A Very Special Birthday Present To Myself by S. M. Ackerman, Spanking

This is the story of a young lady who desires to be punished, soundly. As a birthday treat to herself she instigates her first ever real discipline, which unexpectedly changes her life forever.

Part Two: A Train Trip to Dread
The day of her first spanking has finally arrived!

Part Three: A Naughty Girl Confesses 11/26
Some hard spanking is sure to follow once she confesses the full extent of her crimes.

Part Four: Punished 12/17
The Conclusion to the story... as at last she receives all the punishment and pleasure she longs for

Copyright © 2010 by SM Acker man, all rights reserved. Not a novel excerpt or part of a larger published work

A Very Special Birthday Present To Myself by S. M. Ackerman, Spanking

This is the story of a young lady who desires to be punished, soundly. As a birthday treat to herself she instigates her first ever real discipline, which unexpectedly changes her life forever. 

Copyright © 2010 by SM Acker man, all rights reserved. Not a novel excerpt or part of a larger published work 

A VERY SPECIAL BIRTHDAY PRESENT TO MYSELF 

My real name is Mary and I am twenty-one and a bit now; I live with my parents still, though that might soon be changing. I work as a secretary in a large legal firm and have had quite a sheltered upbringing. Well that’s me, sweet mostly innocent and desperate. Do not get me wrong, I have had a few boyfriends but none of them came close to providing me with the one thing I really want! I suppose that if you (the reader of this my story) are to understand my desire, and what I ended up doing to ensure it occurred, I must start at the beginning and tell my tale in detail.

***

I was eighteen when bored from school I met up with a few friends in the local park, we sat around looking (I suppose) like so many other groups of teenagers, not doing anything besides killing an hour before returning home.

    It was Lou that found the magazine, and Lou that thought it funny enough to show to us. She had been to the Loo (quite apt really) and found the magazine discarded on the floor. She had picked it up, flicked through it and then hastily returned to show us her prize.

   The magazine was one of those adult books that deal with (as I soon found out) the forum of spanking and female domination. Instantly I touched the cover a shock of electric desire exploded through me. When I opened it and saw the first picture of a girl, skirt up, being caned, the shock returned. Something about the picture excited my imagination. I carefully watched my friends while the magazine got passed around and laughed at, trying to see if any of them reacted to its contents like I had. They didn’t, which left me feeling confused but also determined to own that magazine, and to read it most carefully.

   Time to go and I had the magazine held safely clutched in my fist. I offered to dispose of it and no one argued. Like hell I was going to dump it; I intended to read it from cover to cover seeking out an explanation for my reaction.

   That night I lay in bed reading and studying the images. I know what they mean now when they laughingly say ‘wanking can send you blind.’ I nearly burned the pages with my intense study. That night I dreamed a montage of dreams, all with me being the victim and some stranger doing the disciplining of my bare presented bottom. With hindsight I know that those dreams, and that magazine, were the starting point of a desire. One that would eat me up, until I finally obtained the position of subservience I desired, and clearly (I believed) needed.

   Six months before my twenty-first birthday, and having failed at every turn to get what I want from my boyfriends, I made the decision to act. I searched the Internet looking at adverts and images, until finally one particular screen grabbed my attention.

   That screen was not a glossy expensive site, it was instead constructed of simple type, but to the point, and it offered a service that I desperately wanted. The Ad said:

NAUGHTY BOYS AND GIRLS IN NEED OF DISCIPLINE    SHOULD CONTACT SIR.

    I contacted Sir that night from my bedroom, and he responded with a demand to know exactly why I felt I needed discipline. Something I had not expected but should have I suppose. I spent the rest of the night trying to come up with something that Sir might agree I deserved to be very soundly punished for. Guess what? I failed.

   It was the next day at work that I got an idea, a member of the cleaning staff was dismissed for pilfering, as the girls talked about it over lunch I realised the confession I needed to make, well invent really. I have never stolen anything in my life, in fact I am a good girl in reality, but one that wants to be punished and soundly thrashed. The dissection of my desires always leaves me feeling confused. Why did I even want someone to thrash me; to cane my bare bottom, and make me feel like a pathetic naughty brat getting exactly what she deserves? Even today the answer eludes me, I have just had to accept that I want and need to be subjected and punished.

   I E-mailed Sir, stating that I was a thief, that I stole a magazine from my friends, and then, just to add an extra reason for my deserving of  punishment, I added (more as an afterthought) that I had lied about steeling the magazine (not true). 

Copy of my E-mail to Sir. 

Sir
I have to confess to you Sir that I am a thief; I stole a spanking/female domination magazine from a friend, and then I lied to all of my friends about it. I now feel so guilty that when I saw your advert, I decided that I had no other choice but to ask you sir, if you would play judge, jury, and executioner to me for my crimes. I am willing to accept any and all punishment decreed by you, if you will please agree to discipline me.
                                       Rachael.

As I have already told you my name is Mary, you may be wondering why I have signed my name as Rachael. I am scared of being identified, so I decided to use another name for my disciplining by Sir. It also makes the prospect of what I have instigated for myself more exciting, to become someone else, a sort of alter ego character, one that can be made to suffer for my crimes is quite arousing.

   Two weeks prior to my birthday I returned from a dull day’s work and found that Sir had sent me an E-mail, which I hastily opened. It was typical of every contact I have had so far from him: i.e. clear, direct and to the point, with no hesitation or possibility of misunderstanding his intent. It said:

 Rachael, I have considered your crimes and have decided that discipline is deserved.

 You will report to my front door (address provided) at Ten am on the 17^th. You will be dressed exactly as you were at the time of the offence.

    I got to that point and thought Oh shit; I had been at school, so I would have been in full uniform. The thought of being back in my old school clothes, but at twenty-one years old came as quite a shock. I would also have to travel to his residence dressed that way. The location was not local, and therefore meant I needed to use public transport. What if someone I knew spotted me dressed in my uniform again? I considered finding somewhere to change into the uniform just prior to arriving at his home, but then I realized that he intended that my traveling to be a part of my punishment, a sort of humiliation to set the scene, I read on.

 The financial cost of your discipline will be £500 pounds with twenty %, £100 pounds being presented at the front door prior to entry. The balance in full to be in an envelope, which you will place upon entry where indicated. 

 £500 pounds, that was a hell of a lot money, nearly half a months earnings, and all for a sound spanking. But it was also my birthday present to myself, so if my savings took a hit, they took a hit, as much as I hoped to take a hit, I mean, well, lots of them really, in fact five hundred pounds worth to be exact.

   I would have to look up train times and book tickets I realized, ten in the morning at his house, I would be getting up early to go. Was I mad?

   I read on, and the next section had a heading, one that made me gasp, though why I could not tell you, but it did.

• PUNISHABLE OFFENCES.
• 1)         Stealing a magazine
• 2)         Lying.
• 3)         Possession of stolen adult material.
• 4)         Reading stolen adult material.
• 5)         Manipulation of boyfriends without confession.
• 6)         Any offence caused or liberty taken during punishment.

    Six offences all neatly typed out so I knew exactly what I was letting myself in for. A little knot grew in my guts as I saved and exited his message to set about locating and arranging my travel measures. I made absolutely certain that I would arrive with plenty of time to spare when I booked the tickets. It was only after I booked them properly that I realized that I would be standing around for an hour or more dressed as a schoolgirl, and in a strange city. All whilst waiting to go to Sir to be soundly punished, he must have known that was what would happen, the crafty Bas….

   The last lines of Sir’s message reverberated in my thoughts:

 I will require of you an E-mail stating clearly that you give permission in full, and accept my decision as to the nature of your punishment, and its application to yourself.

 I had to; I didn’t want him thinking me tardy or not really accepting of his authority; so I quickly composed a reply, giving him the permissions he required.

Sir, I accept any punishment that you consider to be deserved. I accept and give full permission for you to administer to me, as you see fit and in anyway, method or with any implement, any level of discipline you require of me. I accept totally that I have requested you to punish me, and give you full permission to deal with me as you see fit.

                                   Rachael.

    I nearly signed the wrong name but realized that prior to sending it. I pushed the button and my acceptance and commitment was set in place. There was no way to get out of my well earned (and much wanted) discipline now, short of just not showing up at all.

Part Two: A Train Trip to Dread

The day finally arrives and dutifully I wake to the screech of my alarm clock. Today I will attend upon Sir, and I’m as ready mentally for the trial ahead as I can be. Unfortunately my stomach is not; it is in free fall, as the growing fear of what I have arranged to receive grows. My uniform is hanging in my wardrobe, all neat and complete, even down to a rather un-sexy pair of white panties and suitable socks. He has demanded that I attend dressed in my full school uniform and that includes the socks and pants, (which I never would consider wearing now-a- days) me being a sophisticated twenty-one year old. Orders are orders for me, or at least they are today.

I get up, shower, taking my time, but soon the clock demands that I dress. The towel I am wearing as I sit on my bed looking at my school clothes, all innocently hanging against my wardrobe door, has to go. With a quick tug it tumbles to the bed and I am now naked. A glance down shows everything I have, which as a package is not too bad, really. My breasts are quite perky and to my horror my nipples are already erect. I have a slim stomach with only the slightest of bulges and a thick bush of shaggy hair to hide my maidenly charms, which already I can feel getting hot and quite damp. I stand up, reaching out, removing the hanger and laying the clothes out ready for me to put on. With a final deep sigh of resignation I take the large panties and pull them on, making sure that they sit comfortably. Next, I put on a matching white, quite plain bra and swiveled it into place; thus hiding my erect nipples from my sight. Then the blouse, again white, buttoned up to the neck, all prim and proper. My old Headmistress would have been surprised but pleased, as I had always had the top buttons open. Today I decide to look as smart and compliant as possible; I clearly remember the last line of Sir’s punishment list and I want to avoid receiving any extra discipline. The skirt is black, knee length and pleated slightly. The socks are white and tight around my calves, so I have grown a little, I realize. That only leaves my shoes, black, clumpy lace ups. I look at myself in my full-length mirror, starring at the smart young woman looking back at me. Both of us know that soon I will be suffering because of my confession.

I pull on a rain Mack that covers most of what I’m wearing, not strictly what Sir would expect I am sure, but I have decided that I will remove it once I’m on the train. The bus ride to the train station goes well; eight in the morning on a Saturday the busses are quite empty. There is only an old man sitting half way down the bus; I can feel him watching me, perhaps wondering where his youth went, and then again, more likely, thinking if only.

I decide that wearing the Mack is directly and deliberately being naughty so I take it off, making sure that the old man notices. I give him a treat of sorts. That also goes for the bus driver when I flounce off the bus right outside of the train station. I half turn, grinning at both and with a casual wave I depart; little do they know what I am departing too, but I bet they would both approve.

The station platform is almost empty, except for two women standing at the far end. They glance at me. One smirks saying something to her companion and then they both studiously ignore me from then on. The train is on time, and once I board, I place my carryall on the floor, which contains my purse phone and of course the folded up Mack. I should point out that for safety reasons I have left a letter under my laptop at home detailing exactly where I am going, not that I think there is any real danger from sir, except of course to my bottom. All the same, as mum always says, ‘safety first’.

I arrive in the city an hour and a half early so I seek out a coffee-bar and have a muffin and a drink prior to hailing a taxi. Once I give the driver the address, eighteen minutes later I’m on the outskirts of the city, standing at the gatepost of a drive that leads to a large, old house. In there I will soon meet my fate; the butterflies react perfectly, grabbing and twisting at my guts with fear. Taking a deep breath I approach the wooden front door and reach hesitantly out for the bell. It is one of those pull types; a single tug sounds a distant clanging bell. Too late now, girl, I say to myself as I wait for the door to open. Too bloody late now, I repeat. The door opens revealing a tall thin man, standing upright and stiff looking, in the doorway, looking down at me from nearly a foot higher than I’m standing on his drive.

“Ah yes, Rachael. I believe you have something for me.” I panic for a second, then crouching down quickly and reaching into my bag, I remove the letter containing the first installment of one hundred pounds, exactly as he has specified. Inside the envelope with the letter is a note signed and dated today by me, giving him permission to administer appropriate discipline as he sees fit. Regardless of the punishment he decides on, it’s okay. I stand up, my head slightly bowed, as I hold out the envelope, my hand trembling slightly.

“Thank you, Rachael, remain there please”.

He shuts the front-door; not with a slam of apparent disgust, but smoothly quietly, as though I am nothing of any importance to him. Leaving me outside waiting on his doorstep, my butterflies take full reign.

The instant feeling of being control washes over me. The humiliation of being made to wait, of standing outside his front-door dressed as some parody of a schoolgirl, is exactly what he wants me to feel. I suddenly realize exactly what he has done to me. I have become the schoolgirl waiting desperately, feeling scared outside of the Headmistresses office. I glance around nervously, turning left then right, then around. My eyes meet those of an old man passing the distant gate looking up at me. He stops, probably in shock as he sees me, unaware of what the pathetic naughty girl I’ve become. He probably only sees an attractive (if slightly oddly dressed) young woman. I smile at him, then he looks away and scurries off about his business. Behind me the front-door opens again.

“What do you think you are doing, girl? I told you to wait there, not look about and twist and turn. When I say wait there, I mean exactly there, exactly as you are, with no movement, no nosiness, just obedience. This will never do, you need to have a lesson in obedience!”

He seems cross as I turned to face him, our eyes meet and lock on each other, nothing matters to me right then other than the fact that I have Sir before me, and annoyed; for causing that I am sure to pay a very steep price, already I have been naughty in both of our eyes, though un-intestinal in mine.

“Kneel down!”

I kneel, feeling the gravel digging into my knees.

“Hands behind your back girl!”

I instantly respond, my hands flying behind my back, clamping together, as I wait and wonder what he intends to do to me next.

“Now wait there until I am ready to attend to you!”

Attend to me? The echo and threat of his words fill my thoughts, shutting out everything else as he closes the front door and once more vanishes from my sight. I am determined to remain exactly as he has placed me, and all without so much as touching me once.

I look forward and up waiting for the door to open again. Time drags on. I wonder what the old man who’d seen me earlier would make of me now.

He would see a naughty young woman under discipline; there can be no other interpretation he can make. I hope he does return and sees me. The humiliation begins to bloom, much like a rose under glass as I picture what I would look like to him. Would he stop to watch and see what’s about to happen, or would he do something else? What that might be I have no clue, but just the thought of him watching me has already made my panties damp with excitement.

The front-door suddenly opens, disturbing my budding erotic fantasy.

“Enter girl!”

He stands aside revealing a long passageway with stairs to the left hand side. A wooden door, a closed wooden door, acts as a barrier at the far end of the hall, shutting me away from what awaits there. I rise up from my kneeling position – I cannot resist taking a quick glance over my shoulder in the hope of seeing the old man standing at the gate. He isn’t there, but in my mind he had been, and I hope that he enjoyed seeing my humiliation. I enter Sir’s home, being careful to squeeze past Sir; the door closes behind me with a terrifying click of finality. I have arrived and I am helpless now.

“Turn right, girl.”

His whole tone is somehow neutral, as though he has said such things to girls like me many times. He probably has, I realize, as I enter into the front-room of his home. The furniture is sparse, austere in feel, but practical as an office. An old deep rich black desk stands in the bay window, a chair behind it. In front of the desk closest to me is a straight-backed wooden seated chair.

“Sit girl!” He points toward the wooden one.

I take the hard chair while he walks around the desk and sits down. On the table is a printout of my E-mail to him containing my soul felt admission of guilt; also the envelope I had handed him containing exactly one hundred pounds in crisp new ten pound notes. I thought tens would look more impressive, now I realise that my being able to impress him will have little to do with any pathetic little showy props.

He picks up the printout, flicking the money and envelope into an open drawer with contempt, then looks across at me. I cannot meet his eyes, so ashamed do I feel sitting before him. Somehow I feel as though I have betrayed him by my behavior, and this feeling in itself amazes me as we have never met before. Why do I feel so? Well, what can I say other than naughty and culpable?

“So this is what you consider acceptable behavior from a young lady, is it?” he demands.

I remain looking down not trusting my voice to reply.

“Well, girl, answer me!”

“No.”

“No what?”

With a quick gulp I recognise my mistake and repeat clearly, after tilting my head up briefly to glance across the bare expanse of his desk: “No Sir.” My head lowers again showing my discomfort, hiding my fear and, yes, shame.

“You appear to have accepted your disgusting behavior, and have sought to confess and accept your punishment for your crimes. Is that correct girl; are you ready to accept your punishment, to pay your due penance?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Good, then I can see no reason why we should not proceed, can you?”

“No Sir.”

“Stand up, hands behind your back.”

His commands fill the air between us and I jump up as though given an electric shock, my hands flying behind my back. I look down still unable to face him, my judge, jury and the administer of my punishment. I must feel the same fear that all naughty girls have felt throughout time as they await sentence for their behavior.

He holds my detailed confession, reading it while effectively ignoring me. Then once he finishes he looks up, leaning back into his chair, considering carefully before finally speaking.

“According to this confession, a friend of yours, another girl found an adult magazine, dealing with the subject of naughty girls getting bound and punished, is that correct?”

“Yes sir.” I wonder if he can hear the quaver creeping into my voice.

“This girl then passed the magazine around your gathered friends and eventually it arrived at you.”

“Yes, Sir, it did.”

“You took the magazine and presumably looked at the cover quite carefully, didn’t you?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Did you notice the printed warning stating eighteen years or over, not for minors? You knew right then that it was an adult themed magazine, didn’t you?”

“Yes Sir.”

“So you decided to open and glance through this magazine. What did you see?”

“Umm” I hesitated not wanting to tell him what I had seen, but knowing that he was going to insist.

“Well girl?”

“There were lots of pictures of girl bent over getting smacked or worse!”

“Those pictures interested you, did they not?”

“Yes Sir.”

“So let me see, you knowingly decided to indulge in reading pornographic material, not something I am sure that your parents might approve of, even though it was legal, is that the case girl?”

The emphasis on that simple word ‘girl’ is getting more and more response from me. He waits for me to speak, sitting there in his chair with his hands steepled before him, knowing full well that I am about to confess to leering at the lewd pictures. He understands that I have little choice but to face up to my feelings of guilt; and knowing, I’m sure, exactly what he intends to do in order to make reparations for my confessed offences. I didn’t even realize that I committed this moral offence, but he had, and now I do. And so, I accept my crime of leering at those naughty pictures.

“Yes Sir, I knew I was being naughty – well, sort of!”

“Sort of girl? You either were or you were not being naughty, which is it?”

He forces me to the point of confession, and so easily. So I confess; there is no other option.

Yes Sir, I was deliberately naughty but only because I wanted to look at the pictures and read the girl’s stories.”

“Ah, now we are getting somewhere, girl. And what happens to naughty girls?”

I know the answer to this one, so sucking in a deep breath I say: “They get punished Sir!”

“This first offence is not too serious, but still it warrants punishment; I have decided that a sound spanking is called for. Would you agree that a spanking is both fair and just, considering the offence committed?”

“Yes Sir.”

He’s going to spank me! Something happens as I say ‘Yes Sir;’ a deep throb rips through my stomach, emanating from my secret place. I am about to be spanked for the very first time, just like all the naughty girls in my magazine got spanked. He stands up and walks around the desk; then he sits on the chair I so recently vacated.

He points to a spot on the floor next to him. Half a turn and two steps later, I am standing looking down at his trouser-covered thighs.

“Bend over, girl.”

Such a simple sentence, ‘bend over girl’. I bend, lowering myself hesitantly across his lap. His legs protrude outward below me. They’re long and spindly, sort of spidery. His body is short in proportion to his legs, but when he stands he is quite tall.

How hard am I going to get spanked? I wonder, as I deliberately wiggle further across his lap. Will it be on my bare bottom like in the magazine? Or will he settle for spanking me over my skirt?

I soon realize that he will always administer punishments in the most effective and humiliating way. He rocks his legs, jiggling my bent body into a more comfortable position for him, not for me of course. I feel his fingers touch the hem of my school skirt and slowly lift it, before he neatly folds it upward across my back, exposing my panty-clad bottom to his eyes. Those same fingers slip inside the waistband and slowly pull my panties down, until they reveal my lilywhite, totally unblemished, and, I hope, highly spankable virginal buttocks.

He pats my neatly presented buttocks; much like an owner pats an obedient dog. The electricity of arousal explodes from my soaking crotch as I await my first ever dose of corporal punishment. The very first spank when it arrives is no gentle introduction; his hand thrashes down, his palm slaps my flesh right in the center of my right cheek, and then it lifts away. I need not have worried; it soon returns, and my first spanking is underway. The pain explodes as my bottom jerks, I gasp out, only to be told to remain silent – not easy as he tattoos my buttocks. Slap follows slap, covering every inch of my bare bottom. His fingers piteously lash my crease and thighs, catching me unaware. Like all punished girls, I writhe through my discipline.

This, my first spanking, is by definition a fine, soundly administered, perfectly applied application of the spanker’s art. There is no doubt in my mind as to its perfection and effect. I receive forty or so very hard slaps, and by the sixth I’m biting my lip, and beginning to feel the first trace of a wail of despair. I try to bite back my cries; I even succeed until he has given me my first dozen spanks, but then the wails burst from me unabated! They do nothing to slow or reduce the intensity of the spanking. He’s set a target, I think, and my poor bottom is going to receive every single pain inducing slap demanded by his target.

Sir finally finishes administering my first ever real spanking, then he orders me to my feet. He follows up on the instruction by sending me to the far corner of his office, where he makes me tuck up my skirt, keeping my knickers around my thighs at half mast while he returns to his desk and the papers he previously pulled out. My humiliation floods my thoughts as I stand looking at the blank wall, knowing that he might be looking at my rosy bottom cheeks.

When he finally he calls me back to his desk, I hobble over trying to hold my panties around my knees, mortified at the thought of them dropping to hobble my ankles. The pain, or rather the smarting of my spanking has faded quite a bit, but not completely. I stop before him, wondering what next. On the desk before him, resting all innocent but out of place is a single leather-soled slipper. I gulp seeing it before me now, meanwhile the image of the slipper and what it means fills my thoughts. My bottom twitches slightly as my muscles contract in expectation.

“Now then let’s see what you did next, young lady.”

I straighten up slightly, not daring to meet his eyes, waiting; unable to say anything as my mouth feels so dry.

“After you had opened the magazine and had a seen the contents did you immediately pass it on, or did you read through it?”

“I flicked through it looking at the pictures. Sir.”

“You looked at the pictures, you studied the naughty girls and boys being spanked and tied up; was that when you decided to keep the book?”

“Yes Sir, I wanted to read it in more detail because it interested me.”

“So what happened next? Presumably you had to pass it around?”

“Yes Sir. Stella wanted to look at it after me. There was some laughter about the content, then we had to go home.”

“Your friends found the content funny, but you didn’t, did you?”

“No sir.”

I feel my cheeks getting hot, and I don’t mean my bottom cheeks, which are finally cooling down after my spanking.

“How did you obtain the magazine, and what did you do with it once you had it?”

“Umm, I…” I take a deep breath… he’s going to get the truth out of me and I realise that to say anything that is not true to him will make my presence, and first real disciplining a complete waste of his and my time.

And so, a little reluctant still, I take that breath and gush out the whole torrid confession…

 

Part Three: A Naughty Girl Confesses

   “I offered to get rid of the magazine whilst picking it up,” I explain to Sir, “then I rolled it up and put it into my bag before anyone could complain. I fastened the bag and much to my relief no one seemed interested in the magazine, so I just kept it.

   “What did you do with it when you got home?” he asks.

   “I kept it hidden in my bag until I could go upstairs. I told mum that I had homework assignments to complete and then I escaped to my bedroom. I was going to hide the magazine for later reading, but once I took it out of my bag, the cover picture grabbed me; I wanted to open it and look at the schoolgirl getting whipped by her teacher.

   “So you read the magazine there and then!”

   “Yes Sir,” I nod.

    “So, you compounded your disgraceful behavior by lying to your friends and taking something that was not really yours to take. Something which you knew nice girls should not read, therefore you should not be reading, let alone keeping; is that accurate, girl?”

   His tone has changed, his head is tilted back, and he looks at me, waiting for me to speak. What can I say but yes as that is exactly what I did – and now I’ve become like one of those naughty girls in the magazine. I tell him ‘Yes Sir’, mumbling out my confession and waiting.

   “This is the second offence you committed that day and for that you need to be punished. I sentence you to twelve strokes of the slipper. If you would please bend forward over the desk and grasp the far lip. Spread your legs as far as your underwear will allow, and we can get this punishment over with.”

   I bend forward across the desk top; it’s very cold and I can feel its touch through my blouse and bra. The far lip is quite a ways for me to reach (I am not very tall, being five foot four or so) and I stretch out, lengthening my body until I can grip the distant lip, and at the same time feel the desk edge cutting across the top of my bare thighs. I shuffle my feet as far apart as I can. Doing so forces me up onto tip-toes, and I can feel my bottom thrusting up as though desperate to feel the pain I have just been sentenced to.

   The slipper vanishes from my peripheral vision. He has it in his hand, raised I imagine, ready to deliver the first of the dozen strokes I’ve been sentenced to receive. But I am wrong; it is not raised. His hand is, instead, hovering just slightly above my reddened buttocks. He lowers it gently allowing a cold terrifying contact with my skin. I suck in a sharp breath expecting pain, getting only the gentle touch of cool leather against my flesh. There is no reassurance for me in that touch; then it vanishes, with a whoosh of air driven before it the slipper descends again – this time to slap harshly against my already soundly spanked, and now very vulnerable naked bottom.

   The pain explodes through my flesh, reaching deep inside me before ripping upwards into my stomach, and turning my guts inside out. The slipper strikes again and again with little respite between each blow, soon, faster than I could ever have imagined. My legs are kicking back, and a howl of agony explodes from my mouth. A fourth stroke does not arrive when I expect it. Instead his voice speaks to me, cutting through my pain, telling me that I have been a very naughty girl, and because of that the last stroke will not be counted. I gulp, and at the same time I’m determined not to resist or buck again, or do anything that will extend the number of strokes my poor bottom is going to receive.

   “Two, shall we continue?”

   “Yes Sir.”

   “Well, girl?”

   I lie neatly presenting my bottom to his slipper, trying to understand what he means. He repeats ‘well girl’ again, and I still do not understand. Then the light goes on, and I remember one girl, in one of the stories, and what her discipliner had demanded of her, so I said quietly.

   “Please, Sir, may I have another stroke?”

   “Of course, girl.”

   The slipper thrashes my skin, four harsh smacking whacks almost become one, each producing a deep imprint to my flesh. I somehow manage to remain silent through the whacks, but my legs will not comply with my thoughts. They kick back, clamping shut with my pain, before opening and returning to their place before the next stroke. At six, plus the one he discounted, he stops for a while. He sits in his desk chair studying my tear streaked face, waiting for me to regain my composure and settled myself for the next half dozen strokes.

   Finally I must have obtain the level of calm he requires, because he sits forward, slapping the slipper against one hand and smiling at me, as he asks if I am ready to continue. I cannot find my voice, so instead I nod after a fashion, and he stands up and vanishes from my sight again.

   The slipper explodes this time with only the slightest of warning; no nice gentle touch this time, only the fire and pain of harsh contact. My fingers grasp the desk edge, my fingernails biting into the underside of the wood. Six strokes thrash my flesh, six hard thwacks of pure fire, and all the time I wonder how many other naughty girls have been bent over this very desk to receive and pay their dues. Finally, my slippering is over; I have received my full dozen, taken his sentence plus one for being a naughty girl. He has me back facing the wall again with my skirt pinned up, and my knickers still at half-mast, waiting.

   His voice isn’t loud but it contains enough power to make me jump when he asks if I prefer tea or coffee. I am instantly flummoxed by his question, which I know is stupid, but it seems so out of place, what with me positioned as I am. I mumble a reply, saying that I do not drink tea, but coffee would be nice.

   I hear him stand up, his palms slapping the desktop with a clap like thunder, and then he walks toward the door; clicking his fingers to get my attention and calling for me to follow him.

   He leads me down the corridor and into a large well appointed kitchen, where he motions towards a cupboard saying. “Coffee for two, girl.” He then walks out of the kitchen passing through a low arched door I had not previously noticed.

   I make coffee in two nice brown mugs and then realize that I don’t know how he likes his. Not wanting to annoy him by getting it wrong, I look about, hunting for and finding a tray and then a sugar bowl and milk jug. With two steaming mugs of black coffee and all the necessaries I can think of, and of course a bare, fully revealed bottom on display, all rosy and glowing, I follow his lead. My panties are still at half-mast (though trying continually to drop around ankles), so it’s difficult carrying the tray. However I manage to make it through the low door, which leads to a conservatory and an extensive garden beneath the glass.

   Near the house is a perfect example of a well tended lawn and flower beds; further away the terrain grows wilder, with trees filled out in the distance and making for an interesting backdrop. I can just make out what appears to be a large shed covered in ivy, placed just before the tree line commences

   “Coffee it is then, girl, put the tray there and sit down.”

    He looks at the tray before continuing.  “What no cake!”

   I jump up, feeling flustered by my error, though how could I have known I wonder. I literally skip back through the doorway, as a thought flashes into my mind. What does my bare spanked bottom framed by my knickers and tucked up skirt look like to him? Then I vanish out of the conservatory.

   The cake I seek is inside of a round flower decorated tin, resting in plain sight on the work counter next to a bread bin. I completely missed it! I cut two slices of the chocolate cake, find plates, and feeling very nervous, I carry them through to the conservatory.

   Sir is sitting exactly as he was when I scurried out – looking out of the windows at the garden. His coffee still rests on the tray exactly as I left it, placed exactly centrally on a low table. I place the cake slices down next to the mugs and stand up straight waiting for him to say something. I am once more in his hands and my butterflies of fear and the feeling of impending doom returns, hanging over me. I am the naughty forgetful girl once more, and thus my bottom twitches in anticipation of being punished again – but for another offence. Little do I know just what I am destined to receive – although it has nothing to do with being forgetful, but for my original offence. My disciplining from him is far from over, only I do not know that as I stand before him waiting.

   “That’s better,” he holds out his hand (not leaning forward) obviously waiting for me to pass him his coffee. Once he holds the mug he nods for me to join him; so I kneel on the floor, not actually at his feet but close enough, if I ignore the table between us. The cake is delicious, all gooey and wicked; even as I enjoy the sumptuous taste I feel my fear growing. Something tells me I am far from finished receiving my discipline; if I am to be truthful, I still feel that I need more to fully pay for my disgusting behavior.

   “Now where were we?” Sir begins. “Ah yes, you took the magazine home and hid it from your mother by taking it upstairs! As I understand it, you then lied to her and later and went upstairs yourself, primarily to enjoy reading of all the trials and tribulations of the girls between the pages.”

   It’s very hard to talk with a mouthful of thick chocolate cake, so I nod in answer. His eyes never leave my face and I can feel my cheeks rouging up with shame as his stare penetrates to my very core, or that is how it feels to me.

   “So you’re a liar as well as a thief, and not once, but twice, and to your mother as well! What am I going to do with you, girl? What will it take for you to make amends and learn to be a good girl, I wonder?”

   What could I say? Nothing. The cake was still gumming up my mouth, and besides, what could I say, other than ‘Yes Sir,’ and he already knows that answer. Sorry Sir would not be acceptable to him, my bottom can attest to that. I wait, and leave my imminent future and the consequences of my actions in his capable hands, only bowing my head slightly in fast expanding shame. He has a way of producing humiliation in me with a simple look, never mind the words, and he is doing exactly that to me now.

   His empty coffee mug settles to the table, then he stands up clicking his fingers for me to follow him. He leads me back to the kitchen and through another door I hadn’t noticed. Then along a narrow passageway and out into a large double garage.

   What awaits me there takes my breath away, and makes my knees feel weak. The room is white, every wall, even the ceiling has been painted clinical white. Racks line the walls, whips and canes and straps dangle from them, just waiting to be taken up and used on some culprit. I am the only culprit present and I realise that some of those painful-looking weapons of discipline will soon be applied to my naughty bottom; and perhaps, with growing dread I realise even my thighs. He strides dominantly towards the far end of the room where a wooden structure sits. A gentle tug and the whole thing moves out from its resting place.

   His fingers clicked once more. I understand their meaning and hesitantly, scared to death, I follow in his footsteps. He ignores me completely as I approach, being more intent on setting up the apparatus. Locks click on two out of four wheels, fixing the device in place. Two wooden lengths extend out on the far side of the device. A leather covered hump draws my attention as he points towards the contraption. I realise that he means for me to bend over the device; and he indicates that my feet should step up and into twin slots. A gentle touch to my back has me falling forward, the hump meeting my thighs, pressing against my mound as the rest of my body curls over.

   A leather padded narrow bench supports my upper torso, while my face fits perfectly into a leather lined ring or hole, and forces me to look down. A leather bar waits for my open mouth. He pulls a strap over my head buckling it in place, then slowly he tightens it down. My lips press against the leather bar. If I refuse to open my mouth then my teeth will be pushed inward. I give in, submitting, allowing the bitter leather to be pushed between my teeth as the head strap tightens. With this simple strap and bar, he has very effectively gagged me, and I can feel the leather of the strap pulling still tighter, fixing my head permanently into place.

   His hands reach around and undo my blouse, tugging hard at the flimsy material, pulling apart my already straining buttons; some pop off ruining my top, but he doesn’t seem to be concerned. My bra follows the blouse as he removes it, dragging it out from beneath my chest and allowing my breasts to dangle through cut outs in the supporting board.

    He takes my hands and extends them forward, then with a clearly audible clicking, he locks them in place. I can feel the cold metal of the cuffs gripping my wrists, securing me.

   The feeling of being helpless is rife, flowing through my veins like fire burning along a gasoline trail. I am here; I am helpless; and I am the naughty girl of this scenario – one about to receive a far more personal acquaintance with discipline than any amount of reading about others getting thrashed can instill.

   He is behind me looking at my perfectly presented up-thrust bottom. I squeeze my thighs tight together to hide my maiden-hood. Then with one swift jerk my white panties fall and are removed. I feel my humiliation growing and my flushed cheeks. His fingers grip one ankle pulling it sideways, while the foot restraint slides on a runner he has unfurled, parting my thighs. I am helpless to resist as my left leg extends in a way that I would not have believed possible. Soon he’s turning his attention to my right leg. Parting my thighs wide, stretching my leg muscles, and revealing my all to his eyes for the first time.

    A motor sounds, low powered but powerful and from beneath my bent torso. I can feel a push against my pubic bone, the mound over which I am bent lifts, not a lot, but just enough to pull against my leg bonds, and at the same time bend me over further. My bottom rises only an inch or two, but the effect is very pronounced. Every restraint tightens and every sinew stretches, as I am prepared for what comes next.

   There is no modesty for a girl when discipline calls, and it is calling just for me. Suddenly, fire explodes across my bare bottom, and my cheeks clench tight holding their own private disco. The rumba of pain runs rife in my flesh – and all with one lash to my up-thrust bottom. But I am certain that I am to receive more than this single lash.

   As Sir walks around the contraption, I can see his feet as they approach. When he is standing by my head, a hand appears beneath my face holding a strap; a long, split, twin tailed strap. He places this neatly on the shelf below my face, then his voice whispers into my ear:

   “A liar a thief, and now a horny little slut to boot. What will it take for you to make amends for your disgustingly selfish behavior? Yes what indeed? he muses. For being a thief and slut, you are sentenced to twelve stokes of the strap, twelve harsh behavior modifying strokes!”

   Twelve strokes! His words pound into my ear, flooding my brain. Twelve more strokes! I have only received one and my bottom is still twitching as a result. What’s my poor bottom going to feel like after twelve more?!

   “Now, let me see… you lied to your friends, to your mother and apparently repeatedly! How can you pay penance for such blatant naughtiness, how indeed!”

   He stands up (I can tell as his voice fades slightly), then a hand touches my flesh, trailing gently along my spine, his finger tips sending shivers of arousal – ‘yes you read it right’ – arousal, tumbling into my confusion, along with pain and fear. His fingers reach the raised twin mounds of my bottom, tracing the lines I imagine that the strap has left on my flesh. Teasing me, stoking my fear, he prepares me for the delivery of his next sentence.

Part Four: Punished

   “Lying is intolerable girl! I will not stand for it, and all liars need to be punished, and soundly.”

   He pinches my bottom cheeks, not hard, more testing their resilience and mine I suppose; before passing sentence on me for being a disgusting (his word) liar.

   “Twenty-four strokes of the strap, girl, that should teach you better behavior.”

   Twenty-four strokes, Twenty-four more lashes of that strap. I have only experienced one single stroke and that had been agony inducing; but twenty-four, Oh god! I buck against my restraints with fear taking control of my body, fighting against my bondage, trying pathetically to escape my penance. The strap vanishes from beneath me, I buck harder, the leather of the bindings is cutting deep into my flesh; I cannot even twist more that a centimeter and he is now holding the strap.

   It whooshes as it cuts the air a second before the pain explodes, fire burns across both of my bottom cheeks, again and again until I have received six fast harsh strokes of that strap; my punishment has begun in earnest. One single word echoes around my head, driving into my thoughts, swamping out all but my pain.

   “Thief.”

   I accept that I want this, that I asked him to punish me, and now he is… Six finally arrives and the strap returns to the shelf beneath me (A single spotlight illuminates it) again that single word, that accusation echoes into my ear.

   Thief, followed by other words now, “Six more girl, six more for being a disgusting thief!”

       He leaves the room, turning out the lights, all except for the spotlight on the strap placed so terrifyingly beneath my nose. Waiting just for me, I can do nothing but look at its leather and suffer, knowing that soon it will be teaching me to be a better, a much better girl. He has left me alone with the strap, and to endure the hot agony on my lashed bottom six more to come for being a thief, soon to be followed by twenty-four more for being a liar. He knows how to discipline a wayward girl; I realise now that I am wayward, and need, no want, him to discipline me.

   Despite the pain flooding my bottom I am more aware of the juices flooding my slit. The shock of self-understanding is quite poignant really. That the cause of my arousal is something as simple as being thrashed is quite shocking, but the body does not lie, unlike me.

   Time passes very slowly when you are in the position I am; ten short minutes of anticipation feel more like ten long hours. But eventually the time passes as it must and then he returns. Without a word the strap is removed from beneath my nose, and it whooshes through the air attracting my full attention. I tense expectantly, but nothing happens. He’s just teasing me; the next time I think. Again I am wrong, then finally it contacts and all thoughts vanish.  

   Twin tails of hard, well studied (by me) leather explode across my raised bottom, lashing me from one side to the other! My god, the very last touch to my flesh is the leather tips. The burning they impart is like nothing I have ever felt. Stroke follows stroke, six in all, and by the fall of the last lash of my first real strapping, I am heaving against my bonds, tears falling from my eyes, and the gag in my mouth is bitten in my attempts to reduce or control the fire raging across my bottom.

   Amidst this terrifying agony I become aware of the fire burning in my loins, of the arousal of my sex; but mostly of the desperate need to have those, my sex lips parted, and the chasm of my lust filled. This is not going to happen. There will be no reprieve for me whilst I am under his discipline and control; my arousal is just another small part of my punishment. The strap returns, placed neatly beneath my nose. He has said nothing to me, no praise for my stoicism, no complaint about my reactions, nothing, just the strap being placed where I can see it again.

   It rests there as he leaves. I hear his feet walking away. The main lights are out, and again, I can only look down, but this time I look with a much greater awareness. Now seeing clearly, I realize the power to impart pain to my bottom that this simple-looking piece of leather holds. My thoughts clear slightly as the awareness that I have received my punishment for being a thief in full. However, I still have the far more serious discipline to come – for being a liar.

   There are twenty-four strokes of that strap to go, twenty-four more lashes to my up-thrust naked bottom! My fear returns and nothing else can occupy my thoughts, other than twenty-four harsh kisses of leather to my flesh. He has gone, the door shuts with a click, and I am waiting again. The flames of fire change in my mind, becoming the kisses of love, the touch of passion, the feeling of release and helplessness flow.

    Twenty-four more you liar, you slut, only twenty-four more says the little voice of my guilt, as I wait for sir to return and place me on the road to being a good girl once more. Eventually, I hear the door open and his footfalls cross the room toward me. The strap vanishes once more, and the silence fills my ears as I strain to hear the first warning sounds of my impending doom.

   Whoosh, crack, fire plasters my up-thrust buttocks; the first stroke of my sentence has fallen, and with it I have lost all control over my body. Two and three lash hard and fast as he beats me. Four – that one cuts deep into my under bottom, kissing my now dripping slit. Five returns to stoke the raging fires as I buck against my bonds. My breath vanishes, blown out of me by the power of his lashing; he is certainly administering justice. I breathe in deep, sucking air around the leather gag, desperate to find a way to reduce the fires he instigates in my flesh. Now I know the feeling of true torment, like all naughty girls under the lash, I suffer though – despite the gag-bar not in silence.

   Six and seven land fast and lengthways up my buttocks cresting the tips into that tiny area just on the upper edge of my muscles. Each tip cuts deep into my flesh making the fires of my penance expand. I sort of hope, in vain as it turns out, that he will allow me to breathe and adapt to ‘six of the best’; but that, like mercy, is not to be my lot. Eight flicks downward, again cutting across my crease, adding to my erotic reaction. I can feel my juices drip, drip, dripping from between my puffy lips. Can he see my arousal; does he know what a slut I have become? Of course he can see everything, my little secret voice of my guilt torments me.

   Eight, nine and ten thrash left then right, then left again, all without the slightest reduction in power. He clearly intends to torment me into obedience. Eleven and twelve slant one in each direction, driving the air from my lungs again. I shriek into the gag, hearing myself; I wonder how so much agony-induced sound can be lost to the leather of the bit filling my mouth. His strap returns to below my nose. He leaves, not a sound or a word to me, nothing. He just leaves me to contemplate what I have just received, and from there my thoughts turn to what I will shortly receive. Twelve more lashes, twelve more agony filled cuts of the strap, and no leniency; never any leniency I realise. The door closes and he is gone again, leaving me surrounded by the dark, but watching the spotlight lit leather of my imminent justice.

   He is gone for far longer than previously, which in one-way is good, as it allows me time to get over the agony he has so far caused to rage across my bottom. On the other hand it leaves me longer to contemplate the dozen strikes still to come, and to become even more scared.

   When the door opens again it slams hard against the wall, the sound shattering my peace immediately, setting my nerves on fire. It (the door) shuts with a decisive click of the lock. His foot falls click clacking across the stone floor toward me. He has changed his shoes; these he wears echo horribly in my ears, and make me think of Gestapo Officer’s pacing in leather boots around their torture victim. The thought scares me half to death and I find that I am biting hard into the leather of the bit in fear. The strap remains exactly where he has placed it, but he is by my side, invisible to my eyes but there, I can tell.

   Ice cold liquid drips onto my spine, running up my back in rivulets, then more of the liquid touches my raised buttocks from there to trail down my crease, flowing across and around my sex lips, chilling but exiting me further. The cloth splats against my bottom, coating my flesh, imparting its excess water, wetting thoroughly my reddened, strap encrusted skin. He pats the cloth and through it me – my excitement expands tenfold.

   My sex juices combine with the dripping water to fall from my restrained body and to the floor. He slowly pulls the cloth down bunching it together between my legs, inducing cold to my hot lips. Then deftly, but slowly, he rubs it against my sex. I groan into the gag, desperate in my humiliation not to stop, but of course he does exactly as he deems right.

  Something hard and plastic nuzzles between those my wet sex lips, then passes on, easing upward instead, penetrating not my sex but into my little star, parting my channel flesh as it surges deep up and into my virgin arse. I gulp, feeling my sphincter skin relax as the monster enters into me. He pushes and pulls, twisting slightly, rocking the thing, all the time forcing it up my vulnerable bottom hole.

   My leather gag takes a beating from my teeth, but the thing, a dildo I presume, enters me fully. I feel cold leather lifted up and around my pussy lips, it passing up the crease of my butt, over the top of the deeply penetrating dildo, then up to and across my lower back, where it fixes firmly in place to the belt securing me to the whipping bench. The strap effectively holds the dildo in place, and if I try to expel it then all I get for my trouble is a returning thrust, deep and back into my hole. I relax. What other choice do I have? Then the strap vanishes from beneath my nose.

   At the first tender kiss of the leather against my flesh, I understand the reasoning behind the water and cloth. Its icy cold wetness has contracted my skin, cooled my flesh, and made it ready to receive the strap in a way that I could never have thought possible. I thought that my last dozen strokes had prepared me for the pain to come, but I was wrong. The strap slaps harshly against my chilled skin, a fire the like of which I cannot describe explodes to fill my bottom, then swamps my mind with pure unadulterated agony. Eleven more to go, I would have thought, if only I could have thought.

   He slows the pace, taking his time, unlike previously; allowing me enough time to swim back up through the pain before he administers the next stroke. He carries on like that, always allowing my flesh to absorb its suffering before piling on more, and more. At six he replaces the cloth, icy water contracts my skin, soothing me with its touch, taking out some of the heat, but then the strapping continues. He gives me six, the last six, but the best six. By the time I have finished my punishment I am boiling in pain and being driven mad by my arousal. My slot is dripping. I have bucked and squeezed against the dildo but in vain, the release I seek is close, but unattainable to me.

   I feel his hands gently patting my bottom, his fingers slipping down pushing the last few drops of water (now warmed by my body) around my love slot, then he eases my sex lips apart, squeezing my puffy aroused flesh and making me gulp and groan in ecstasy before finally his hand vanishes. I hear a drawer open and close then he is back, crouching by my head, looking into my tear filled eyes, a smile of compassion on his face.

   “Well girl, you have received your punishment and soon I will release you. But first take some time to relax and let the pain pass.”

   I struggle desperate to speak to him, but unable to.

   “You want to say something, don’t you?”

   I nod, well as much as I can, considering. He stands up, then I feel the strap holding my head into the ring loosen, and finally release. Slowly I withdraw the gag from between my lips by lifting my head. He crouches back down looking up at me, waiting, as I stretch and work my mouth. I try to speak but the dryness refuses to let me. He reaches behind him and pull out a cup with a straw, lifting it to my face. I drink, wondering at how wonderful simple cool water can taste.

   I need to say what I intend to say quickly before I lose my nerve and bottle it.

   “Sir, thank you,” I spit out, “Oh, but please cane me!”

   There I have said it! The look of surprise on his face is very evident. He heard my request, I know, but I think he can’t really believe it of me.

   “Are you sure that is what you want?”

   I nod unable to speak again, not because of a dry mouth this time, but because of the fear rippling throughout my thoughts, caused by the desperate request I have just made of him.

   He stands up, the strap returns forcing the leather saliva soaked gag back into my mouth, silencing me properly again. It is too late now to change my mind, far too late. The buckles tighten, pulling my hair slightly, but that is the least of my worries now!

    He vanishes and when he returns this time I can see the tip of a thin long cane – the cane I have just asked him to administer to my already soundly thrashed bottom, the cane that he has selected to use to fulfill my desperate request.

   I feel his hands pulling at the thin leather holding the dildo in place, something cold, wet and material is being pushed between it and my sex. His fingers work that cloth into my slot, parting my engorged sex lips tenderly, whilst at the same time bunching the material up and pushing it into me; giving me something to rub against for the first time. He understands, he knows exactly what I want, what I need, and is providing an outlet for me to obtain my satisfaction. This is not punishment for my crime; this is a thrashing for my satisfaction, for an orgasm, something that my body is screaming out for. Water dribbles out of my slit as I squeeze against the wetness. I hear a swish as he flicks the cane through the air. I hope that it feels as I expect, as I hope it will. I am soon to find out.

   Cold flexible bamboo touches my bottom, tapping lightly against my flesh and then it vanishes. Then the whistle of the power-driven rod cuts through the air, followed almost instantly by the fierce agony of impact as the cane cuts low and fully across my soft tender muscle. My body reacts as only a caned female body can. The cloth is squeezed by my sex beyond its ability to hold water. it shoots a jet from within me and my back strains against the heavy strap securing me in place. My teeth bite hard into the leather of the gag bar as air whooshes uncontrolled from my lungs.

   I have had my first ever cane stroke, and it was a harsh, a perfectly targeted cut, which is followed almost immediately by another, this time much higher. He waits, letting me absorb the pain, timing my caning to perfection. I dance to his tune, driving fast into an orgasm. The third stroke lands as my muscles contract; pleasure floods through me, ripping up into my stomach, filling my thoughts, but that is not enough and he understands this. The cane lands again increasing my pain and multiplying my pleasure. I come again, twice in seconds, though probably more like one extended orgasm I realise. The stick works its magic on me again and again, three follows four, follows five and by the sixth orgasm I feel like a rag doll.

   I have never experienced pleasure on this magnitude, all my fumbling in the dark with boys of my own age, or just by myself pale into insignificance at the touch of his rod of fire. Six of the best, I have taken six of the best and orgasmed with each, but that is still not enough for him or me. Sagging into the support of the frame I accept my discipline – I mean pleasure – my reward for being so willing, my real thrashing.

    I accept twelve harsh strokes that cover and cross over every inch of my up-thrust flesh. At the twelfth lash I come again, seven orgasms, and all because of a thin piece of bamboo! I am sated beyond belief and he knows it, as he can see it in my sagging body. My caning is over, and he has provided me a level of inner peace that I have sought all my life. I’ve now found the way to achieve it.

   He puts the cane away in a drawer. I vaguely hear it open then shut, then he returns, loosening my bonds and freeing my body whilst quietly telling me to rest and recover, to take my time.

   “Come through when you feel able please.”  He whispers much like a horse trainer talking to a racehorse, calming it with his tender voice, showing how pleased he is with its efforts. He leaves me then, this time with all the lights switched to full on. I just lay there gathering my strength, enjoying the aftermath of my very sound punishment, followed by my exhausting session of deep satisfaction.

   Eventually, I manage to gather myself enough to push my body up and to step out of the foot restraints and onto the concrete floor. I am a bit wobbly and the fire is burning in my bottom as I move, but I have a smile on my face, and an inner feeling of really having taken everything I both deserved and wanted. Slowly I turn around (once I feel confidant of my legs) then I leave the room, switching off the lights as I exit.

   He is sitting in the same chair he used before my punishment began, now holding a fresh mug of coffee. There is a mug for me on the table and a cushion on the floor if I want it. Sitting on the whicker furniture does not really appeal to me, so I kneel on the floor but ignore the cushion, and without looking at him take the waiting coffee. Feeling grateful for its stimulant value, I wait in silence for him to say something, anything.

   “There is a robin watching us from that wooden pole!” he finally comments.

   I turn and look, and sure enough there is a robin watching us. I wonder what it would think if it could understand what has just happened to me. I watch the little bird back, and enjoy the silence, being determined not to spoil it by speaking.

 

Three years later and a new life ...

   That was my first real punishment session, though there have been many more over the past years. Now there is a slight difference in how my pain games are initiated. Now I have to leave Sir’s house first, then return a few minutes later to be either let in, or kept waiting. Now you see, I live in that house with Sir – a perfect arrangement for us both. He needs help running the house, and I need a place to live. My job is gone and I am his fulltime maid, friend and companion. He assures me that he has seen to it that I am taken care of, and will have the house to live in with enough inheritance to be comfortable there. He will not marry me, as he has children older than I am he says. But as long as he disciplines me when I need it, I have little or nothing to complain about. I do complain though, and act the spoilt brat, but that soon has my bottom up and an instrument teaching me the error of my ways. Now-a-days I am sometimes allowed to watch other naughty girls and boys receiving their just desserts from him, although I will admit I feel mostly jealous, and he always has to thrash me after dealing with them.