Oh that Cane!

I don't get very many canings these days, nowhere near as many as I used to, the natural acceptance of advancing years has mellowed both of us and the daily thrust of business, which used to help keep adrenalin levels and tensions high, is no longer an imperative. There are other stimulants of course but they're not as strong and even though I never stop wanting to get spanked, it's probably better to accept the watered down intensity and frequency with good grace.

That said, I got caned on New Year Eve daytime and it was a humdinger and probably deserved and the impression it made on my bottom lasted right through most of the evening and refreshed again next morning when I showered. Something I hadn't felt for a very long time and which made me smile warmly and want to shout out to my husband that his work was stinging me in the shower, which I didn't do of course but I did tell him later when we were cuddled together later  looking at some holiday photos.

Why did I get caned? Well it started off small, doesn't it always, with me whining about things we hadn't got done or arranged properly and could have done better, then bemoaning that we'd cancelled our plans for NYE nearly two weeks earlier based on media reports and government dithering over the direction of the Omicron virus and now we were going to our son's for an early evening finger buffet which wouldn't be late because P won't drink drive. Anyway the blame for everything was directed squarely (by me) at my husband even though I'd been party to all the decisions we'd made. And, as I'll admit does happen when things get a bit frayed, words escalated and I got madder while P got calmer which infuriates the hell out of me.

So that was the state of affairs. My husband said, 'Enough's enough, this stops here and now,' and frogmarched me upstairs, me still arguing and telling him to stop. He shuffled me into his office and shifted a new printer off his desk, which he hasn't bothered to connect so far, and it became clear to me that he intended to cane me. I told him he couldn't I wouldn't accept it and it would be an assault but he just said it would happen now or later and harder or tomorrow and harder still, and that we would not be going to our son's until I'd had my bottom well caned. Then he stood back, no more hand on arm physical strength stuff, just me breathing deeply and frantically trying to think of ways to de-escalate. I couldn't.

I'm sorry,' I said.

'You will be. Bend over my desk and hold the far edge.' He reached up to the top of a shelving rack for his cane. 'I know you say you're sorry but it doesn't excuse all the name calling and exaggeration and bad language, does it. And it's hardly a first for you and I can see in your eyes now and from your stance that you still have temper and unreasonableness in you. Bend over.'

I jutted my quivering chin out but turned and bent over. I felt his hands come round my waist and my jeans unbuttoned and lowered. I had a long t-shirt on which he raised half way up my back and then my knickers which he didn't take down but pulled tight into my bottom. There were no pauses for effect or comments or last requests, he stood to the right of me and gave me three sharp strokes with only a couple of seconds between, then stopped and I heard him move to the left and another three followed and I heard myself cry out as if I was detached from my body and it wasn't really me doing it. The pain from the cane comes, to my thinking, in three stages; first the sharp immediate shock of white heat then the wave or rather waves of deeper pain which roll in after and then the longer lasting burn which settles in and stays and every time you move in your jeans you feel as if they're sticking to you. I started to get up but P told me, 'No I'm not finished with you,' and his hand not ungently urged my shoulders back down.

He gave me three more strokes from each side and made sure I felt them, OMG I couldn't remember harder and didn't give a monkeys about the noise I knew I was making. I might have begged for leniency but it was all so fast. Twelve strokes and really hard ones I'd say, surely that was it. It was, he moved but not to switch sides and I heard the light clatter on wood as he replaced his cane. I was sniffling as I stood up, slowly, and felt my t-shirt drop back into place covering the damage he'd done to my backside. I looked at him, I knew my eyes were welling but didn't want them to break.

'Let that be a lesson to you,' he said, 'I don't want to hear any more nonsense from you and you better put your face straight for later if you intend coming over to our son's with me,' and he walked out of the office. then I felt back under my t-shirt and ran my finger lightly along the welts which were forming. I wanted to go in the bedroom and lie on the bed but wouldn't because I thought he might be in there, then I heard his footsteps on the stairs and in I waddled with my jeans held at my thighs. I didn't bother with the mirror, no need I knew from how it felt that he'd meant it, I just lay on my side on the bed for a while playing back the things I'd said and what it had led to. After half an hour I washed my face and fastened up my jeans with a grimace. I went downstairs, the longer you leave it the harder it gets.

'I will still be coming with you later, of course I will. And I'm genuinely sorry for what I said, not just because you caned me but because I know it was wrong.' There, I'd got it out.

We had a very pleasant evening and there was no lingering resentment at all even though I was reminded I'd been dealt with whenever I sat or went to the loo. Next day I was horny from wake-up, I didn't say it or make any moves but I was. It reminded me why I used to love-hate the cane and really still do, it's awesome and I hope it gets used more in 22 .....perhaps not quite as hard but who knows, maybe that's the attraction:)

Stay safe.

Ronnie
xx