Robert’s final thrashing of 2018 was administered with so much enthusiasm, and his bottom was so vividly decorated, that I knew I wouldn’t have a ‘blank canvas’ to work on until a few weeks into 2019. I do so love decorating an unblemished bare bottom, so sometimes I have to be patient, and that was my intention – until yesterday. Yesterday morning I stumbled upon a photograph on Fetlife that changed all that. I might be infringing some copyright, or other if I reproduced it here, but if you subscribe to Fetlife you will probably be able to find it as a picture I have commented on (I am called ABee on Fetlife).
The picture shows a bare bottom that has been beautifully decorated with what has to be a tawse. The marks are so clearly defined that you can almost count the number of strokes, and it is quite obvious that they were administered with enthusiasm. I can’t begin to understand what happens inside my head, but as soon as I saw that picture I knew that I had to have Robert strapped over our whipping bench as a matter of urgency. To be fair to him, I gave him twelve hours notice. He did feebly suggest that he hadn’t recovered from his last trip over the whipping bench, but he knows not to argue.
He obediently, but nervously, lowered himself over the whipping bench that evening, and I soon had him securely strapped in place, with his bare bottom gaping and perfectly presented for punishment. I checked that his protective thong was firmly in place (It needed to be for what I had planned). He obviously knew he was to be thrashed, but that was all. I’d merely told him that he had a surprise to look forward to.
I began with the cane, selecting a senior kooboo. He gasped and hissed in air through clenched teeth as I administered six, crisp, hard strokes across the upper part of his bottom, just below the top of his bottom cleft. I treated him to a long pause, so I could watch the fresh weals mature and blend into a colourful band, about 25mm wide. I can cane quite accurately when I put my mind to it.
Next, I had him gasping and writhing beautifully, as I placed an identically colourful band right in the crease between his bottom cheeks and his upper thighs – a particularly sensitive spot.
“That’s the boundaries nicely defined, Robert,” I said, “Now I can begin colouring in the area between. It will be a bit like colouring by numbers, except I’ll be using tawses instead of paint brushes, and I’m not going to be happy until every single bit of white flesh has been decorated.”
I selected up my extra heavy Lochgelly tawse, then went to work with relish. Within less than thirty seconds, his right bottom cheek resembled the bottom cheek in the picture that had inspired me. But I had barely started. Robert’s bottom was gyrating wildly, as the tawse cracked down, as he tried, and failed to cope with the fierce sting of the heavy leather tails. His gasps and squealing became more urgent as the tawse revisited already burning flesh, as I sought to colour the last few remaining white areas. It probably took about five minutes before I was satisfied. His right bottom cheek was now a nice blend of red and purple. His left bottom cheek, however, was in need of a lot more attention if it was to match (I do envy disciplinarians who are ambidextrous), and his bottom cleft was unscathed, other than the fading marks of his pre-Christmas thrashing. It was time to switch to my hellstrap, but I needed a break. Robert looked like he could do with one too. He was glistening with sweat and hyperventilating as a result of his utterly pointless efforts to wriggle free from his restraints. I really don’t know why he still tries, as he knows that it’s impossible to escape the clutches of our whipping bench. But it’s enormous fun to watch his futile efforts.
“I think I deserve a cup of Earl Grey,” I told him. “Your right bottom cheek has been decorated to my satisfaction. The remaining areas need a lot of attention.”
“Please, Miss,” he sobbed, “I can’t take any more.”
“Would you like another six strokes with the extra heavy Lochgelly tawse?” I asked him.
“No, Miss,” he sobbed.
“Then you shouldn’t make such ridiculous statements.”
I picked up the tawse, then had Robert howling and his bottom dancing, as I administered another six, venomous strokes. He was still gasping as I left for my tea.
It was a blissful feeling to be relaxing downstairs, sipping my favourite tea, knowing that Robert was upstairs, helpless, with his glowing bottom presented for my attention. I knew he would be dreading the sound of my feet on the stairs. I was in no rush. I let him wait.
The vivid colour of Robert’s right bottom cheek had matured while I had been enjoying my tea, and it contrasted even more with his left cheek and bottom cleft. It was time to rectify the situation. I picked up the hellstrap and went to work within a few seconds of stepping through the door. The first stroke caught Robert beautifully in his bottom cleft and he was squealing and writhing in agony almost at once. This was the sort of thrashing that Robert has told me that he dreads more than any other. It’s when he doesn’t know when it will stop. He’s told me that when I announce a sentence of a set number of strokes, he’s able to count then down. It gives him a target to hold on for. Each stroke takes him nearer to the point when his punishment will be over. However, when he has no idea when the thrashing will stop, as was now the case, he can’t cope. He panics, and that’s how I like things. He was shrieking, blubbering and writhing in agony as I administered stroke after venomous stroke to his wildly gyrating bottom.
It took a lot of time and effort to eradicate the last elusive white bits, but eventually I was satisfied. Robert’s body physically ‘sagged’ when I announced I was satisfied. I had to almost peel him off the whipping bench. He was dripping with sweat. He headed straight to the freezer, to get the large bag of frozen peas we keep especially for soothing thrashed, hot bottoms.
What a delightful start to 2019.