Tag Archives: cane

I tried to answer the question below on American Spanking Society a few days ago.

Do you believe it is possible for a “spanko” to truly be punished/disciplined by a spanking? If so, how can something they like (a spanking) be turned into something they wish to avoid? If you don’t think it is possible, than what do you think the point of so-called “discipline spankings” is and do they actually motivate BAD behavior?

I tried to do a brief answer but it was rubbish. So here is my story about what happened to me a couple of weeks ago.

I could not give up smoking. I did not smoke a lot but had the odd one when I had a drink and I did not know how on earth to stop. Himself agreed to help me and this is what he did. I have written this to him because when I started to write it came out like that.

I can smoke whenever I want and while I smoke you will say not one word about it. It is just that after each time I must pay the price. I cannot help it. I cannot believe you. I cannot make the punishment worse than the pay off of smoking and so out I go to have a cigarette. From where I stand I can see the dining table inside and I flick my head away to ignore it as well as I can. I can see you sometimes, sitting there reading or writing. It is an odd feeling, knowing that soon you will be making me wriggle and cry out. You sit so calmly. I love you for that. I love you for being so unflustered about the whole thing.  I smoke, inhale, exhale, and as the light burns down I think more and more of that table. I think more and more of that nasty cane.

After I put my cigarette out I return. Sometimes the cane is waiting for me on the table but sometimes you send me to collect it. I hate both. Today you send me and I hang my head when I go. I hate that lazy snake of a cane. Fetching an implement is not something I often do. It is a combination of shame and irritation. I don’t want to collect the ruddy thing. If you want it then you get it. To have to bring that back and hand it over like some errant schoolgirl is hideous. I feel about twelve years old. I wish myself elsewhere. I go as I am sent.

I know I am in trouble. I know exactly what I have done and I knew what the result would be. This has to be the worst moment. I stumble out of the room and go to his closet. I have a private moment there with the cane where I tell it that I hate it. It sits silently in my hands and says nothing. I don’t care if I hurt its feelings. It will get its revenge soon enough.

You tell me to bend over the table. I do so and say nothing. We have done this time and time again. I know the score and I bend before the maestro who, without a word, flicks up my dress and pulls my knickers down to mid thigh. I shudder and spread my fingers out on the table.

You spank me and tell me just what you think of smoking. You spank hard, a solid hand, an unforgiving touch. It is hard, sudden, shocking spanking. There is no lead in and no warm up. I bite my lip and watch my hair bounce in front of my eyes. I know this is going to get much worse before it gets better. I listen to what you say and I know every word is true. I am ashamed and I want you to stop. I don’t say a word because we both know you won’t stop until you have given me what I need.

I hate that I need so much.

You place a hand on my back. We have discussed this. I need that hand to keep me calm and still. I am terrified of the pain of the cane, of its whippy nature, of the wait, the sound, everything.

You don’t talk much when you cane me. You just say what you need to to ensure that I stay in position and that I breathe. I wish I could cry. It would help because two or three strokes in I am begging you to stop. I tell you I am scared. I tell you I am sorry. I hate the pause between each stroke. I hate the sound before the pain. I hate that you use a tiny portion of your strength to apply each stroke. You could do so much more if I needed it. My toes point and I dance. It hurts so much that I forget why I am there. I just want you to stop.

You stop. You ask if I need more. I hate myself as I nod. I can’t lie to you. You need to finish me.

By the end my bottom is red, swollen, and I can feel the stripes as I can walk to the corner. I feel so miserable as you leave me there. It hurts and I want you to comfort me. I want to lie on my tummy in your bed. I want you to rub lotion where the cane has stung me.

Instead you leave me in the corner with only stern words for company. I am there for an age. My fingers find each other behind my back, resting on my bare skin. That is how I am told to stand, like an errant schoolgirl. My dress is tucked up leaving me exposed and my bottom is a beacon to the world. Sometimes you are there and you tell me sternly not to fiddle. Sometimes you may be gone but I do not dare risk to turn around.  I can’t take one more swat, I can’t risk it.

Besides, you frighten me when it is like this. I like that you can scare me. I like that you have that ability. I still want to be in your arms. Only you can protect me from me; you are the only one strong enough.

Eventually you return. You send me to the sink to brush my teeth. I stumble there, aware of how you can see my naked bum, aware of how foolish I look bent over the sink with you standing behind me. I use one hand to try to cover my bottom as I bend. I think this may make me look even more foolish. I don’t care. I don’t want you to see me like this.

You hold me then, soothe me, gently rub lotion into my sore striped bottom and let me sleep in your arms.

I don’t know how many times we do this. We do it again and again, each time a kind of therapy and healing. I needed a record. I know that you were shocked when I asked you to take a picture of me. I was bent over and I had stripe upon stripe, calm in the aftermath. It occured to me that I love you. You stand beside me so solid, so filled with love that I feel  peace. I know I can depend on you to do this a thousand times if I need it. So I ask you to take a picture. I want to be able to see this when I am away from you. I want to remember just how it felt. More than that, I need to know what you see, to be able to reconnect to that humility when I need it.

You do as I ask and the sight shocks me. I could never have believed how I could be so naked. The drape of my dress over my pale back, the startling red of my bum, the almost purple stripes, all of these make me more naked than if I had stood in front of a whole crowd without so much as a handkerchief.

I can see this picture now and I know how the girl in the picture feels.

I cannot look at a cigarette without wanting to beg you to stop.

I love you. I am so grateful to you.

One last thing to my readers.

Please don’t lecture me on smoking. I don’t care what you say about it and it doesn’t work. Hearing how bad it is just makes me want to go and buy a packet because I don’t want to be that good girl. What Himself did helped so much because I could smoke as many as I wanted. He never said one word about it. That freedom helped. Please no lectures as they are likely to make me smoke.

Thank you.

And if you are a girl and feeling a bit tense then go and look at Maria’s blog- she has a delicious film clip.

Would you like another?