Pay attention to the cane

Not this week but last, I was in for a rude awakening when I arrived home on Friday, following my return from a week away on a temporary work contract.

As related previously, there has been no spanking or discipline in our household for many, many weeks now as my wife had seemed to lose interest in dealing with me.

I have been down in the dumps about that and exhibited grumpiness and bad natured behaviour, hoping perhaps to get noticed. Rather than taking me over her knee, my wife had responded by telling me forcefully to get my act together and stop being uncooperative.

When I entered the house on Friday there was a note on the hall table. It told me that my wife had arranged for us to go out with friends and that I should be the driver for the night.

Before that, she wrote, she expected me to get on with the ironing that had not been done all week. Nothing new there, but I got a sense that the note had something more “domineering” in her style than I had experienced recently.

I put my stuff away and showered and set about the laundry. I dressed in shorts and a shirt because it was unusually hot weather. Maybe an hour later I heard her car in the drive and put the kettle on for coffee.

She said hi and we talked for a while about our week and what I had earned in fees and then she went off to change. Ten minutes or so later and I heard her call me from the top of the stairs. I went into the hall.

“Get up here.” There was no mistaking the tone, as her voice carried clearly from the upstairs room.

I entered the bedroom to find her in bra, pants and tights and holding the longest cane that we have in our blanket chest.

“It’s time to sort things out and if the cane is the only way you will improve your attitude then so be it.”

I was gripped with a sudden feeling of dread. Be careful what you wish for, as they say.

“Fetch the chair from the spare room and come back here, sharpish!”

The bedroom was lit by the overhead light when I came back with the straight backed wooden chair from in front of the dressing table. My wife had drawn the curtains. Nobody could see in but she preferred not to take the chance. The evening was so sunny that there was still quite a lot of daylight coming round the sides of the curtains.

“Stand behind the chair and put your hands on your head.”

I watched her pace around the room in a circle as she lectured me on how fed up she was with me and my bad moods and how she demanded a change in my behaviour and a change right now.

Coming up behind me she placed the cane across the seat of the chair and unbuttoned the waistband of my shorts, letting them fall to the floor. I had an erection but she ignored it. With a swift movement she pulled my pants down to my knees.

“Get over the chair and lift up onto your toes. Do not move or moan. I want you silent the whole time. Understood?”

I started to say “Yes, ma’am” but thought better of it, so I just nodded. My erection, such as it was, waved in front of me as I moved to get into position

“I don’t know why you’re excited. This isn’t about sex, as you’ll find out in a minute.”

I shifted from one leg to the other trying to get in a position that did not have my prick squashed against the top of the chair back. I had to really stretch my legs to get right over and into a stable position and I very nearly toppled over, which would have made me look rather silly.

When I was ready and gripping the edge of the chair seat for balance, I saw her feet come round to the side of me. She swished the cane menacingly, creating that worrying zip in the warm air. Then, with an unwarranted touch of gentleness, the end of the cane tapped my bare bottom a few times before she lifted it high and slammed it into my bare cheeks.

The pain, following that sharp crack, rushed through my body and into my head and I gasped out the air in my chest that I had been holding in. The room fell quiet and I felt perfectly alone and at her mercy. This was the submission I had craved so much and now I was living the consequence of my desire.

“I am not counting and neither should you. I will stop when I want to. Understood?

I gave a small nod with my head before the cane struck again.

Getting into her stride she caned me steadily. 

The only sounds were the whoosh, crack and a groan from me, each time the cane rose and fell.

After 12 strokes I stopped counting in my head and just surrendered to the pain as sge whipped me steadily. Occasionally the cane landed on top of the mark of a previous stroke but in the main she cracked the bamboo over fresh skin.

If you are familiar with the cane you will understand that the first strokes are sharp and stingy, but that eventually the skin can go numb and then the feeling of soreness in the punishment ebbs away replaced with a deep throbbing . This was not the case in this particular session. My wife used a full swing of her shoulder and arm in order to deliver powerful strokes and by traversing from top to bottom she managed to find fresh skin with practically every stroke.

I struggled to keep position and my leg muscles strained to keep on my toes.  The skin on my bottom and the top of my legs was tightly stetched and the pain when my wife struck the cane on the backs of my legs was excruciating.

I tried to gain the plateau of subspace in order to tolerate the punishment but the harsh strokes prevented me from entering the zone. I began to yelp as she lashed harder than she had ever done before.

“Getting the message now are we, Michael?”

I whispered “Yes ma’am”, very quietly.

“You can answer that.”

She struck again this time just above my knees.

“Yes ma’am” I tried to shout it out but my voice croaked.

“That’s good and just so you know I am getting a lot of satisfaction from this.”

As she struck again and again I could feel a tremor of resistance fill my head. Why I am I crouched here, taking this from her, I thought, when I could just get up and walk away?

Instantly, that other darker side of my brain told me to lie still and take it.

By this time she had maybe given me 50 or more strokes and I needed to relax my muscles and go down onto my feet.  I just could not stay on my toes anymore.

My wife paused and I thought maybe she was done and my whipping was over.

“You’re not in the proper position.”

“I can’t Miss, I mean ma’am.”

“Yes, you can. I’ll show you that you can. Lift one leg.”

I wobbled a bit but did as she said.

Whizz crack the cane smacked the sole of my foot in a downwards diagonal stroke.

I cried out and slammed the burning foot back on the floor.

“”Now lift the other one.”

“No Miss, please Miss.”

“Just do what I say or it will be more than one stroke.”

Reluctantly I lifted the other leg and bent my knee.

This foot smacking had only happened once or twice before in our FLR. We had talked a few years ago about corporal punishment on different parts of the body when we were in bed one night. She was intrigued that I enjoyed being whipped across my penis and balls and inner thighs and she had asked what other areas I wanted to try. I mentioned getting the cane on the soles of my feet and also getting the ruler or strap on the backs of legs, low down below the knee, which had happened to me at school.

It was about a month later that she experimented with applying the cane to my feet and she didn’t need to make many strokes before I was whimpering for it to stop.

So now the cane cracked against my left foot and I stamped both feet hard on the soft carpet to try and dispel the pain.

Regretting my disobedience, I slowly lifted my self up over the chair and back onto my toes.

“There you are you see. You can get into position when you try harder.”

The caning on my bottom commenced again and this time she was much quicker at recovering the stroke and slashing at me again. The whoosh, crack, whoosh, crack came in rapid fire strokes and I began to sob.

“Please Miss, please.” I moaned

“Please what? Speak up! Please continue or please stop? It doesn’t really matter either way. You brought this on yourself and I will take where I want to go, not you.”

The punishment resumed in rapid fire strokes and I was perspiring with the strain of keeping still and staying silent.  I didn’t realise that I had started moaning each time she whipped me, until she told me to stop. My wife believes that if this CP is my thing then I shouldn’t make a fuss when she hands it out.

The minutes passed as the caning went on and on. At last she threw the cane down on the floor and went off to the bathroom. I did not move until she called out that I should put everyting away and get back to the ironing.

I pushed myself back on to my feet and rubbed my bottom. I could feel the ridges and some of the lines. I felt lightheaded and joyful. My head was clear and I was back in a good place. Pulling up my shorts I went through to thank my wife but the door was locked.

“Go away.”

I left the bedroom taking the cane and the chair with me. In the guest room I opened the wardrobe and pulled down my shorts and pants. Looking over my shoulder at the mirror on the inside of the door I saw a well reddened bottom with many purply-white lines across the full surface of my cheeks. There was hardly an area from the tops of my legs  to my hips that had not received a cane stroke. I was impressed by my wife’s skill and determination.

That evening was total pleasure and I was Mr Cheerful himself.When we climbed into bed after a good supper out my wife threw off the bed sheet and pulled her panties off. The invitation was clear and I went muff diving with pleasure. It is hard to grin with a mouth full of peachy lips but I certainly felt like the cat who had gotten the cream. As I gave myself a hand job later on my wife whispered that things would get back to normal now, or so she hoped, and she thought that a bath-brush spanking the next morning would not go amiss.

 I came vigorously, in happy agreement with every word she said.