CHRISTENING MY WHIP

I’ve been very excited about the acquisition of my vintage whip and I’ve been itching to christen it on Robert’s bare bottom. He wasn’t quite so keen though. I caught him sneaking a look at it a few days ago. He had taken it from its cardboard tube and he was flexing it. I loved the guilty look on his face when he turned to see that I had stepped quietly into our bedroom.

“Perhaps you are trying to imagine what it will feel like when I take it to your bare bottom?”

“Well, yes,” he admitted.

“Then tomorrow you shall find out. I want the whipping bench assembled by 9am.”

I left him, still holding the whip, now with less than 24 hours to contemplate his fate.

The christening of the whip was to be a punishment whipping for shoddy spell-checking of my last book, ‘Spanking Games’, so I decided that it would be appropriate to incorporate a game into the punishment. Dice games are always fun, so I thought I’d invent a new one. I explained to Robert how it would work later that evening:

His punishment, a hard whipping, would be decided on the throw of a standard six sided dice. Each number on the dice would be allocated a number of strokes of the whip.

Generously, I told Robert that he could choose the first two, then I would choose the remaining four. I could see he was suspicious of my generosity.

“So I can choose any numbers I like? Even very low numbers?” he asked.
“You’re very suspicious, Robert, I can see it,” I said, enjoying his discomfort. “Would it help if I told you that I’ve already decided on my four numbers. You can choose anything you like, but I would like them to be different numbers.”

He wanted time to think about it, which was fine, but I told him he must make his choices before I strapped him over the whipping bench.

Robert was still undecided on his choices when he reported to me that he had assembled the whipping bench the following morning at 8.55. He was frightened, of course, but he was still wary of my generosity in allowing him choose two of the whippings.

“You’ve definitely already decided on your four choices?” he asked.

“Definitely,” I assured him. “Now fetch the whip. Present it to me and tell me your choices. You’ve had quite long enough to think about it.”

“If the dice rolls one, I should receive one stroke,” he said, nervously, as he handed me the whip, “And if it shows a two, I should receive two strokes.”

He was expecting me to object, but I didn’t.

“That’s fine. Now strip and place yourself over the bench.”

“What are your numbers?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you when I have you strapped down,” I said, “But I can tell you that if you are not naked and over the whipping bench within thirty seconds I will add a dozen strokes to each of my choices.”

It was enough. Robert knows I never make idle threats. He was naked and ready to be strapped into position within twenty seconds. It took less than a minute for me to buckle and tighten all the restraining straps. He was mine. His unmarked bare bottom was thrust up, helpless, and perfectly presented for my whip.

“So Robert. It’s time for me to disclose my four choices. I was being quite truthful when I told you that I had already decided on my choices before you told me yours. I decided that my choices would be fifty, minus whatever yours were. So if the dice rolls three or four, you will receive forty-eight strokes, and if it rolls five or six, you will receive forty-nine.”

Robert groaned as I picked up the dice. I gave him a few moments to digest my choices, then tossed the dice onto the floor in front of him. He must have been praying for a one or two.

The dice throw was a little clumsy. It rolled across the floor, coming to a stop against the edge of our Afghan rug. I heard Robert breath out in relief as we both looked down to see the dice displaying a one.

“I’m afraid it’s not conclusive,” I said, as I stepped past Robert to look down at the dice from above. The dice was resting on one of its edges up against the rug. “From here it’s showing both the one and the five.”

Robert probably thought this would mean rolling the dice again. I had a better idea.

“The most logical thing to do, Robert,” I said, as I picked up the whip, “is to count both the one and the five as valid. So your choice earns you one stroke and mine earns you forty-nine. That very conveniently adds up to the very nice round number of fifty.”

I was hoping he would argue. I was really in the mood to make him squirm, and I would have delighted in adding another ten strokes for the slightest protest. Unfortunately he knows me too well. He wisely kept his mouth shut.

I took my position. Raised the whip, then the punishment began.

CRACK!

What a wonderful sound my new whip makes when it bites deep into the flesh of Robert’s bare bottom. My first thought was that it felt a little like using a cane, but it was heavier and had more flexibility, so it tended to wrap-around his far flank. That’s fine, I thought, it still counts as a legitimate target area.
It was quite clear what Robert’s first thought was. His hissed intake of breath and the manner in which his whole body tensed with shock said it all. It was excruciating. Just how it should be. Just how I love it to be.

But there was far better to come. After the first few strokes, which had him gasping and squealing, I instinctively introduced more wrist action into my strokes and the result was blissful. The whip really came to life and began to crack down across his upturned bottom with stunning severity.

Robert squealed and gasped and wriggled and cried his way through all fifty strokes, and what a glorious lattice of weals now decorate his bottom. When he was eventually released from his restraints, he was so covered in sweat from his futile efforts to escape the embrace of the whipping bench that I almost had to ‘peel’ him off it.

My vintage whip is simply wonderful. I’m so taken with it that I’ve written two short stories about ladies who take delight in whipping the bare bottoms of deserving males. It’s called ‘Ladies with Whips’. See my website for further details: www.anniebeebooks.com

VINTAGE WHIP

The caning had to be postponed. Robert was due to be soundly caned about a month ago, but I pulled a muscle in my caning arm at the gym, so he enjoyed a reprieve. Very frustrating for me, but the upside is that his bottom has had a rare, extended break from punishment, meaning that when I inspected him recently I was delighted to find that I had a almost totally unmarked bottom to decorate. A rare treat indeed in this house.

I’m pleased to report that my arm has now recovered and I’m ready to get thrashing, but it will not be the cane I will be using to put the badly needed colour back into Robert’s deserving bottom cheeks. I shall be using my latest purchase. A purchase I am very excited about. I have bought a used, vintage riding whip, and it really is the most beautiful object. It measures 70cm in length and tapers down to from 14mm diameter at the grip to 10mm at the business end. It’s finished in fine braided leather and is quite flexible. It is a high quality, antique whip and made by a long established English whip maker of repute. I’ve tried using riding crops in the past, but never really got on with them, usually finding them a bit too short, but this one is really lovely. I simply can’t wait to take it to Robert’s bare bottom.

The arrival of my new whip has coincided with a lovely review of my latest book, ‘Spanking Games’. The reviewer, generously left by an author of erotica, gave the book five stars but mentioned that there were several spelling mistakes. It’s Robert’s job to spell check my books and he has clearly failed in his duties. What a perfect reason to christen my new whip. I shall be giving my lovely new whip a thorough workout on Robert’s bare bottom within the next few days and I will report on the whipping in due course.

I have shall also be featuring this whip in one of my forthcoming stories.

PERFECT STROKES

I’m talking about perfect tawse strokes, specifically with my bespoke ‘hellstrap’. This is the shorter tawse I had specially made for me. It’s made from thick, heavy hide, but not so thick that it loses flexibility. The flexibility is essential for my favoured ‘wrap around’ technique. I’ve attached a photograph to demonstrate just how flexible it is.

For those of you who might be interested, my ‘hellstrap’ weighs just 100 grams. It’s 43cm long overall, and each of its two 10mm wide leather tails are 21cm long and 9mm thick. The sole purpose of this design is to cause as much agony as possible to Robert’s gaping bottom. As I’ve described on numerous occasions, my whipping bench is designed to hold Robert down with his bottom up, his legs spread wide and his bottom cleft gaping open. In this position, with all the restraining straps in place, clenching of the bottom cheeks is imposable so all those extra sensitive areas, including his inner thighs, are accessible to my tawses. My objective is to stand close to his head so that I can apply strokes to the side of his left bottom cheek, causing the tawse tails to ‘wrap around’ his buttock and the tawse tips to accelerate into the sensitive flesh of his bottom cleft. It’s not an easy stroke to perfect because his bottom cleft is unsighted. However, the reward, when one gets it right, is delicious.

I instantly know when I’ve hit the sweet spot. First the noise – the tawse tips bite in with a beautiful sharp CRACK, almost like the crack of a whip. All the energy drains from the tawse as it momentarily grips his left bottom cheek, almost as if it were a claw. And then of course there is the best bit of all: Robert’s reaction. I can tell when he’s in absolute agony. The hissing of air between his teeth. His desperate, but futile struggling with his restraints as he strains to clench. The cries of despair when he can’t and he sees me raising the tawse again. It’s bliss. If I manage to hit the same spot several times in succession, he goes berserk.

Perfecting this ‘wrap around’ was my sole aim as I secured him over the whipping bench this morning. He’s had well over a month to recover from his last caning, so, unusually, his bottom was almost unblemished. He was wearing his mandatory protective thong to protect his ‘bits’. I hadn’t told him exactly what I had planned, just that I needed a bit of practice. I noted he began to look very concerned when I produced my long leather gloves. I now always wear these when I administer serious tawsings because the tawse does sometimes whip back, catching my arm, and this can be painful and can deter me from putting maximum venom into my strokes.

When I set the floor standing mirror behind him, then picked up the hellstrap, he knew what he was in for. As he glanced into my eyes I saw panic – perfect.

“I’ve decided to perfect the wrap around stroke, Robert,” I said, as I took my position close to his head. “This could take some time.”

And it did. I decided I would administer twenty-four perfect strokes. To be perfect, the stroke should land with the report of a pistol shot and should be exactly on target, with the tawse tips biting either deep into his bottom cleft or his left inner thigh.
It took me a few strokes to get the first stroke that was good enough to count, even so, he was gasping and squealing after just two non-qualifying strokes. The first perfect stroke sent his body into delicious convulsions, and when I managed to later place three perfect strokes in a row all in the same sensitive, spot I did worry he might damage the whipping bench with his frantic efforts to escape its clutches.

He knows he’s forbidden to beg for mercy, but I’m delighted to say that he’s a very slow learner. I was only half way through when he started begging for the tawsing to stop. Obviously I didn’t. It simply encouraged me to thrash him harder, making a mental note to add penalty strokes at the end.

I eventually completed my twenty-four perfect strokes, and what a fuss he made. His bottom cleft and inner thigh were by now purple, but his right bottom cheek was unscathed and his left just a nice shade of red, so he would be fit for the cane with immediate effect. I was tempted to use the cane for the dozen strokes I had decided would be his penalty. But I changed my mind. I wanted him fit for a proper caning next week.

“You have earned twelve penalty strokes, Robert,” I said, “I will administer them briskly and hard with the hellstrap.”

Robert simply couldn’t face the prospect, and began begging for it to be postponed, so I added another six, with the promise of another six if he didn’t cease his fuss at once. He wisely saw sense and shut up. I began the hard, brisk tawsing immediately. I aimed twelve strokes into his already burning bottom cleft, then concluded with six applied to his inner thigh. He squealed, gasped, gurgled, writhed as my beautiful hellstrap found its mark again and again. His feet gyrated and his head shook like that of a mad dog. What a waste of energy! But it was delicious to watch.

Next week, the cane.

TESTING NEW CANES

I would imagine that if an observer were to enter my punishment chamber while I had Robert secured over the whipping bench, and was enthusiastically decorating his bare bottom with vivid tramlines with one of my many canes, they could be forgiven for thinking that the punishment they were witnessing was not consensual. This might especially be the case if I had managed to get Robert pleading for mercy, and they then were witness to me actually being encouraged to cane him yet harder by his pleas for leniency.

They would be wrong, of course. Our regular indulgence in severe corporal punishment is entirely consensual. Robert actually craves to be thrashed by me almost continually, and it’s such a shame that we have to wait a few weeks after each punishment for his bottom to recover sufficiently for the next session. The strange thing is, however, he has confided in me that, although his craving to be punished is almost constant, that craving disappears as soon as the first stroke of a punishment bites in. As soon as the reality of the pain hits him he is desperate for me to stop. That’s why I secure him. Deep down, he doesn’t want me to stop, and, of course, I don’t. Pleading for leniency has the opposite effect on me. I don’t do leniency.

I haven’t bought any new canes for about a year, so recently I decided it was time to replace some of my older senior kooboo canes. I’ve had some of these for over ten years, so they must have dried and lost some weight. I ordered three new ones, with black, purple and red leather grips respectively. I’d told Robert about the order, so he knew what to expect when the courier arrived with the long cardboard package yesterday. He knew I’d want to try them out.

“These need testing, Robert,” I said, as I removed the canes from their package, “Assemble the whipping bench.” He didn’t argue.

Canes, being natural products, vary in size, weight and flexibility, so my three new canes, although all senior kooboo canes, and all about 75 – 80cm long and about 9 – 10mm in diameter, all had a slightly different feel to them, and I was keen to find which would be my favourite.

Within twenty minutes of the canes arriving, I had Robert strapped, naked, over the whipping bench, nervously awaiting my attention. There were still marks from his birching and caning of about a month ago, but he was fit for punishment.

“This will be a mystery caning, Robert,” I explained, as I flexed each cane in turn. “You don’t know how many strokes you are to receive because I don’t either.”

It really scares him when he is facing an unknown number of strokes. He’s explained to me in the past that if he is subject to a set number of strokes or a set time, then he can attempt to count down the figure in his head as the strokes are applied. He has an end in sight – a light at the end of the tunnel. With no number or time to grasp on to, the caning becomes an agonising journey with no end in sight. Furthermore, without the mental prop of a finite ending, he is more likely to lose control of his ability to cope with the agony, and he knows that if he does so and makes a fuss, I will add penalty strokes. I am always eager to find reason to add strokes.

“I shall try each cane in turn, Robert,” I explained, as I approached him with the red handled cane, “and I will attempt to choose a favourite, then I will administer a sound caning with that one. I want you to observe the usual rules of silence and no fuss. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss,” he replied.

I noticed with pleasure that he attempted to clench his bottom cheeks. It was probably an involuntary gesture as he tried to mentally prepare for the unknown duration of agony that lay ahead for him. It was also a futile action as the whipping bench has been designed to make ‘clenching’ impossible. As regular readers of my blog will know, I like to have full access to all the sensitive areas of flesh of a bottom when I punish, including the bottom cleft, just in case I decide to use the tawse.

I took my position to his left, then after tapping the cane across the centre of his presented bare cheeks a few times to get my position and footing perfect, I administered the first stroke with real venom.

SWISH-CRACK!

He hissed in a lungful of air as the first stroke bit in hard. The caning had begun and I was now in my element. I know a lot of disciplinarians like to warm up their recipients gradually, but I don’t. I like the first stroke to be a real shock, to take his breath away. As Robert hissed air and stifled cries of agony, I administered four sizzling strokes. I watched with delight as white tramlines sprang up after each stroke, then filled with red.

Without giving him time to recover, I put down the red handled cane, then selected the black handled one. Another four strokes bit deliciously deep into his helpless bottom cheeks. He hissed air in through his teeth as each stroke cracked down, but to his credit, stayed otherwise silent.

Finally, I selected the purple handled cane. Appropriate, I thought, as I raised the cane, because the colour purple was just starting to appear on his bottom. Four, crisp, hard strokes added to the lattice of weals.

“I think I prefer the red one,” I said, as Robert hyperventilated. I noticed he was already sweating profusely. “But the purple one is a close second. I think I’ll administer another four with each to make sure. Do you think that’s a good idea, Robert?”

“Yes, Miss,” he whimpered immediately. It’s amazing how eager he is not to upset me when I’m standing over him with a cane and with his helpless bare bottom already ablaze.
I swiftly administered another four real stingers with each of the chosen canes. I noted, with delight, that he was seriously struggling to cope with the pain now. His feet were starting to gyrate, always a sign that he’s close to the limit of his self-control.

“Now I’m confused,” I said, cheerfully. “That time the purple cane seemed to bite in with a nicer crack. Which did you think is the most effective, Robert?”

“I thought they were both absolutely agonising,” he sobbed.

“Well that’s no help at all,” I playfully scolded him. “I have no choice but to administer another four with each.”

I was sufficiently warmed up by now, so the next eight, venomous strokes where the hardest so far. Robert was beginning to struggle against his restraints, and his heavy breathing was punctuated with stifled squeaks as each stroke added to the fire in his bottom cheeks.

“I was right first time, Robert,” I announced triumphantly. “The red cane is my favourite. I shall administer the proper caning with that.”

His head hung down in despair at the implication that his proper caning was yet to start.

“I need a tea break.” I said, putting down the red cane in front of him. “I need to recover my strength to make sure I have all the energy I need for the deliciously hard caning you will shortly enjoy.”

I love leaving him helpless, forced to wait for his punishment. He doesn’t know how long he will have to wait, and the first he usually knows of his fate being imminent is when he hears a creak of the stairs. As followers of my blog might remember, I even left him secured over the whipping bench while I went to the library once. On that occasion I even took time over a coffee, blissful in the knowledge that back at home his bare bottom remained perfectly presented for punishment, awaiting my return. Yesterday, however, I took my tea into the garden to enjoy the sunny weather.

Robert would have heard our creaky stair about half an hour after I had left him. I opened the door to be confronted by his very beautifully wealed bare bottom, still thrust up, an invitation for me to cane if ever there was.

“Are you ready for your caning, Robert?” I asked, as I picked up, then flexed the red handled cane, straightening out the slight bow the previous strokes had put into the shaft of the implement.

“I’m very sore, Miss,” he whimpered.

“Good, then the caning should be even more painful, but that’s not what I asked.”

“Sorry, Miss. Yes, I’m ready,” he whimpered, sounding decidedly ‘unready’.

“So am I,” I replied, through gritted teeth, as I took my position, intent on making the caning as hard as I could.

SWISH-CRACK!

He gasped, then whimpered, as the first stroke bit savagely into his already very sore bottom.

I didn’t count the strokes. It was probably about thirty. I just caned him and caned him and caned him, at a nice steady pace, concentrating on trying to make each stroke harder than the previous. It was glorious. I didn’t need to count strokes or wait for a timer to beep, I just caned.

Robert, however, wasn’t doing so well. After just six strokes I could sense from his breathing, squirming and the wild gyrating of his feet, that he was getting close to losing his ability to take the punishment. This encouraged me to put even more venom into the strokes. I love pushing him over the edge when he’s totally helpless. To my delight, he begged and pleaded desperately for the caning to stop all the way through the second half. What a waste of breath!

By the time I had caned him to my satisfaction he was too well marked to take the penalty strokes he had incurred for breaking my rules on silence. I informed him that the penalty strokes would be entered into the punishment book to be discharged in full at a later date. He readily agreed, before I began to release him from the embrace of the whipping bench. He had perspired so much during the final caning that I almost had to ‘peel’ him off the bench.

I can declare my new canes, especially the red one, most satisfactory.

I have two new books well under way at the moment, both already incorporating some very enthusiastic use of the cane. More details to follow.

PICNIC PUNISHMENT

“We haven’t been out for a picnic for a long time. The weather’s lovely. What do you think?” asked Robert, yesterday.

What comes to mind at the mention of a picnic? Birds singing? Sun shining in the countryside? A wicker basket and a spread of sandwiches, snacks, drinks, and perhaps wine?

That was the image that used to spring to my mind, but now I have other ideas. It’s my own fault. I wrote my first discipline related story, ‘Jonathan’s Introduction to the Cane and Tawse’ over five years ago, and in one scene Jonathan spills wine on Mrs McKay, resulting in a bare bottom birching.

The first image that sprang into my mind was birching his bare bottom while he was bent over the trunk of a fallen tree.

“What a good idea,” I replied, “I know just the ideal place.”

Although my stories are fiction, I usually have a vision of a real location in my mind while I am writing, and this had been the case when I had written the picnic birching scene in my story about Jonathan. Robert proof-reads all my stories, so he is familiar with them all, but as far as I was aware, he didn’t know the location I had had in mind for the birching scene.

An hour later, with our picnic basket in the boot of the car, we set off for the Sussex countryside. Robert had put together our picnic basket, but just before we had left I had slipped a few additional items under the pack of sandwiches.

“So where in Sussex are we going?” he asked, as we turned out of the drive.

“Do you remember a walk we went on about five years ago? We found a secluded bluebell wood surrounded by farmland. There was a small clearing in the wood, with some wild grass and a few fallen trees. I mentioned at the time it would be an ideal place for a picnic.”

“No, I don’t,” he replied.

“Well, while you were making the sandwiches I managed to find it on Google Earth, so that’s where we are going.”

It’s still possible to escape from people in England, as long as you are prepared to walk some distance from the nearest car park. We found our secluded clearing and apart from the birds and bees, we had the place to ourselves. It was much as I remembered it, and I was delighted to see that the fallen trees were still where they had been and the birch tree I remembered was still there. I laid our ground sheet down close to a large log, then offered Robert a sandwich, keeping the sandwich box to my side. We enjoyed our food to birdsong.

“Do you remember the birching scene in “Jonathan’s Introduction to the Cane and Tawse’?” I asked, after we had been relaxing for about half an hour.

“Yes, of course.”

“I based it here. That’s the birch tree Jonathan would have cut the switches from.” I said, pointing at the tree.

“Oh,” he said, sensing danger. “It’s just as well we didn’t bring the secateurs,” he joked.

I reached into the picnic basket, then handed the secateurs to him, with a smile on my face. I was delighted to see him sit up stiffly with a look of fear spreading across his face.

“You can’t birch me here,” he protested, “Somebody might see us.”

“I doubt it, Robert, but I’m happy to take a chance. Besides, they might enjoy watching your bare bottom dancing to the tune of the birch you are about to make for me.”

“But I haven’t recovered from the last caning,” he pleaded. I could see he was starting to panic.

“Yes you have,” I replied, still smiling. “I had a good look last night while you were asleep. Now go to that birch tree and cut me five switches. I want them about two and a feet half long and I want them to have enough weight to bite nice and deep into your bare bottom, but at the same time, flexible and whippy enough to curl around your bottom cheeks.”

Robert remained sitting, with the secateurs in his hand, looking at me in despair.

“I have a specific number of strokes in mind for your birching, by the way,” I said, still smiling, “But if you don’t start cutting those switches in the next ten seconds I will be delighted to increase that number by another dozen.”

Robert knows only too well that I do not make idle threats. He was on his feet within a second, then ran to the birch tree.

“Make sure they are nice switches, Robert,” I called after him, “Because if I deem any of them unsuitable I will choose alternatives myself. You would be most unwise to give me the opportunity to do so.”

There’s something quite special about watching a person preparing for their own punishment. As Robert carefully selected, then cut the switches I bathed in his mental turmoil. He knew I would expect him to select only switches that would really hurt when applied to his bare bottom, but his temptation would be to select switches that were a little more lenient, but that risked me rejecting them, then choosing something far more severe. Quite a balancing act for him. I watched with amusement as he made his choices, then nervously approach me with his offering. I took the five switches from him, still smiling.

He watched me as I carefully examined each one in turn, flexing each, then swishing them through the air to get a feel for their weight and flexibility.

“You normally make it a rule to give twenty-four hours notice,” he complained. “You’ve broken your own rules.”

I looked up at him with some irritation. I got the feeling he was warming to the idea of a thrashing, so was now goading me to make me angry.

“Let’s remind ourselves about the rules, Robert. Quote me RULE 1.”

“Mistress is always right,” he replied.

“And RULE 2?”

“If Mistress is wrong, see RULE 1.”

“I think that takes care of your complaint, Robert. Now cut me some proper switches,” I said, tossing the ones I was holding aside. “These pathetic lightweight twigs are next to useless. Cut me some with bite.”

Robert swallowed, and I saw fear in his eyes, but he was seriously up for it and I intended to make sure he got it. The next five switches he presented me with were beautiful specimens. They would bite really deep into his bare flesh.

“These will do,” I said, after flexing them. “Bind them into a lovely birch for me.”

I reached into the picnic basket, then handed him a roll of duct tape and a pair of scissors. He knew what to do, he’s made them before. He bound the thick ends of the switches tightly together with the tape to form a firm handle, then bound them again just over a third of the way further down from the handle. This second binding is to prevent the birch rods from splaying apart too much during use. Nervously, he handed me the completed implement.

“This is perfect, Robert,” I said, giving it a swish through the air. It hissed. Robert shuddered. It was a heavy implement, but I’m quite strong. I was confident I could do it justice.

“Wouldn’t it be better to do it at home,” he suggested, looking around. “I’m frightened somebody might see us.”

“I will do it at home,” I replied, “If it survives the birching I’m going to administer here. And if it doesn’t survive I’m going to cane you at home. So you have a lot to look forward to. Now strip.”

Reluctantly and slowly, and nervously looking around, Robert began to remove his clothes. Eventually, he stood before me naked. His eyes dropped to look at the formidable implement of his creation. The implement that was about to bite into the bare flesh of his bottom.

I ordered him to lie along the top of a fallen tree trunk with his knees forward, either side and to hug the trunk with his arms. The position left his bare bottom wonderfully exposed. It seemed to be saying ‘birch me hard’. I intended to accept the invitation.

“I have a number of strokes in mind, Robert,” I said, as I stepped over his head with my left leg to straddle him, “We are going to play a game. I want you to guess the number. If you guess too low you will receive three strokes, and if you guess too high you will receive two strokes. When you guess the number correctly, then that is what you will receive, plus I will add a stroke for each wrong guess. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss,” he whimpered.

I adjusted my stance to line the birch up along the line of his gaping bottom cleft. I don’t think I have ever thrashed him from this angle. With the strokes delivered from over my shoulder, it promised to be a very interesting prospect.

“Your first guess, please, Robert,” I said as I rested the birch switches on his right bottom cheek. “And, by the way, if I catch you looking up my skirt I’ll add a dozen strokes.”

“Yes Miss. Twelve strokes, Miss.”

“Wrong,” I said, as I raised the birch.

The birch hissed as I brought it down with all my strength, then watched in fascination as the switches fanned out to bite into a pattern across his right buttock. It was Robert’s turn to hiss. As he drew his breath in sharply through clenched teeth, I raised the birch again, to bring it down hard across his left buttock. He gasped in pain as I raised the birch again to bring it down venomously into his gaping bottom cleft. He squealed. It must have been excruciating. Instinctively, his legs shot back so he could clench his bottom cheeks. It was, of course, too late to save the flesh within from the fire of the birch, but it was a forbidden action.

“Put your knees back where they should be at once,” I ordered. “If you do that again I will add strokes.”

Hesitantly, trembling, his knees slowly parted, then dropped either side of the trunk to once again leave his bottom cleft helplessly and perfectly exposed. Already, his bottom and upper thighs were sporting a multitude of red weals. It seemed that I had stumbled upon a deliciously spiteful and sadistic way to present a bottom for discipline. I started thinking I might incorporate something like this in my next book.

“Your second guess, please.”

“Eighteen.”

“Wrong again,” I said, cheerfully, as I raised the birch.

Robert squealed as the birch bit deep into first his left, then his right bottom cheek. Of course he had no idea, yet, if he was to receive a third.

HISS-CRACK!

As the third stroke cracked down into the flesh around and into his gaping bottom cleft, he shrieked in agony. His legs shot back as his bottom clenched shut.

“Present yourself for punishment immediately, Robert,” I said, firmly. “You were warned not to do that. The last stroke will be repeated.” He whimpered as he hesitantly offered himself for the birch again.

HISS-CRACK!

He squealed again, as the birch found the sensitive, burning flesh of his gaping cleft. His legs looked as if they might shoot back again as he writhed in agony, but he just managed to control himself. What a shame.

“Your third guess, please.”

“Twenty-four,” he sobbed.

“Correct, Robert. Well done. So that’s twenty-four, plus two for wrong guesses, making twenty-six. You must stay in position for all twenty-six if you want to avoid extra strokes. Is that quite clear?”

“Yes, Miss,” he sobbed.

The birching began with sadistic enthusiasm. He writhed and squealed deliciously as the birch bit into his right cheek, then left cheek, then his gaping bottom cleft. I maintained this sequence of strokes throughout. He really struggled to keep his knees down, but managed almost until the end. But I was delighted when his will power failed him as a particularly savage stroke impacted beautifully into his bottom cleft. He was soon persuaded to present himself again, and I awarded him another six strokes, promising him another twelve on top of that if he clenched again.

He squealed and writhed like a cut worm as the final strokes were administered with absolute maximum venom, but his knees stayed in place. I was a little disappointed as I was in my element. I adored this method of birching and would have loved to administer another dozen. However, the birch had been slowly disintegrating, and was past its best. I made a mental note to have Robert make up two or three birches next time we went for a picnic.

“I didn’t realise how much I like picnics,” I said as we packed our picnic basket, “We must do it again, soon.”

I had Robert assemble the whipping bench when we arrived home, then I soundly caned him. I don’t need to give Robert a reason to cane him, but I did. He had made too much fuss during his birching, and also I wanted transform the lattice of weals that ran in and parallel to his bottom cleft into a lattice of crosses, by laying thirty-six weals at right-angles to them with the cane. My word, what a sore bottom he now has.

I shall definitely be incorporating ‘tree truck hugging’ in my next book.

AN EXERCISE IN MEMORY IMPROVEMENT

I decided to cane Robert yesterday, when on the evening before I had told him he was to be caned in the morning, he had complained that he was still bruised from his recent appointment with my hairbrush. Robert knows only too well that he is not permitted to complain about punishment from me, so I had to assume that he wanted the caning to be very severe. However, I could see that his bottom was still clearly showing marks from the hairbrush, so I informed him that he would receive just twenty-four nice hard strokes with my dragon cane. Although many would regard this as a severe caning, and I do cane HARD, Robert was clearly relieved. He is regularly subjected to more severe punishment. I have to confess that I found his obvious relief a little irritating.

Yesterday morning, when I instructed him to assemble the whipping bench, I was further irritated to observe him doing so without his usual nervous reluctance. It seemed to me that Robert thought the caning he was about to receive would not challenge him too much. I think I must have concealed my rising anger effectively, because when I coaxed Robert, naked apart from his compulsory protective thong, over the whipping bench, he did so almost happily and without hesitation. I soon had him firmly strapped into place with his bare bottom pushed up and perfectly presented for punishment. Just how I like him.

I decided to record his punishment on this occasion, so as soon as he was secured, I set up the camcorder on a tripod. This must have unnerved Robert, because I usually only record special thrashings these days.

“So, Robert,” I said, running my fingers lightly over his exposed bare bottom, when the camcorder had been switched on, “Twenty-four nice, hard strokes with my dragon cane.”

“Yes, Miss,” he replied, now with less confidence in his tone.

“But before I cane you, I think I might just take advantage of your helplessness to get in a little practice with the hellstrap.”

It was delightful to watch his torso tense as he realised his punishment might not be quite the walk in the park he had expected.

“Your bottom is still quite bruised,” I conceded, “but the area around your bottom cleft is almost totally unscathed, Robert, and from where I am standing it is crying out for the attention of my hellstrap.”

(For readers who are new to my blog, I should explain that my ‘hell-strap’ is a two tailed tawse that I had specially made for me. It’s a heavy, but very flexible leather tawse and shorter than a typical Lochgelly tawse by about six inches. The purpose of the design is to enable me to curl the tawse tails around Robert’s left bottom cheek so that the painful tawse tips accelerate venomously into his bottom cleft – deliciously painful!)

One of the things I love about Robert is that he’s so trusting of me. He really should have learned not to be by now, but I hope he never does. I do believe he was actually surprised by my trickery.

As I picked up the hellstrap, I was delighted to see his head crane around to see what I was doing. There was real fear in his eyes. He hates the hellstrap. I love it.

“I think I’ll start with six strokes, all aimed at the upper part of your bottom cleft,” I told him, as I traced my fingers of my left hand gently along the target area. “It’s just a practice, Robert, but I want you to treat it as a practice for you too. Practice at taking the tawse in silence. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss,” he whimpered. I suspected he had now sensed familiar menace in my voice, and he was terrified.

I took my position to his left, then laid the tawse gently across his left bottom cheek, with the tawse tips hovering over his gaping cleft. His bottom cheeks twitched as he felt the touch of the leather. He knew that agony was imminent. I raised the tawse.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The glorious sound of leather biting deep into bare flesh filled the room as I delivered six brisk and hard strokes, making sure the tawse tips found the sensitive white flesh of his gaping cleft. Robert gasped and hissed with pain as the tawse discharged its white hot venom. It was delightful to watch his muscles stand out like rods of iron as he desperately tried, but failed, to clench his cheeks to hide the flesh within from the venomous tawse tails. My whipping bench has been specifically designed to make ‘clenching’ impossible.

“That wasn’t bad for a start, Robert,” I said, “but I think I can manage a bit harder than that, so I think I’ll repeat them. And try not to make so much fuss this time, or else I will repeat them a second time.”

As I raised the tawse, I noticed that he was trembling, and his torso was stiff, as if he was straining in some way. I knew exactly what he was up to, I can read his body language like a book. He was holding his breath in an attempt to stifle any sobbing or squealing passing his lips as the second batch of six bit into his burning flesh. I regard this as cheating, and I’ve warned him not to do it.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

They were harder, and the strokes bit into exactly the same upper area of his bottom cleft. He squirmed and writhed deliciously, but held his breath throughout. Not a sound passed his lips. A few seconds after the last stroke had bitten in, he let out a lungful of air.

“I think we’ll try it a little lower,” I said promptly, raising the tawse again, before he had even had a chance to breath in.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

He gasped as the first stroke bit in, then squealed as the second overlaid the first with as much venom as I could put into it. The four more spiteful strokes that followed briskly, all aimed at the same spot, had him writhing bizarrely as he strained to weave his bottom away from the tails of fire. He failed. Each stroke found its mark.

“You really must learn to comply with my instructions, Robert,” I said, before he had a chance to compose himself, “I told you not to make a fuss, so now I have to repeat them. Now prepare yourself and take them in silence. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss,” he sobbed.

Sometimes I do surprise myself with my kindness and compassion. I allowed Robert a few minutes to recover and mentally prepare himself for the repeated six strokes, otherwise he would be unlikely to be able to take them without more squealing. However, I did decide to temper my kindness by administering the strokes with absolute maximum severity. He braced himself as I laid the tawse on his bottom in preparation.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

They bit in beautifully, right into the centre of his gaping bottom cleft. He hissed in breath. His bottom weaved as much as his restraints would allow, and I did hear a muffled squeak, but I kindly decided to overlook it.

“That’s a little better, Robert. I think we can move on to try another six a little lower still. In silence.”

He braced himself again, stifling a sob, as I laid the tawse across the part of his bottom where thigh meets left bottom cheek. This is a very sensitive spot and strokes aimed here would be unthinkable if he had not been wearing his protective thong. Even so, my aim had to be good as I wanted the tawse tips to bite into flesh, not protective padding. I could sense him straining to hold his tongue as I raised the hellstrap.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

They must have been excruciating and again they bit in beautifully. He writhed and bucked and hissed, but to his credit, there was no squealing.

“Well done, Robert,” I congratulated him. “You took those quite well, but perhaps it’s because they weren’t quite hard enough. Do you agree?”

Poor Robert. What a delicious dilemma for him. He knows he must always agree with me when he’s being punished.

“Well, Robert,” I prompted him, slapping the tawse casually across his bottom. “Do you agree that the last six strokes weren’t hard enough?”

“Yes, Miss,” he sobbed, “I agree.”

“Thought you might,” I said, smiling, “then perhaps you’d like to ask me to administer them again, harder.”

“Please, Miss,” he asked, with his voice trembling, “Would you repeat those six strokes, harder.”

“With pleasure, Robert.”

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

It actually wasn’t possible for me to thrash him much harder as I was already giving it my best, but I tried. Robert was almost at the end of his self-control. He tried to suppress his shrieking as the tawse tips revisited perhaps the most sensitive area of his bottom, but he couldn’t manage it. He weaved and bucked and gasped and squealed as the tawse did its work.

“There was a bit too much fuss, Robert, so I have no option to add penalties. I’ll conclude this practice with a dozen of the very best, then I think I’ll take a tea break before I cane you.”

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

I will never tire of the delights of thrashing bare bottoms hard, and the final twelve strokes were blissful. I really had my eye in by now, and the tawse bit into his helpless, writhing flesh with the report of a six-shooter, except it didn’t stop at six. Robert gasped and shrieked and even pleaded for mercy. He writhed and struggled against his restraints frantically, but to no avail. His bottom remained perfectly presented and accessible throughout. But all good things must come to an end, and after twelve final exquisite strokes of the tawse had explored his most sensitive areas, it was time to put down the hellstrap. Robert’s left bottom cheek was bright red and his bottom cleft was purple, but his right bottom cheek had not received a single stroke and was quite fit for the cane. I left Robert, still breathing heavily and shaking, for my tea break.

The weather yesterday was glorious, so while Robert remained secured over the whipping bench upstairs, I took my cup of Earl Grey tea out into the garden. As I sat at our patio table, enjoying the sun and our beautiful garden, made even more pleasurable by the prospect of caning Robert, my eyes drifted to our greenhouse. To my dismay I realised that our tomato plants were drooping from their supporting canes. They hadn’t been watered. This is Robert’s job! I immediately filled the watering can then watered all the plants, hoping it was not to late. I was fuming, so I sat down with my tea to decide on punishment.
Twenty minutes after leaving Robert, I returned to the punishment room. I had calmed myself down and I am quite sure Robert was expecting his ordeal would be over after a final twenty-four strokes of the cane.

“So Robert, it’s time for me to cane you,” I said, as I picked up my dragon cane. “How many strokes was it?”

“It was twenty-four, Miss,” he replied at once.

“And how hard should they be?”

“Quite hard, I suppose, Miss.”

“I think they should be VERY hard, Robert,” I replied, with real passion in my voice, “ and how many additional VERY, VERY hard strokes should I add for you not watering the tomatoes last night?”

His body tensed as he digested what I had said.

“I’m really sorry, Miss,” he pleaded, “it must have been your announcement that you intended to cane me that caused me to forget.”

This annoyed me even more.

“Are suggesting, Robert, that it is my fault that you forgot?”

“No, Miss,” he back-tracked, panic in his voice.

“Well that’s what it sounded like to me,” I replied. “I’m not going to tell you how many strokes you will now receive because I haven’t decided. I’m just going to cane you as hard as I can until I think you’ve been adequately punished and I am quite sure you will never forget to water the tomatoes again. One thing I can guarantee, Robert, is that it will be far more than twenty-four strokes.”

Before Robert could reply, I raised the cane, then brought it down across his presented bare bottom with every ounce of venom my muscles could muster.

SWISH-CRACK!

It was only when we played back the video that we counted forty-seven strokes. Robert shrieked and pleaded his way through one of the hardest canings I have administered. It was absolute bliss. I don’t think Robert will ever forget to water the tomatoes again. What a shame.

TIME TO BRUSH UP ON HAIRBRUSHING

It dawned on me recently that I haven’t used my hairbrush for a while – for spanking that is. So I thought it was about time to brush up on my technique. As Robert knows only too well, a vigorous bare bum blistering with a hairbrush is an excruciating experience.

The hairbrush I like to use (pictured below) is actually a clothes brush, and I think it’s better than most hairbrushes for administering severe spankings, and as regular readers of my blog will know, I only do two levels of spanking – severe and very severe. This brush is the perfect size (30 cm long), with plenty of weight (150 grams) and the back of the brush is smooth and hard with nice rounded edges. It stings like the devil and causes spectacular bruises.

I like to use the hairbrush for over the knee spankings. It’s a more intimate experience than using a whipping bench. I can get in close to my target and I adore feeling Robert writhing about on my lap when the agony gets too much for him. The main problem I have found is that he is inclined to try to reach back with his hand to protect his bottom when the going gets too hot for him, and I do worry that I might damage his hand. The solution I employed for yesterday’s spanking was to secure his hands together high up behind his back, attached to a leather strap around his neck. This renders his hands and arms totally useless. I sat on our bed in such a way that he was able to bend over my left thigh and rest his upper torso on the bed beside me. My skirt had been hitched up, so I could scissor his thighs between mine.

As I said, I like to spank with vigour, so I soon had him squealing and writhing around deliciously on my lap, and the close up view I had of his reddening bottom dancing under the brush was a delight. I’ve learned that the build up of ‘sting’ that results from applying the hairbrush fast and hard to the same spot is unbearable, so obviously this is what I do. I decided the magic number would be six, so I applied six real stingers to his right bottom cheek, then six to his left. I then immediately delivered six nice hard brisk strokes to his lower right bottom cheek, just where it meets the top of his thigh, then administered six to his lower left cheek. By now his bottom was glowing red, but not quite red enough, so I repeated the entire procedure. My goodness, what a fuss he made! His bottom wriggled crazily as she gasped and squealed, and it took all the power I had in my thighs to keep him scissored.

His bottom cheeks were now very red and I was about to declare his punishment over when I thought I heard him mutter a swear word under his breath. I don’t approve of bad language, especially in the presence of a lady – me.

“I will not tolerate the use of bad language when I am spanking you, Robert,” I said, as I tightened my grip on him with my thighs again.

The number that now came to mind was twelve, so although it would be quite tiring for me, I decided to administer twelve blisteringly hard and brisk strokes to each bottom cheek and then twelve to each lower cheek. It was a delightfully noisy finale to the spanking. He squealed, gasped and writhed for all he was worth to the accompaniment CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! of my hairbrush.

I was quite out of breath by the time I had finished and Robert’s bare bottom was turning purple and quite swollen. As soon as I had released his wrists he rushed to the freezer for the bag of frozen peas he uses to put out the fire in his bottom. I think Robert had forgotten just how painful the hairbrush can be and he will have a very sore bottom for some days.

On the subject of sore bottoms, my latest book ‘Punishment Project Two’, written under my pen name, Amanda Barrington, features more very severe discipline administered by Martha and her friends. A thrashing from Martha with her bespoke, weighted tawse re-defines agony: Punishment Project Two

READING THE SIGNS

After thrashing Robert soundly and regularly for several years, I now like to think I can read his body language and verbal emissions like a book. He sometimes tries to deliberately mislead me. For example, when he starts pleading things like ‘Please, Miss. I can’t take any more’, I know what he really means is ‘You’re being far too lenient, Miss, please thrash me harder’. This is an unwritten interpretation that I think we both understand.

Take this morning, for example: I felt in the mood to tawse his bare bottom as soon as I was up. I usually like to give Robert a day’s notice, but this nicety had to be put to one side. After inspecting his bottom to ensure he was sufficiently recovered from his last thrashing, I ordered him to prepare the whipping bench. He’s wise enough not to argue, although he did mention that he normally gets a bit more notice.

“Of course you can have more notice, Robert,” I said, “as long as you are happy for me to double the twenty-four strokes you are to receive today.”

On reflection, he decided to accept the twenty-four strokes today, although I was just a little irritated by his negative observation.

He knows he must wear a special, protective thong when the tawse is to be used because I like to curl the tawse around his bottom cheek so the tawse tips accelerate into his gaping bottom cleft. The whipping bench is specifically designed to keep his upturned bottom cheeks parted and his thighs well apart so I have unrestricted access to all those delightfully sensitive areas that can’t easily be reached with my canes.
When I had him secured I decided to have a little chat before starting:

“Now I know you like me to tawse you hard, Robert, because it pleases me. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Miss,” he replied. He sounded hesitant.

“Well I’ll do my best, but just to be sure that I do tawse you as hard as you want me to, let’s agree a plan: I expect you to accept this tawsing in complete silence, but if, at any time, you think I am being too lenient, all you have to do is break the silence. Any sound will do. It will be our code that you want me to thrash you more severely. Does that sound like a good idea?”

“Well, I’m not sure Miss,” he replied, once more sounding quite negative about my perfectly reasonable idea.

“Are you disagreeing with me, Robert?” I asked, now irritated.

“Are you deliberately trying to annoy me because you don’t think twenty-four strokes is enough?”

“No, Miss,” he replied, with some urgency in his voice, “I think it’s a very good idea.”

“Good. Then I shall begin.”

I selected my well worn heavy Lochgelly tawse, then measured it across his gaping bottom. With just twenty-four strokes to administer, I wanted to make sure each one was perfect. I decided to aim the tips into his bottom cleft with every stroke. Further more, I decided to accentuate the ‘wrap around’ effect by standing close to his head. This causes the tips to curl in with more venom, but it’s a harder stroke to administer because the target area becomes unsighted. That’s why we have a floor standing mirror in the punishment room. I arranged the mirror behind him to give me a good view of his bare bottom, then took my position with the tawse. I adjusted my position so the that tawse tips were about an inch short of their target, as I have learned that centrifugal force will extend the tips when a venomous stroke is administered.

CRACK!

The tawsing began. There’s nothing quite like the sound of a heavy leather tawse biting hard into the bare flesh of a helpless bottom.

Initially, Robert was totally silent, so I concluded that he thought the tawsing was hard enough, but about half way through he began to make gurgling noises, then he made a squealing noise. I stopped at once.

“I take it from that, Robert, that you think I’m being too lenient. That poses a problem, because I can’t tawse you much harder than I already am, so I’ll have to start again with the extra heavy Lochgelly tawse.”

He started to protest, but I warned him that I would be delighted to double the number of strokes. He shut up.

The extra heavy Lochgelly is stiffer, so strokes must be very hard if one wants to be sure it will flex enough to reach the parts where the tips can be really effective. So this is what I proceeded to do.

Of course, Robert was totally unable to take the tawsing that followed without fuss. He shrieked and writhed in the most delicious manner as my tawse found its mark again and again. The whipping bench began to creak almost at once, and that reminded me that I had told him last time to reinforce the joints, and he hadn’t done it.

“You will receive a dozen of the very best with my dragon cane for not reinforcing the whipping bench,” I informed him, pausing with the tawse for a moment.
So after administering a most delightful tawsing, I treated him to a dozen of the very best with my beautiful dragon cane. Then I suddenly remembered the spelling mistake I had had pointed out to me by a customer in my latest short story, ‘First Caning’. Robert is required to spell check my writing and I do not tolerate errors. So I informed him that his last caning of the day would be due to an error in ‘First Caning’. He received an additional six of the best.

What a sore bottom he now has! He’s currently clutching a bag of frozen peas to it to put out the fire. We keep them in the freezer specifically for this purpose and they are labelled ‘NOT FOR CONSUMPTION’ as they’ve been partially defrosted on his burning bottom so many times.

As soon as the fire in his bottom has cooled he’s off to the local DIY store to buy what he needs to reinforce the whipping bench. If I hear one creak out of it next time he will be in very serious trouble.

While I wait for his bottom to heal I shall finish my latest book. It’s s sequel to the very popular book, ‘Punishment Project’, written under my pen name of Amanda Barrington.

TIME TO SWING THE TAWSE

As I’ve mentioned previously, none of our friends or neighbours know that I regularly thrash Robert’s bare bottom (or perhaps they do know, in which case they are politely giving the impression they don’t).

We were guests at a new neighbours house warming party recently, along with a few other neighbours. Their front garden, beautifully maintained by the previous owners, included a magnificent pampas grass plant.

“I wonder if our new neighbours know that these are supposed to signal that they are into swingers parties?” joked Robert, pointing out the plant, as we approached the house.

“Perhaps I should have bought my canes and tawses with me,” I replied, quietly, as Robert rang the door bell. “I’m certainly in the mood to put them to use, so you had better be on your best behaviour.”

Robert gave me a fleeting look before the door was opened. I can read him like a book. I could see I had sown a seed.

Our new neighbours, who I will call Mr & Mrs Swing (not their real name), turned out to be very respectable, just the sort of people we welcome in our pleasant street. They certainly weren’t the sort of people who you might think were swingers. Mind you, they probably would have never imagined that while we were enjoying polite conversation, I was planning to thrash Robert’s bare bottom at the earliest opportunity.

Robert can be flippant at times, especially when he needs punishing or when we are in a situation where punishing him is not possible. He made several jokes at my expense in front of Mr & Mrs Swing and other neighbours. Nothing too serious, and I politely laughed along, but when the conversation moved to politics and political correctness and Robert joked that if I ever commented on feminine rights he usually tells me to get on with my knitting, I decided it was time to wipe his smug grin off his face.

Again, I laughed along politely with our neighbours, then left the room to visit the bathroom, from where I sent Robert a text message:

‘Tell our hosts that you have a work related crisis to attend to and regretfully must leave to make a few phones. Tell them you will be back as soon as you can. Go straight home, assemble the whipping bench, then lay out my tawses and canes. You are to be in position, over the whipping bench, naked, with your ankles and thighs secured, ready for me to finalise your restraints when I arrive. Sentence will then be announced. Fail to comply with these instructions at your peril.’

He was reading my text as I rejoined the party. He looked up at me nervously, then back down at his phone, before approaching me as I engaged Mrs Swing in conversation about how the previous owners had been such keen gardeners and regularly entered vegetables into competitions held by the local horticultural society.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Swing. Something has come up with my work. Bit of a drama that needs sorting out. I need to make a few phone calls. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Having made his excuses, he shot me another nervous look, then left.

Fifteen minutes later, I checked my watch, then excused myself, explaining that I ought to rescue Robert from his work to bring him back to the party. I paused to look again at the pampas grass in the Swing’s front garden on the way.

Robert was ready for me, as instructed. He rarely defies me as he knows the consequences.

I secured Robert in position with the remaining straps, then, after satisfying myself that his bare bottom was perfectly presented for punishment, I picked up my hellstrap (my short, heavy, flexible, two tailed tawse).

“I had another look at that pampas grass plant, Robert,” I said, as I took my position to his left, laying the tawse across his left bottom cheek, with the tail tips hovering over his gaping bottom cleft. “I guess it has about thirty-six fronds. That’s one of my favourite numbers.”

Robert said nothing, but he tested the restraints by trying, but failing, to clench his bottom cheeks.

“Half now, in silence, then the remainder when we return from the party,” I said, as I raised the hellstrap.

CRACK!

A bullseye! The first stroke bit wonderfully deep into the soft flesh of his bottom cleft. He hissed in a lungful of air and tested the restraints more forcibly. The muscles in his legs stood out like rods of iron and the whipping bench began to creak.

As Robert gasped and squealed and writhed in agony, I delivered a further eight hard strokes, all aimed into his bottom cleft, before turning my attention to his left inner thigh. His squealing rose in intensity and his writhing became more desperate, encouraging me to put ever more venom into the strokes. I love it when I break through his pain threshold.

After another nine delicious strokes, I put down the hellstrap and picked up my new dragon cane, now a firm favourite. Robert went into a wriggling frenzy, squealing and gasping, as I decorated his bottom cheeks and the very tops of his thighs with eighteen colourful, raised weals.

“That was fun, Robert,” I said, as I began to release him from his restraints, “We’re half way through, apart from penalty strokes for making too much fuss.”

Fortunately, there was no broken skin, yet, so no need to worry about blood stains seeping through his trousers when we rejoined our neighbours.

“There’s never thirty-six fronds there,” said Robert, as we walked up our neighbours front path some five minutes later. “I’d be surprised if there where twenty-four.”

We paused at the pampas grass plant as I reassessed.

“I think you might be right, Robert. Thank you for pointing out my error. I’ll add twenty-four strokes with the extra heavy lochgelly tawse to make amends,” I said as I pressed the doorbell.

Robert looked at me with dread. I happen to know that he fears this implement more than just about anything. Although the cane, and especially the dragon cane, is excruciating, the extra heavy Lochgelly tawse’s tails can find their way into those sensitive places where the cane can’t reach. I invariably aim for these areas, and if I manage several strokes in the same spot in succession, he tells me the agony is off the scale – delicious!

We stayed at the Swing’s for another hour. Robert seemed far more subdued than he had earlier. No doubt he was imagining how agonising the balancing strokes would be when applied to his already very sore bottom, and no doubt regretting his questioning of my guess at the number of pampas grass fronds.

We’d left the whipping bench out and the implements laid out ready for use, so when we returned there was little preparation needed. Robert hesitated as he looked at the whipping bench.

“Can we do this another time?” he asked, his eyes pleading with me. “I’m already very sore.”

“No,” I replied, sweetly, “but I shall add add another six strokes with each for having the audacity to ask, and I will add a further six with each if you are not over the bench, naked, within thirty seconds.”

Less than two minutes after we had arrived home, the punishment room was once again filled with the delightful sound of leather cracking down across bare flesh, accompanied by gasping and squealing, together the creaking of the wooden joints of our whipping bench. As I watched him squirm and writhe, and as I watched him desperately trying, but failing, to clench his bottom cheeks to hide the flesh within from the tails of my tawse, I somehow found the power from within to add even more venom to the strokes that were biting hard into his helpless flesh. His squealing rose in pitch as the tawse tails hunted down increasingly scarce unscathed flesh, making contact with the report of a pistol shot – bliss! I made a mental note to have Robert reinforce the joints of the whipping bench before his next thrashing.

2015 IS OFF TO AN EXCELLENT START

The cane and tawse famine ended spectacularly yesterday. I had given Robert twenty-four hours notice of his well deserved punishment, as is my custom, and instructed him to have the whipping bench assembled and implements arranged ready for use by 10am. I prefer to administer punishment early in the day. I had planned to use my new toy, Robert’s wheel of misfortune, to decide on number of strokes and implements to be used, but changed my mind shortly after giving him notice. It was a phone call that swayed my plans.

As readers of my blog might recall, I’m considered by friends and neighbours as being quite proficient at cake decoration. A neighbour phoned to ask for advice on decorating a birthday cake for her husband, a mathematician, so I suggested she might consider decorating the cake with some sort of geometric pattern. It was while we were exploring this idea that I found myself doodling on the notebook we keep by the phone. By the time we had concluded our call I realised that I had drawn a bottom, decorated with neat groups of lines. This gave me a delicious idea for Robert’s punishment. I decided not to tell him, saving it for a nice surprise when I had him secured, naked, over the whipping bench.

Robert has been exceptionally flippant over the Christmas period, so severe punishment was quite appropriate, and he knew it, so he was quite on edge in the hours leading to his thrashing. I think he might have been even more on edge if he’d known about my change of plan.

I was out of bed with a spring in my step yesterday morning. It was a beautiful, clear, cold morning. Our rear lawn was sparkling with white frost.

“I want the whipping bench ready half an hour early, Robert,” I told him, “I haven’t swung a cane or tawse for about a month. I want to practice on pillows before I turn my attention to your deserving bare bottom. I’d like you to strip now, so I can observe the bare bottom I am shortly going to decorate.”

He was very quiet as he assembled the whipping bench under my watchful eye. I noted with delight that his bottom was totally unblemished. A rare treat indeed. I couldn’t wait sink my canes and tawses into that pale flesh and to watch his bottom weave, gyrate and clench, and to hear him gasp and sob. As soon as he had finished I ordered him from the room. He was to wait outside the closed door, naked, while I practised. I wanted him to hear the cane and tawse cracking down on the pillow, but not to see.

As soon as he was out of the room I secured a pillow over the end of the bench in the position his bottom would be, then, careful to warm up slowly, I began to administer strokes of the cane. Accuracy was my first objective, then, as I got into my stride, I began to administer the strokes with more force. Soon the cane was biting into the pillow with a consistent resounding crack. I could only imagine what was going through Robert’s mind. Next I turned my attention to the short tawse I’ve named the hellstrap. This was the choice of tawse for what I had in mind.

Robert looked terrified when I opened the door and beckoned him in.

“I’m not so sure I want to go through with this today,” he said to me, eyes imploring me to postpone his thrashing as I stooped down to fit his protective thong. He knows the tawse will be used when I fit this.

“Place yourself over the whipping bench at once,” I replied. “Don’t even think of trying to change my mind. If there is one more negative word out of you I will add a dozen strokes with the hellstrap, all aimed into you inner thigh.”

He was over the whipping bench in a flash. I swiftly secured the restraining straps so there was no going back. Now he was as I like him: helpless, naked with his gaping bare bottom thrust up and perfectly presented for punishment. No matter how hard I now thrashed him and no matter how unbearable he found the pain, he had no choice but to accept it. There would be no escape. Wonderful.

“I’ve changed my mind about using the wheel of misfortune today, Robert,” I informed him. “Today you will receive a very severe, methodical, clinical and totally merciless caning followed by a vigorous taste of the hellstrap. It’s no less than you deserve for your flippant attitude over the Christmas period.”

I picked up my favourite cane, a relatively new, senior dragon cane, then took my position to his left. I laid the cane gently across the upper part of his bottom, just an inch below the start of his bottom cleft.

“To start with, Robert will mark the upper limit of my target area with a few stripes. I’ve been practising my accuracy.”

I was already warmed up, so stroke one was administered with maximum ferocity, biting deep into his offered bottom with a satisfying ‘crack’.

Robert hissed in a lungful of air between his teeth as the agony of his first stroke of 2015 seared across his bottom. But worse was to come. He hates it when strokes are applied to the same spot several times before the fire from the previous stroke had faded. He foolishly told me that when agony overlays agony, it is totally unbearable. As he squealed, writhed and gasped, I administered six wonderfully hard, brisk strokes to a narrow band across his upper bottom, then stood back to watch the weals mature. I was delighted with both the severity and accuracy of the strokes. He was now sporting a vivid band of raised weals about one and a half inches wide, that was gradually turning purple.

“Now let’s mark the lower limit,” said, as I placed the cane across the top of his thighs, just an inch below the crease where thigh meets bottom cheek. He whimpered with dread. This is a sweet spot. Some of my most excruciating strokes have bitten in here.

Robert’s bottom writhed, bucked, clenched and unclenched bizarrely, as he desperately and hopelessly fought with his restraints as my cane did its best. He was not coping at all well with the agony I was inflicting. It was delicious, and I had only just started.

I gave him a few moments to compose himself. He was hyperventilating and sweating profusely from his futile efforts to wrench his bottom out of the path of my cane.

“So, Robert,” I continued, “We now have a clearly defined target area for my cane. I think I’ll divide it into two.”

He groaned in despair as I placed the cane across the very centre of his bottom, midway between the upper and lower bands of weals.

A further six satisfyingly hard strokes caused yet more squealing and writhing as they bit into his helpless bare bottom.

“I’ve just realised, Robert,” I said, as I stood back to admire my work, “If I’d given this more thought I could have divided your bottom up into thirds, then I could have played a game of noughts and crosses, before filling in all the gaps. Never mind, perhaps I’ll try that next time.”

Robert didn’t seem to appreciate my joke so took my position to his left again. With even more writhing and squealing, I placed two six stroke bands of colourful weals across either side of the central band, half way between the upper and lower bands.

“Please, Miss, I really can’t take any more,” he sobbed, gasping for air.

It does surprise me that, after all the years I have been thrashing Robert, he still sometimes seems to cling to the idea that he might find a glimmer of compassion in me. Foolish boy. His chances of winning the lottery or being struck by lightning are infinitely higher.

“What you think you can or cannot take is of no consequence, Robert,” I replied. “You will take what I decide without question. You were warned of the consequences of not doing so. You will receive your penalty now. Twelve strokes with the hellstrap to your inner thigh. Then I will continue with the caning.”

“Please. No,” he begged.

“That’s now increased to eighteen strokes,” I said, picking up the hellstrap. “Do you have anything else to say before I start.”

He shook his head, sobbing with dread. He seemed to have got the message.

Shrieking filled the air as the hellstrap began to weave it’s pattern of ‘blackberries’ across his inner left thigh. The whipping bench restraints, strong enough to hold down Hercules, are designed to keep his thighs well spread. It is an absolute joy to watch his muscles stand out like rods of iron and his body to writhe and shudder, as he tries desperately to clamp his thighs together and so hide his inner thigh from the bite of my hellstrap. The eighteen spiteful strokes were administered mercilessly and without pause. I suspected there would be no more pleas for leniency today.

“I think I’ll take a tea break, Robert,” I said, when I had given him time to compose himself.

I went downstairs and made myself a cup of Earl Grey.

We keep a large bag of frozen peas in the bottom of the freezer. Robert often uses them to cool his bottom and reduce the swelling after punishment. As I looked out over our frosty lawn, I amused myself by imaging what our lawn would look like if he were to use that instead of the peas to cool his bare bottom. I tried to imagine bottom shaped thawed areas all over our lawn. I couldn’t get the thought out of my head. I was giggling to myself as I climbed the stairs about fifteen minutes later as I imagined our neighbours trying to work out why we had bottom shaped patterns in our lawn.

I stooped down to make a careful study of his bottom. The weals had matured nicely. There wasn’t much white left between the purple and crimson bands, but the five raised purple bands were quite distinct. They each gradually faded to red, before darkening again to purple of the next band. My task now was to make his bottom a nice uniform purple. Six nice hard strokes administered to each of the four areas of red should help.

“Twenty-four strokes, Robert. Then we’ll see what still needs attention,” I said, as he braced himself for even more agony. He, very wisely, refrained from pleading for mercy.

I did worry if his shrieking would be heard by the neighbours as the vigorous continuation of the caning of his now very sore bottom resumed, but the intoxicating sound of rattan biting into bare flesh combined with the writhing and bucking of his bottom simply encouraged me to administer the strokes with even more venom. We were both breathless when I eventually laid the cane down to wait for the full colour of the weals to develop. I keep a bottle of surgical spirit in the punishment room, so I cleaned up his cuts and the cane using cotton wool as I waited.

“I think that will do for the caning, Robert,” I said, after a few minutes, “Your bottom cheeks are a wonderful colour, but the area between your cheeks is so white in contrast that I almost need sunglasses to look there. Better do something about that.”

As Robert sobbed in despair, I reached for the hellstrap. Despite the maniacal effort Robert put into trying to clench his bottom cleft out of reach, the restraints kept it available to the heavy, painful tips of my hellstrap. Again and again, to a symphony of screams, the leather tails sought out and bit deeply into the white flesh, leaving its distinctive ‘blackberry’ pattern. After thirty-six delicious strokes I considered the job well done.

Ten minutes later found me leaning back in a chair with another cup of Earl Grey watching Robert, still naked, standing on a chair cleaning speckles of blood off the ceiling. I don’t think there will be much flippancy from him for a while. 2015 is off to an excellent start.