At precisely 10pm I knock the living room door and am told to enter.
Mistress takes the cane from me and points the long whippy rod to the bench. ‘Bend over.’
Those are the only words that will be spoken by her until the 36-stroke maintenance punishment is completed. During the next few minutes the silence will be broken only by the swish and crack of the cane on my bare bottom – and my grunts and groans, not to mention frantically out of control breathing.
Mistress pulls my plastics pants down and makes sure the tops of my thighs are clear of any protection.
I feel the cool air on flesh that’s become slightly damp with perspiration inside the plastics covering.
It seems like eternity before she stands to the side and measures the cane across my bottom.
I am proud of myself during the four first strokes. I don’t utter a sound apart from counting and thanking Mistress as required. For a brief moment I think I might be able to at last take one of her canings without a fuss.
My illusion is shattered with the fifth stroke that seems to slice right through me. In a split second I’m panting and puffing trying to settle for the next one. But too late, it comes whipping in. Followed swiftly by another.
My breathing is so ragged I think I might hyperventilate. Then Mistress settles the tempo back down, three gentle taps on my bottom before each actual stroke. She’s achieved her goal – to break my resolve and ensure I suffer. Now it’s a case of prolonging that suffering with consistent hard strokes.
Each one will jolt my entire body forward. Within my bonds I shuffle my bottom back for the next stroke. I’m fighting pain, determined to take them as best as I can. I noticed my counting has become a faint whisper. My mouth is dry. I so desperately need a sip of water. I feel the corners of my lips begin to turn down. My eyes are moist. I’m on the verge of tears.
I ‘m saying, ‘18, thank you Mistress,’ realizing with dread we are only half way but then I remind myself I wanted this. Need it. Deserve it.
The second 18 are as bad. No, worse. It seems to go on for ever.
But when there’s a set target you start to focus on that number but you know the nearer you get to 36, the harder those strokes will be. Not only does Mistress end with a flourish, the strokes are landing on already battered flesh.
At 36 I’m released from my bonds. Mistress, as always, gets me to stand in front of her so she can survey her accuracy. I hear, ‘oh, what a perfect collection,’ and know that each stripe is absolutely parallel from the top of my bottom cheeks to the crease where the top of my thighs meet my buttocks.
“Pack everything away. Make me a tea and then we’ll have that discussion.”
I pull up my plastic pants and shuffle out of the room.
Our DD regime is back on track - again. Happy New Year