I then concentrated my efforts on the crease between his bottom and the tops of his thighs, six nice hard strokes each. I had to fight to keep him in place, and he was sobbing uncontrollably by the time I’d finished. Poor Robert thought it was over, and he relaxed.
The marks were wonderful. Two perfect, matching hoops, one on each bottom cheek, with two distorted hoops lower down and all beautifully symmetrical.
“Was that namby-pamby, Robert?” I asked.
“No! No it wasn’t!” he sobbed. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
“But not sorry enough, my dearest,” I said as I raised the brush for round two, which I decided would be double that of round one.
My goodness! What a fuss he made! The sounds were blissful. Hysterical squealing to the accompaniment of the steady ‘crack, crack, crack’ of my lovely new ebony brush. The visual delights were equally enjoyable to behold, as the symmetrical marks on his wildly gyrating bottom deepened in colour. But most delicious of all was feeling him struggle over my lap with such frenzied contortions. I nearly lost my grip on him a few times, but his bottom remained presented for the brush for all of the second batch of forty-eight strokes.
I allowed him to slip off my lap, where he sank to his knees, grasping his burning bottom cheeks with both hands. He looked up at me with his tearful eyes wide in shock. He was speechless for at least a minute, as I regarded him with amusement. His eyes then fixed on the brush I still held in my hand.
“Where did you get that from?” he eventually gasped.
“I did a bit of shopping while you were away, darling. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
I was quite out of breath. I’d been enjoying myself so much that I hadn’t realised how much energy the spanking had needed. A break was needed.
“I’ve never felt anything like it,” he replied, still breathless. “I promise I’ve learned my lesson.”
I merely smiled, as I toyed with the brush, looking down at him. I decided not to tell him that his punishment was only half way through, and that I was intent on repeating the entire spanking before he went to bed that evening. Another dose of my new ebony brush on a bottom that was already very sore would be a whole new experience for him.
I wonder if Robert will ever learn not to provoke Annie Bee. I do hope not!
To be continued…