It is a routine caning: the sort I am obliged to receive perhaps once a week. “Maintenance discipline” he calls it to distinguish it from the punishments for serious offences administered to me while strapped down over the work bench in the garage. Maintenance discipline is just for routine matters of disobedience, carelessness and minor infractions. Such routine canings or strappings can be delivered anywhere in the house where I am ordered to present myself for punishment: the kitchen, the bathroom, bent over at the end of the bed or, in this case, the living room.
My skirt is folded neatly and placed on a chair. I am always obliged to remove my skirt or dress prior to punishment. I am bent over: the tips of my fingers touching the ends of my toes. I remember to keep my legs together and straight. He is a stickler for that. He will award me extra strokes if I disobey this instruction. My knickers are lowered to my knees. This is important for it is not only my bottom which will receive the cane but the backs of my thighs too so my knickers must be lowered sufficiently as to allow full access to those tender regions.
It is quiet in the room for he is not there. He has ordered me to present myself and remain in position while he goes to the garage to select a cane for my punishment. The neighbours will doubtless see him do this and know that I have misbehaved once more. They are well aware of his disciplining of me. A month ago he caned me in front of our dinner guests. He is quite open about it. Indeed I am now bent over in front of the French windows in full view of any neighbour perchance passing by in our quiet suburb on this sunny afternoon. He has ordered this quite deliberately. He thinks a little public humiliation is good for me. I glance nervously out of the window in case somebody is out on the street. The street seems empty for the moment but, even were it not, I dare not move or change my position.
He re-enters the room. From the corner of my eye I see he has chosen a cane which he feels appropriate to my conduct. It is long, a quarter of an inch thick and glinting wickedly in the sunlight pouring through the window. I take a deep breath. I know how much it will sting. I feel my legs tremble slightly. He swishes it experimentally in the air. I shudder at the sibilant hiss it makes as it cuts the air.
I am to receive twelve strokes he informs me. I am to maintain my position throughout. Under no circumstances must I allow my legs to buckle however severe the pain. I shall remain correctly presented at all costs on pain of extra strokes if I do not comply. I am to count each stroke aloud as it is applied. Do I understand? I mumble my acknowledgement.
He lays the cane across the bare flesh of my bottom, measuring the distance. I quiver at the touch. The rattan feels cool against my skin but I know the next time it meets it, it will burn. The cane lifts away. From the corner of my eye I see it raised high above my trembling buttocks. I grit my teeth.
The cane swishes through the air in a blur. It lands with a loud report in the centre of my buttocks. I hiss though my teeth and clench my eyes shut as the sudden pain lances through my bottom. The pain seems to spread across my cheeks and seep down into the muscle. I can almost feel the red scorching line begin to appear at the point of impact. I take two deep breaths and swallow. “One sir. Thank you sir.” I breathe.
He pauses. He likes to allow the pain of the first stroke to sink in. Then there is another swoosh from behind me and a second shock of pain. I jerk convulsively and gasp. He has landed this one a little lower and harder. The pain is exquisite. I purse my lips and suck in air as the heat of it sears my bottom. “Two sir. Thank you sir.”
He raises the cane once more. My legs are shaking from the pain of the first two strokes. I steel myself to remain motionless. There is another crack against my skin and a strangled snort as another wave of pain erupts in my rear. I feel the tears begin to well in my eyes. I am a weakling. I always cry when I’m being caned. “Three sir. Thank you sir.”
I sense that he is dissatisfied. He has administered three strokes but I have not yet cried out in pain. It is futile this brave resistance. Sooner or later I will shriek at the agony and we both know it. He adjusts his stance and lays the cane against my skin to measure his aim for the next stroke. I whimper softly. He has laid the cane on the soft flesh at the top of my thighs. He knows how much I dread being caned there. Then he lifts the cane again. There is an awful pause and then he sweeps it down into that sensitive spot. I squeal at the frightful agony of its impact and for a second my legs threaten to collapse beneath me. I moan pathetically as the heat of the stroke sinks in. A tear rolls down my cheek. “F...four sir. Th... thank you sir.”
Another crack and I cry out loudly and toss my head. The pain mounts by the second and now I know I will yell at every stroke; my control broken. The neighbours will raise their eyes from the afternoon paper at the sound of the shrill screams from our house and grin knowingly. “Five sir!” I gasp. “Thank you sir.”
Crack! I shriek louder than ever. The stroke is agonising; landing accurately into the soft flesh where my buttocks meet the tops of my thighs. I begin to sob. “S...s..six sir. Th.. thank you sir” I manage to mutter at last.
Then I scream! He lands the stroke with all his strength across my buttocks on top of the first line of pain he has left there. He rather prides himself on his accuracy. “Seven Sir!” I squeal, “Thank you sir.”
He grunts in satisfaction and raises the cane anew. I glance out the window and groan in despair. A pair of the neighbours have paused on the other side of the street. My agonised scream must have arrested them for their heads are turned this way. They cannot fail to see me framed in the French widows. I have no time to dwell on my shame. The cane lands once more and I scream again. Through my sobbing tears I look back at the window. The neighbours appear to be watching proceedings with interest. “Eight sir. Thank you sir.” I mumble miserably.
My legs nearly buckle once more as the cane slices into the back of my thighs leaving a dreadful line of agony in its wake. “Nine... sir. Th..thank you sir.” I manage to sob after I have finished howling.
He lands the next stroke with authority behind it into the fleshiest part of my buttocks and I wail dementedly. Doubtless the neighbours across the street are chuckling to themselves. It is commonly held in our street that I deserve everything I receive. “Ten sir. Thank you sir.” I whimper.
I glance out of the window to note that the two neighbours have been joined by two more. My caning is turning into a public spectacle. He seems to want to put a good show on for the spectators for the next stroke is the hardest yet. I shriek at the top of my voice and lose my balance momentarily taking a half step forward before recovering. He has to remind me to hold my position. He won’t warn me again. “I... I’m sorry sir. Eleven sir. Thank you sir.”
I know from experience that the last stroke will be the hardest of all. He adjusts his stance and raises the cane high above his shoulder. I give a sob of despair and bite my lip. I tremble violently in anticipation. It is every bit as bad as I expect. The stroke is agony; unbearable and I scream loud and long; my howling wails reaching a frenzied pitch. I fancy the watching neighbours must be applauding warmly. Finally I recover my breath. My face is wet with tears. “Twelve sir.” I sob. “Thank you sir. Th... thank you for punishing me.”
I will now be obliged to spend half an hour stood against the wall with my hands on my head. I will not be allowed to pull my knickers up. It will be all over the street by now that I have just been caned. People will be walking past the house on any pretext hoping for a glimpse of me stood against the wall; my swollen striped behind plain for all to see. There will be knowing smirks at the shops when I go for groceries later on. But at least my punishment is over.... for this time.
For my Master.