What is the perfect way to end a good, hard, bare bottom caning? The trouble is (for my partner, Robert, that is), I find it difficult to stop. Once I have his bare bottom dancing, writhing, wriggling, bucking, clenching and unclenching in a wild frenzy, as I enthusiastically decorate it with colourful weals and while I listen to the fierce hiss of the cane, and the sharp ‘crack’ as it bites deep into his raging bottom, laying another line of white hot fire, and delight in his gasping, squealing and pleading for mercy, it makes it even harder to stop. Add to this, the delightful vision of his panic stricken, struggling body, fighting fruitlessly with his restraints, his muscles standing out like rods of iron as he tries to escape the clutches of my whipping bench. He appears so desperate to wrench his blazing bottom out of the reach of my excruciating cane, that I can almost imagine him climbing the walls with his bare hands if he were to escape. But, of course, he can’t escape. He is completely at my mercy, and I can cane him as hard as I like, and for long and I like, and there is absolutely nothing he can do to stop me. The more he pleads for mercy, the harder I want to cane him. Why would I stop, when I am having such delicious fun?
There has been a punishment famine in our house for several weeks. Although both Robert and I enjoy entertaining family and friends, their presence does mean we are unable to indulge in our favourite activity. The famine had gotten so serious that by the time we had a week to ourselves, there was not the hint of a cane mark to be seen on Robert’s bottom. A rare occurrence in this house indeed. But this situation does have its rewards. It meant that I had the rarity of a blank canvas to work on. So when I said: “We have a whole week to ourselves, Robert. What shall we do?” He knew exactly what I had in mind.
Although I delight in the administration of punishment with a variety of implements, the cane is the implement I instinctively reach for as a first choice. The cane faces some stiff competition in our house, but the joy of administering out a good, hard caning to a writhing bare bottom is difficult to beat.
I don’t need to have a reason to cane Robert, but I do tend to cane him with added venom when I do have one, even if it’s contrived. So when I suggested the chore of cleaning the kitchen floor was overdue, and perhaps he should do it, the scene was set.
“You had better do it thoroughly,” I warned him, as he got down on his hands and knees with a scrubbing brush, “I shall be inspecting the finished result and I expect absolute perfection. Anything less will have consequences.”
Whether, or not, the pea was deliberate, or an oversight, was immaterial. When I inspected the floor after he proclaimed it finished, there was a single garden pea just visible under the front of the fridge. I suspected it had been placed there by Robert deliberately. He often uses a bag of frozen peas to cool his burning bottom after particularly sound punishment, and this pea was still glistening and cold, so it hadn’t been there long. I took it as code that he wanted to be punished severely enough to need the frozen peas afterwards.
“I suggest you assemble the whipping bench,” I said, as I held up the offending item between my finger and thumb, before dropping it into the rubbish bin.
“You only found one pea,” he complained.
“Are you suggesting that I might have found more if I’d looked further?”
“No, there aren’t any more.”
“Then that’s all the evidence I need to confirm that you deliberately placed the pea to provoke me. Consider me provoked. Now get the whipping bench prepared immediately. You are to be soundly caned. If you keep me waiting I’ll punish you more severely.”
He did keep me waiting, and I was delighted. He obviously felt he badly needed a good caning, and I was certainly in the mood to oblige. He can normally have the whipping bench ready in about fifteen minutes, but he managed to dawdle his way through more than thirty minutes before he nervously informed me that it was ready. I was more than ready, with a selection of canes, and just itching to decorate his neglected bottom with some colourful stripes.
“Clothes off,” I ordered, “All of them. I want you naked and in position over the whipping bench in thirty seconds. If you take longer, I’ll be delighted to add penalties with my extra heavy Lochgelly tawse. Six strokes plus one for each extra second.” I checked my watch as I spoke.
Robert hesitated, looked at his own watch, then began to undress. He clearly took my threat seriously, and by the way he swiftly tore his clothes off, he obviously thought the cane would be quite enough for him, and didn’t want to feel the tawse as well. He managed to be in position in twenty-eight seconds, but he hadn’t checked his own watch as he’d taken it off, so I guessed he would be unsure about that.
“What a shame,” I said, unconvincingly, as I began to strap him down, “Thirty-six seconds. You almost made it, and if you hadn’t deliberately taken so long to assemble the whipping bench, I might have been inclined to show some flexibility. So it’s the cane and the tawse for you today.”
“That can’t be right!” he protested, as I rendered him helpless. “I was sure I was under thirty seconds.”
“We can argue about it if you wish, but insinuating that I’m a liar will only serve to make me very cross. Do you think that’s wise?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“I’m quite sure it’s not,” I agreed, as I tightened the final restraining strap. “It seems to me that you’re in enough trouble already.”
He decided to keep quiet. I looked down at the unblemished and perfectly presented, helpless bare bottom I was about to thrash, and realised how much I’d missed caning him. I selected a senior kooboo cane, then took my position to his left.
“Twenty-four strokes,” I announced.
He tensed in anticipation as I measure the cane across the centre of his bottom.
“Twenty-four nice, hard, strokes,” I said, as I gently tapped the as yet unmarked twin globes, while adjusting my footing. I wanted the first stroke to be a real shock.
SWISH – CRACK!
He hissed in air between his teeth, and his body jerked. The stroke had been superb, and had bitten in deliciously deep. Raised, white tramlines marked the line of impact. They began to colour, as I raised the cane. I was intent on bettering strokes one.
SWISH – CRACK!
I adore it when I manage to place a stroke right in the crease between his upper thigh and bottom cheeks, and stroke two sank in on target beautifully. I can tell from his body language when Robert is unable to cope with the agony, and he certainly couldn’t cope with this one. An involuntary squeal confirmed it. Just as well he was firmly restrained, as he wouldn’t have stayed down for that one.
SWISH – CRACK!
I was in my element. Weals were springing up on his writhing bottom, the cane was whistling through the air, then biting into bare flesh with a resounding ’crack’. Robert was hissing in air between his teeth, squealing and sobbing as the cane weaved its lattice of agony. Sweat was beginning to cover his torso, as a result of his frantic and totally pointless struggle with his restraints. He knows he can’t escape, but he always tries. That’s when I know my cane strokes are really hitting home. It was bliss.
I’d been listening to classical music earlier on in the day, and as I continued to happily cane him with real venom, I found myself humming a Strauss waltz, and it occurred to me that it would be fun to cane him to music at a future date. I giggled to myself as I then imagined trying to keep up with ‘Flight of the Bumble Bee’. Or how about ‘Can Can’, which I would rename ‘Can Cane’. What would Offenbach have made of it? Or, perhaps something more dramatic would be more appropriate, especially for canings with a judicial flavour – Wagner would be good.
“I’m afraid I’ve lost count, Robert,” I said, as I paused the caning. “I’ll have to start again.”
“That’s not fair,” he sobbed, desperately.
“I know it isn’t,” I giggled, as I raised the cane.
SWISH – CRACK!
What a glorious caning I administered. He probably soaked up in the region of thirty-six strokes, and in the space of a few minutes I transformed the blemish free bare bottom to a glorious lattice of colourful and very angry raised weals.
“That was The Blue Danube,” I said, when he had regained some composure. His silence suggested he didn’t know what I was talking about, and why should he.
“Now it’s time for the tawse. I think we agreed twelve strokes with my extra heavy Lochgelly,” I said as picked up the implement.
“No, no, please! I can’t take any more! I don’t deserve any more!” he pleaded.
“Now don’t argue with me, Robert,” I laughed, “or I’ll change that to The 1812 Overture.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” he sobbed.
“I’ll explain later.”
So, as his squealing filled the room again, accompanied by the delicious sound of leather making sharp contact with bare flesh, my mind turned to what might make a fitting finale for this much needed and overdue thrashing.
A final six of the very best with the cane seemed to be a good idea, but then, logically, a dozen would be better. Another eighteen strokes, of course, would be better still. I decided to ask Robert what he thought. I concluded the dozen with the tawse, then waited until his squealing had abated, to explain my dilemma.
“I really can’t take any more,” he sobbed.
Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he. But of course, he could take more, and he would take more. He had no choice in the matter.
“That’s no help at all, Robert,” I replied. “I would have hoped for a little more imagination from you.”
As I looked down at his helpless trembling body, glistening with sweat, and listened to his laboured breathing, the perfect ending to this particularly enjoyable caning suddenly came to me.
“I know what I’ll do, Robert. I’ll start again.”
“No! Please! No! I beg you!”
SWISH – CRACK!