If there’s anything worse than being caned, it’s being caned first thing in the morning.
One minute you’re snuggled up cosy in bed next to Mistress, discussing our FLR regime, the next minute she’s turned on you and said: “What did I tell you about dribbling on me? Go and get the cane. Now!”
You roll out of bed, struggle to stand upright and get your balance. Your eyes are all bleary, your mouth is dry and aching for a resuscitating coffee - but your heart now is racing.
You unlock the wardrobe door and the sickly sweet aroma of stored pvc and rubber clothing hits you, offering a small antidote of pleasure to the pain you are about to endure.
You extract two canes , one thick, one thin, from the rack and return to the bedroom, head bowed, awaiting the inevitable.
By now, Mistress is out of bed, still naked, but eagerly holding her hand out to receive the canes. As you offer them, red handles first, she tells you to lay face down on the dense foam fitness roller she bought, especially for raising my bottom off the bed.
“First of all, I told you not to thrust that thing against my thigh. But you went ahead and continued to do it and dribbled all over me. But that’s only a minor thing. You general attitude these last few days has been disgusting. You want a Female Led Relationship? Then it’s time you remembered that you show respect all day, every day. Just because I don’t happen to be behaving in an authoritarian manner every minute doesn’t give you the right to slacken off.”
It goes quiet for a split second before the cane lashes down. She’s using the thin cane with some force. You count a dozen in your head but they keep coming and you’ve got hold of the duvet cover so tight, your hands ache. But nowhere near as badly as your bottom.
She changes canes and the thick cane really starts to pack a wallop that gets involuntary yells from you as the furious strokes come faster and faster until they reach a crescendo.
“Downstairs now. Make my breakfast.”
You waste no time in jumping off the bed, fearful of earning more strokes. Pull on your plastic pants – the cool pvc is a delight against the burning hot flesh - then scurry downstairs to prepare breakfast. Your bottom is on fire but at least it’s over now. Or so you think.
Mistress, now dressed comes into the kitchen with the thin cane. She obviously catches the moment on your face of despair as you see the thin rod flexing between her fingers. She smiles – but it’s a knowing smile that she has the upper hand of power.
“Front room, over the leather stool.”
You do as directed, pulling your plastic pants back down to offer the target area. And then it starts again.
This time it’s not your bottom getting it. Stroke after stroke whips into the sit spot at the top of your thighs. After 12 you start pleading but she gives you 18. All of them in a band of about two inches of flesh. And then it’s over.
You’re told to stand and face her. Your shaking still. And sweating. She looks stern but as lovely as ever as she recites the chores for the day. You kneel and kiss her heels as instructed and then she’s gone out the door for her business appointment.
It’s one of those days where Mistress knows everyone of those chores – and more – will be done by the time she gets back tonight. Risking another session with her cane, on top of what you’ve just had is something you will desperately try to avoid at all costs.