Restrained for a Caning Again

I had had it coming. Too many indiscretions, too many late nights out with the girls and now his patience had snapped. Being a good, attentive submissive is never easy. Sometimes, despite the lure and escape of submission, humiliation and chastisement at his hands, I choose a night out with the girls from the office. That Sunday, when I had failed to call him and make an arrangement for play; late that evening, I was sent a curt and authoritative text.

"Be here at six tomorrow evening".

I knew better than to argue.

So, that very next day, at six, I was standing in his study, dressed as I knew he would demand, in my uniform; a perfectly presented specimen of mischievousness ready to be made to feel a little more contrite. Sir grabbed my hand and pulled me towards him. He stares at me and my chin, meekly falls.

"Susie, you are too be punished", he states, coldly, calmly, with the authority that draws me to him and with the certainty that ignoring his commands would leave me without his control and all that it does for me.

He leads me towards the spanking horse. Taking my hand, he pulls me over it. My skirt rises, revealing my maroon gym knickers. Each leg of the horse is fitted with a leather cuff. Sir binds me tightly by the wrists and ankles.

I hear his footsteps as he walks to the cupboard, the rattle of canes as he selects one.

"Susie, you are to receive 12 strokes from the junior, senior and reformatory canes", he barks.

My hands clench as I hear his words.

"No Sir", I cry.

He tugs my maroon gym skirt further up, my bottle green full knickers now completely exposed to his scrutiny.

I hear the whistle of the cane as it falls. I scream as it lands on my cold bottom. 'Thank god' for these knickers.

Again, the cane rises and falls across my knicker clad cheeks. Gripping the legs of the horse, I squirm in pain; the second stripe feels so hot.

"Thank you sir", I mutter; my eyes squeeze to close as the pain swims from my bottom to my head.

"Very good young lady," sir replies.

The junior cane is so stingy. It's flexible shaft bites in so deeply. Another eight strokes land rapidly across me derrière. I sob. As the last stroke sinks in, I feel sir's fingers inside the waistband of my knickers.

"No sir!" I wail. "Not on my bare bum please"!

"Young lady, you will have you bare bottom thrashed", he retorts.

Sir places the first cane over the spanking horse, in front of my nose. Walking purposefully, he selects the senior cane from the punishment cupboard. The thick, taught knickers around my thighs limit my movement but I squirm in anticipation. Twelve evenly spaced wheals still sting on my now naked cheeks as I wait.

He arches the cane above his shoulder and it cracks down, slicing the air and lands with a heavy thwack across the centre of my rump. Biting over the top of an existing strike, it makes my yelp loudly. I bite my lip. Tears start too well.

"Thank you Sir", I blub. My plump cheeks dance with pain.

His strokes become harder, faster and the pain in my bottom grows. Dazed, I endure his wrath. My punishment continues.

"Sirrrrr", I yelp, "Please don't punish me so severely."

"Susie, you have had this coming. You are so inpatient, inattentive, disrespectful and I have to deal with you", he snaps.

A final thwack across the lower part of my cheeks, almost on my thighs, marks the end of my second stage of caning. Downing the cane, he leaves me to make himself a cup of tea. I sob.

After long minutes, he returns. Taking the reformatory cane from the cupboard, he positions himself to the left of my straddled body and takes aim. Whistling, the heavy cane falls across the top of my arse.

"Ouchhhhh", I scream. "Ouchieee", as the second lands across my angry, raw cheeks.

"Susie, you are a bad girl and as you can't be quiet, you will receive two extra strokes".

Not daring to protest, I await my continuing chastisement.

The cane is so heavy; its dense shaft bites so deeply. Heavy dragon wood sends my senses into overdrive as I writhe under its weighty impact. Fourteen heavy, accurately placed blows land across my seared cheeks. If I could kick my feet or rub my bottom, I would. The final stroke lands dead centre. My head drops as I lose control and find myself seeping moistness from the lips of my compressed mound. Oh, I feel so humiliated and I know that Sir won't hesitate to deal with me again.

Unfastening me, Sir stands me up, he tugs me to the corner and I am made to stand with my hands on my head and my knickers around my trembling ankles. I gather the skirt around my waist and stand, as I know I must; seared cheeks, alive with heat, swelling red wheals; tram-lining my white flesh, displayed for his pleasure as I whimper and groan. As I ache, the wetness around my eyes gives way to a wetness within my swelling, aching mound.

I imagine him, though my eyes are averted towards the oak panelled wall. I imagine him standing, arms crossed, admiring each red stripe, the fall of my skirt across my sore cheeks and the bunched fabric of my knickers around my ankles. My hands tremble across my plaited brown hair and my legs writhe as I try to perch in socked toes in the corner. I can hear Sir congratulating himself. Chuckling, licking his lips, pacing the floor.