A Dozen

 

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 of 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.