Boot Camp finished last night with a 36-stroke caning, my weekly maintenance punishment.
I’ve called it Boot Camp because that’s what it’s felt like, but as I said before, none of this was planned. It’s been a long week, of disciplined days punctuated by bouts of corporal punishment – all designed to get our flr back on track. And, after everything, we both agree it’s been a spectacular success.
The build-up to my maintenance punishment was spectacular. After the week I’d had I wasn’t at all looking forward to it.
Mistress had to pop out to see a friend and left me strict instructions what time she wanted dinner ready. She also told me the washing needed taking out when the cycle was completed - and hung outside.
Simple enough, but I was also busy doing my own work too and when it came time to prepare tea I couldn’t recall if she said, quarter to eight or quarter past. So I decided to call her, only to find three missed calls on my phone from Mistress. When I rang her, I couldn’t get through. I knew the consequences of not having tea ready and got myself totally worked up to the point of heart racing, sweating and, I’m being totally honest now, feeling close to tears.
I know that might sound ridiculous, especially as I’m in my late fifties and I’m letting this get to me like a small child might, but I felt in a blind panic and kept thinking, ‘what is she going to say?’
I never realised I could this nervous about something Mistress had asked me to do.
My fear was however quelled when Mistress called to say she had got my missed calls and was on the way home. Her journey time was 20 minutes. The food would take 30. At least I could get it underway before she arrived.
My instructions also included having the cane ready next to the bench and be dressed appropriately. This I did.
When Mistress came in she was as workmanlike as any Governess you could fantasise.
“Is dinner on?”
“Yes Mistress. It will ready in 10 minutes.”
“Washing hung out?”
My heat sunk. I’d thought of it every time I was in the kitchen checking on the meal – except the time the cycle finished.
I looked on, very worried. Waiting for her to rebuke me. Instead Mistress gave my one of her looks which made me even worse that I’d failed such a simple task.
“Well, let’s get this done.”
She picked up the cane and pointed it to the bench.
My heart was thumping. Of all the canings this past few days, this was the one I feared the most. Maybe because I had all day to think about it. Possibly because, unlike all the other sessions, this time I knew exactly what to expect.
It was everything I expected. Delivered at moderate pace, barely allowing me time to count and thank Mistress. This caning had me wimpering, struggling to count each stroke as I’m required.
At 18 I have to admit I hung over that bench, my eyes damp and on the verge of real tears, my whole body shuddering, thinking, ‘my God we are only half way.’
But Mistress’s resolve to punish was steadfast and she completed the 36 with no breaks.
Once released from the bench Mistress commanded me to kneel before her. “I think you now understand the consequences of not affording me the attention that is expected. And the kind of discipline you can expect from now on if you don't. Remember, you asked to live this lifestyle and I’m happy to continue – but only while you respond in the correct manner. If at any time in future you deliberately try to undermine our regime or flatly refuse discipline again, that will be the end. Do you understand?
“Now go and fetch the paddle. There’s the matter of things left in washing machine to be dealt with.”
Inwardly I groaned. Surely not more? But I raced upstairs for the paddle.
I got six swats. Not even hard ones. A token gesture.
But with Mistress’s words still in my head, there really wasn’t any need for any more physical punishment.
“Now I’d like my dinner.”