How it all began

REAL Spanking Short Stories from The Life and Times of...

The Chace Hotel, Coventry

“Very well. When I see you on Wednesday afternoon, you will be caned for lying.”

“Got it.”

“And; Don’t. Be. Late!”

“I won’t be.”

I hung up the phone, closed my eyes, took in a very deep breath and opened them as I exhaled at length. I was going to be caned. First time. For real.

At once, I had butterflies in my stomach and my head felt very light indeed. I stood, dumbly staring at my phone. In less than 4-day’s time I would be bent over and expected to accept 12 strokes of the cane administered to my backside by my boyfriend of just 7-days!

I was in a whirlwind and it wasn’t until this moment, the first time I was slated for genuine punishment, that I had stopped to even draw breath.

Only a few days had passed since I had received my first proper Over The Knee hand-spanking and one solitary, yet ferocious, swipe of the riding crop.

It had been a mini-test and I had cruised it but now, now it was time to see if I could handle the real thing. I’d never been properly punished before. It’s true that I was well used to other forms of physical discipline thanks to my sports training, however corporal punishment was all very new to me.

I hadn’t even realised that I was supposed to call my disciplinarian ‘sir’.

Then, once I’d learned that inconvenient fact - the hard way - I objected to calling the man I was sleeping with ‘sir’.

The premise for this caning, I have to say, was rather weak. Though sir had labelled it as ‘lying’, it wasn’t really anything of the sort. It was more of a jape gone wrong, a prank, or a wee tease. We both knew it; however, it was a golden opportunity to test my metal and neither of us were about to back down.

That said, I was terrified.

I had no experience to fall back on and not much internet ‘research’ that offered any crumb of comfort whatsoever. If anything, it only added to my anguish.

Being a cheeky and forthright young lady there was no way that I could be seen to fold like a cheap suit once under real pressure and I wasn’t not aware of this fact.

For the next few days, I barely ate a thing, I couldn’t. So nervous was I about the impending doom that I’d take a bite or two of a sandwich but simply didn’t have it in me to take more.

I tried to occupy my mind by spending extra time in the gym but whilst there I’d receive frequent messages from sir reminding me what was to come.

I was beside myself.

At last, the day arrived and as I was doing one final check of my overnight-bag, I suddenly remembered that Mr. James had warned me to not wear my ‘ridiculous pink knickers’. So, I immediately sought them out and put them on.

If I was about to face my first ever caning, then I’d damn well do it with my chin up!

I set off for the Chace Hotel, in Coventry, far too early for the 2pm agreed meet time. Obviously, I wasn’t going to risk being late for a disciplinary, especially as sir had already admonished me for lateness. A particular dislike of his, as my luck would have it.

Our first ever dinner had been in Coventry, at The Quicken Tree, back in January and I replayed this landmark event in my mind as a drove ever closer to my encounter with the cane.

On arrival at the hotel, I scoured the car park for his Jaguar. There was, thankfully, no sign of it, which meant I had arrived first and therefore in good time.

In the hotel bar, where we had agreed to meet, I ordered a sparkling water as I didn’t dare chance an alcoholic beverage in case that was forbidden. I also wanted to retain as much self-control as humanly possible in order to face the music with.

I wasn’t kept waiting long.

Mr. James, early as usual, swept into the hotel bar, kissed me hungrily and promptly ordered two small glasses of dry white wine. I explained why I hadn’t ordered wine and he smirked, darkly and told me that a very small amount was quite alright.

“A little Dutch courage won’t do any harm, Miss Allen.”

“No, sir.”

I almost whispered back; strangely without any qualms around sirring now.

We exchanged pleasantries and sir even put an arm around me at one point as we sipped our wine. He, thirstily; me, nervously.

In our short but intense time together, he’d never seen me like this. I was positively quaking with fear. All I wanted was to get the hell upstairs and get this ordeal over with as soon as humanly possible.

He didn’t make me wait long.

“Right, you’ll go on up to the room and strip to your underwear whilst I fetch our luggage from both cars. When I arrive, I will expect to find you have respected my dress code; in the corner with your hand on your head. Any questions?”

“No, sir,” I blushed like a girl half my age.

Now it was real, this was really going to happen and there would be no backing out. I meekly handed him over my car keys, slid my way out of the booth and headed for the main staircase only pausing once to look behind me.

Sir, left the bar with a swagger without even looking back once.

Upstairs, in Room 4, (I’ll never forget the huge brass ‘4’ on the seemingly enormous dark, oak door), I quickly surveyed the room which was traditional and refined in style. There was what must surely have been a faux Chesterfield, (or was it?), over by the window and all of the furnishings were dark green, polished wood and a very high ceiling too.

There was, unfortunately, plenty of room to swing a cat - or rather a cane - I noted grimly as I began to strip down to my underwear.

Normally, I would have worn a beautiful matching set of bra and knickers, however, as Mr James had expressly forbidden me to wear ‘those ridiculous pink knickers’ (the only pink anything I owned as a matter of fact), I matched them up with a simple white t-shirt bra and had instead packed a beautiful lace combination to wear under my dress at dinner… should I make it that far!

Stood in the corner of what was, frankly, an enormous old British hotel room in my verboten pink pants and plain white bra, I felt very small and not exactly chilly but vulnerable. I laced my hands neatly on the top of my head and used my Alexander Technique training from drama school to make my arms feel as light as possible by adjusting my posture as best as I could in the required position.

I was now beginning to rethink my pink pants strategy as all of the possible negative outcomes played out in my head. Just as I had resolved to utilise my emergency change of underwear secreted in my handbag, the door swung open.

Too late.

Holding my breath, I could hear him rummaging around somewhere behind where I stood in my bra and knickers, he hadn’t yet acknowledged me at all and the tension was almost unbearable.

“Come and place yourself over my knee.”

Uh oh, here we go…

I spun around from my position facing the corner to see that he had taken up a spot on the king-sized double bed.

In a moment of panic, I tried to figure out which way around I’d need to be so that he could spank me with his dominant hand.

I needn’t have bothered.

His left thigh was spread and proffered which made things easier for me. I needn’t have concerned myself though, as it turns out; when it comes to spanking, sir is ambidextrous. He would be.

Going over a man’s knee for a punishment spanking was like no other experience I’d acquired to date. It was extremely humbling having to nestle down into position and offer one’s bottom for hard discipline.

Probably for the first time in my life I felt meek, compliant and especially eager to please. Not knowing what to do with my hands, I grabbed up some of the throw to hold on to.

The smacks rained down on alternate cheeks hard and quite fast. I hadn’t given any real consideration to a pre-caning spanking. My entire focus had been on the punishment caning, the single most distracting event in my life to date. I was petrified and at the same time determined to see it through.

Hence, I hadn’t realised that I’d also be getting a hand-spanking too.

As sir continued to pummel my rear cheeks, I briefly speculated whether or not I thought this latest development would make the caning easier or more difficult to manage.

Given my posterior was being ‘pre-heated’, I figured that it would help me to better cope with the caning; though, in reality, I was really only telling myself a comforting story. The truth was, I had no way of truly knowing whether or not the additional spanking would help or hinder.

Intermittently, Mr James would cease the spanking, check the heat in my cheeks using the backs of his hands and probably search for other signs of distress. He’d given up on checking my face for tears as he had repeatedly on the previous occasion, just less than a week earlier - on ‘test night’, if you like!

I’ve no idea how long he went at it as I was more concerned with staying down, being a model of compliance and not allowing my hands to attempt to interfere with the discipline. Easier said than done when things begin to really hurt.

“Go back to the corner.”

“Yes, sir.”

I replied, only to let him hear how steady my voice was. My cheeks on the other hand were burning. I know that sounds like a cliché but the very first time one receives a punishment hand-spanking that is precisely what it feels like. It’s not just a bit of warmth, like the kind you might get stood in front of a fire. It’s the kind of red-hot heat that comes from being toasted ON the fire!

As I once again stood facing the corner with my hands on my head, arse cheeks ablaze, I remembered my pink knickers. Thankfully, nothing had so far been said about such an ‘offensive’ garment and I prayed it would stay that way. With my bottom hot and sore, already, I was now regretting my decision to disobey orders.

“Come here and bend yourself over the bed, young lady.”

Oh, God. This is it. Sink or swim time!

This time, I turned around to see him holding a short-handled, black leather paddle. The ‘striking’ zone had some flashes of red and was pretty long and around three inches wide. I couldn’t see how thick it was even as I closed the distance between us but did note how relieved I was that it wasn’t yet time for the cane.

Sounds crazy, now, that I was glad to be receiving some more pain and discomfort before the main event but that was my genuine reaction.

I viewed the paddle as a lesser implement than the cane using pure logic. My reasoning being that if it was more severe, then I’d have been sentenced to a paddling for ‘non-lying lying’ rather than a caning, in the first place.

Being calm, rational and inwardly confident is a pretty good place to be in one of life’s more difficult circumstances. I acknowledge how lucky I am to have this kind of temperament when the going gets tough. That said, even if you are high in negative emotion (neuroticism), you can work on your responses to differing challenges. I know that I have to keep myself in check during these difficult moments.

“This is ten percent luck, twenty percent skill
Fifteen percent concentrated power of will
Five percent pleasure, fifty percent pain…”

Remember the name - Fort Minor

I bent at the waist and pushed my torso down onto the bed. At a compact five-foot-one-inch tall, I’m the perfect height to be spanked over the end of most standard size beds… it’s as though I was made for it.

Once again, I took hold of the throw and gripped it tightly, knowing that the impacts with the leather paddle would be more intense than with Mr James’ hand.

I was correct.

The first three were delivered full-throttle and in rapid succession. I clung onto the bedding and hoped that there would be a magic number of swats in sir’s mind. Better that then ‘until he is finished’ kind of a thing.

I wouldn’t get as many with this as I did with his hand, would I?

Now, I’ve no idea how many I got with his hand, nor how long the hand-spanking took but I know it was a lot.

Put it this way; I haven’t had cause to count that high since primary school when we were learning to count very large numbers!

Another three swats came in and I found that I was already better able to tolerate the thud and sting of the paddle.

I paid close attention to my breathing and speculated that there might only be another six to come. Having done a little more internet research into these things than last time, (precious little), I now knew that British disciplinarians tended to administer strokes in sixes or twelves. Hence, it was very unlikely that I’d receive say nine or ten.

Next, in came two devastating forehands down the line, one on each cheek and it was all I could do to not bend my knees to help dissipate the sting.

That’s eight, Jacqs. Likely only four more. Just four more and it’s done.

Self-talk is the beginning of the real struggle, I find and it can be dangerous…

What if he isn’t going to stop at twelve?

Three more came in and they were all low blows, catching that unbelievably sensitive area between buttocks and thigh. The third one, in particular, felt as though it had cut me open.

The blinding, tearing pain had momentarily distracted me from counting and I was confused as to whether or not I’d received ten or eleven swats.

Just as I was replaying what had happened so far in an attempt to ‘back count’, I felt Mr. James’ left hand pressing down in the small of my back and then almost immediately after an almighty crack across both butt cheeks.

It made my ears ring for a moment and the pain arrived almost a full second later. If you can imagine a giant nettle, with giant stinging leaves being applied to your buttocks, then you are about there.

I’d read about the last one being ‘the hardest one of all’ online and so I felt a level of assurance that we were done with the damn paddle.

Until we weren’t!

It would seem that Mr James was just finding form with that damn paddle of his; four more came singing in and so I hunkered down and prayed for eighteen to be the magic number instead.

It wasn’t.

He was really going for it now. Realising that he had had no reaction at all from me, I was perfectly still and stoic, and thus he would apparently wallop me with gay abandon.

That wasn’t what I had been going for.

My goal had been to hand over full control, to be compliant and respectful of his discipline. It would seem that he had read it as though he wasn’t hurting me enough!

Oh dear!

I was inwardly really struggling now; we were well into the twenties with that damn black leather paddle and with no sign of Mr James abating until I heard a different ‘crack’.

“You’ve broken it!”

“Pardon, sir?”

“I don’t believe it; you’ve broken my paddle!”

“I didn’t break it; I didn’t get to use it!”

“Back to the corner.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You wanton paddle-breaker.”

My, my that was a stroke of good fortune. Who knows how long I’d have been down there receiving that damn paddle had the handle not snapped in the most fortuitous of moments!

Though I was elated, I was pretty close to ‘cooked’, physically and emotionally.

Gosh I was sore now. The fire had been turned up a couple of notches and a dull ache in the muscles could already be felt… and the caning hadn’t even begun!

Would that be next, or did sir have more for me to endure?

I genuinely had no idea what he carried around with him in the sports holdall, though he definitely had a riding whip with him last week.

He won’t crop me before he canes me, will he?

The previous week, Mr James had given me a little test. I’d been over his knee for a lengthy hand spanking and he then administered just one stroke of the crop with me over the pillows on the bed.

It had been a hard whack and I was taken aback at how much it hurt; however, I hadn’t reacted outwardly as I wanted him to know that I was serious about a relationship and that I could handle his discipline… even if I wasn’t quite as sure of that fact as I might have needed to be.

“Right, it’s time for your caning. Come and bend over the Chesterfield.”

“Yes, sir.”

Surely it was a fake Chesterfield?

I found that on the opposite side of the room to ‘my corner’, over by the large window, sir had turned around the Chesterfield so that if one now sat on it, one would now be facing the wall and not into the room.

Perfect positioning to bend your miscreant over the back of it.

I quickly took up position, bent at the waist over the back of the dark green Chesterfield, noticing how cool the leather felt against the front of my thighs compared with the furnace in my rear.

My hands quickly found a safe place, squeezed down the back of the sofa’s cushions and I found a kind of stability in the trapping of my own hands. Whilst I could remove them at short notice, it would have to be a conscious decision as I was using the sturdy frame of the Chesterfield as well as the heavy cushions, to keep my hands from letting me down.

Heart racing, breathing in an elevated ‘stress response’ state, I attempted to get a hold of myself as sir took up position by the mantlepiece behind and away to my left.

I heard the unmistakable ‘swoosh’ of the cane.

It really is a remarkable thing. Having never heard one in my life, how did I know? It can only have been from classical references in English literature. As far as I can recall, I’d never seen a caning depicted in a film or on television - though I now know of some such instances in the mainstream - I’d also never read a book or magazine which contained such a thing.

At the time of my first proper caning, the only reference that I could faithfully recall was a chapter from the Roald Dahl autobiographical novel called ‘Boy’.

My year six primary school teacher had read it to my class when we were circa ten and eleven years old.

He was a wonderful story teller, he would have us all on the edges of our seats on a Friday afternoon as he read to us before home time.

I can remember in vivid detail several of the books he read to us that year; The Silver Sword, Danny the Champion of the World and Boy.

Though, I freely admit that not only had I been especially fascinated by the caning scene but that well over a decade later I could still recall it with a high degree of detail and accuracy and that’s how I knew what the sound was - Roald Dahl’s visceral account of being canned by his headmaster.

In a state of heightened alert, I focussed even more keenly as I felt the cool, thin cane against the heat underneath my bright pink knickers.

God what ever drove me to wear those silly damn things for this?!

As bright pink as they were, however, I speculated that my cheeks had by now a far darker hue.

Sir withdrew the cane after several short tap-taps and as he did so I hunkered down some more over the back of that sturdy old Chesterfield. If I had been at all experienced, I wouldn’t have bent as far over it as I did unless directly instructed. I was, by now, so far over the back of that sofa that I was all but touching my toes.

Toe-touching is pretty much ‘maximal tension’ in the rear chain and thus is far more painful than attempting to keep your hamstrings as short as possible and as upright in body as it is possible to be whilst bent at the waist.

Alas, I didn’t know any better at the time and in my eagerness to please and show great willingness to accept physical discipline I unwittingly made things much more difficult for myself.

Pushing my hands even further down the back of that great sofa in order to feel more steady, I suddenly heard a very strange sound.

Something that seemed very out of place in my present predicament.

A ‘ting’ of some kind was distinctly heard. No so loud as to be from a bell but a definite bright ring of… something.

“You will count each of these; ‘one thank you, sir’ and so on. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lo and behold, there it was again ‘ting’.

This time, it was followed by a swish-crack and that was the sound of a cane homing in on its delectable, proffered target and striking with not inconsiderable force.

It took my breath away.

“One, thank you, sir.”

I garbled out not entirely sure what had just happened.

[Ting].

[Swish-crack].

“Two, thank you, sir.”

It wasn’t until the full effects of the second stroke made themselves known, that I realised I was actually being caned.

It’s not that I didn’t feel the first one, it’s just that it was an experience so out of my realm of understanding that my body and brain struggled to process it.

I had precious little to compare it with, so it is little wonder that my mainframe had difficulty in categorising what was happening.

[Ting].

[Swish-crack].

“Three, thank you, sir.”

I had no idea how I was even managing to talk; my brain had seemingly slowed right down and there was a distinctive gap, at first, between the actual impacts of the cane and the accompanying pain showing up.

It wasn’t until after the fourth stroke that I could really feel the burning line of pain that is imparted when the cane strikes, followed immediately by a raising of that skin, a special kind of swelling, called a welt.

[Ting].

[Swish-crack].

“Four, thank you, sir.”

What the fuck is that ‘ting’?

In ordinary circumstances that ‘ting’ wouldn’t have been so darn annoying but there I was stretched over the back of the Chesterfield in my bra and pants, bottom cheeks absolutely ablaze, feeling vulnerable, helpless and exposed.

It’s always the little things that grate the most during these heightened and painful experiences, I find.

[Ting].

[Swish-crack].

“Five, thank you, sir.”

I managed without giving the game away. Although I was seriously hurting now - it felt like a branding rather than ‘only’ a caning - I didn’t want Mr James to think I wasn’t up to it.

Ultimately, we both knew that this was a test.

I hadn’t lied, I’d had a jape, pulled a harmless prank that went a touch wrong and sir had seized upon the opportunity to test my metal nice and early in our relationship.

We both wanted to know whether I had what it took to be in a serious relationship with Mr. James and this was a golden chance to win a most coveted prize; a true gentleman, dominant and disciplinarian as a life partner.

I was never about to pass up that opportunity.

Things were, however, becoming desperately difficult on the pain front and yet on the other hand I knew I was very nearly half-way there.

Kind of.

[Ting].

[Swish-crack].

“Six, thank you, sir.”

“Take down your knickers.”

“Yes, sir.”

Without a trace of hesitation, I forced my hands up and out from their hiding place down the back of the Chesterfield - sporting lines of their own from the pressure I was exerting to keep them away from the danger zone.

Zero pomp or ceremony, I tucked my thumbs into either side of my hips and found the elastic waistband of my bright pink pants and yanked them down to my ankles.

No messing about, no coyness and certainly no resistance.

Immediately, I returned to my prostrate position over the back of that dark green beast and fumbled for my preferred hand position.

I needn’t have rushed.

Sir was taking his time to drink in the vista but also to allow me to register the additional exposure.

The rush of cold that you feel on removing a tiny, thin layer of seemingly insignificant clothing, such as a pair of pink knickers, is extraordinary.

The contrast between the white-hot welts, the red-hot throbbing and the cool air is something to behold.

I was immediately more afraid of the next six strokes.

The last six certainly are not the second half of a twelve-stroke caning.

Just in the same way that the last six miles of a marathon (26.2 miles) IS the final ‘half’ from a pain and suffering perspective, the final six strokes are far more difficult to negotiate than the first six in any caning.

Removing the final layer of perhaps comfort, rather than protection really sets the scene for the ‘longer half’ of any disciplinary.

Bare, exposed and practically toe-touching over that sofa it was all I could do to prevent my legs from shaking with fear.

Thankfully, learning to prevent my inward fear from leaking outwards in any way at all was something that three years at drama school had taught me and I used that training now. Giving the mind something specific to focus on was more wise than I had any right to be in these moments.

Occupying the conscious mind, it would seem, does lessen the pain one experiences somehow. However, this was a total fluke as, at the time, I had almost zero experience of corporal punishment.

[Ting].

[Swish-crack].

“Seven, thank you, sir.”

I said immediately noticing the upgrade in sting factor now that my pink knickers were around my ankles.

[Ting].

[Swish-crack].

“Eight, thank you, sir.”

This was the first stroke that had strayed down low, catching me between buttock and thigh and it was all I could do to not buckle at the knees.

I did this by telling myself that that was a one off and that no more strikes would be placed there.

It worked but I was wrong.

[Ting].

[Swish-crack].

“Nine, thank you, sir.”

I said, so utterly relieved that this one had been received on the meat of both buttocks and not anywhere near that uber-sensitive region that always feels like it has been literally cut when struck.

The relief was such that it almost felt as though I’d been given one pain-free stroke.

That, of course, was not the case but my inexperience in these matters served me very well indeed.

[Ting].

[Swish-crack].

“Ten, thank you, sir.”

I ground out, using all of my acting experience to save me from having to admit how very much I wanted it to stop. Mr James had fired another swish-crack, right down between bottom cheeks and upper thigh and this time I knew I was cut.

Momentarily, I felt his fingers trace the damaged skin that his cane had just visited and he traced a few more of my rising welts while he was at it.

Then, there was that tap-tap-tap business again before the cane was withdrawn and…

[Ting].

[Swish-crack].

“Eleven, thank you, sir.”

I practically sang out as I immediately realised that I was now home and dry.

This may sound premature but I sure as hell knew that I wasn’t going to fail on the last one. How could you let yourself?

Just one last instalment of pain away from it all being over.

I knew I’d done it.

There seemed to be a pregnant pause before the final strike, perhaps sir was savouring the moment or perhaps he was just winding up for a humdinger?

The latter.

[Ting].

[Swish-crack].

“Twelve, thank you, sir.”

I didn’t care, I’d done it and I knew I’d done bloody well too.

No tears, no tantrums, no dancing, no getting out of position. In fact, apart from the obligatory counting and thanking, I hadn’t made a single sound. I had taken my first punishment caning stoically, professionally and dare I say with aplomb.

My now HoH, attests that I didn’t move a muscle the whole time - he was stunned.

In actual fact, there were some tears. They were his and not hers though.

Indeed, Mr James was mildly emotional at having found ‘the one’ for him and to have actually cut her with the cane in two places at the first time of asking was quite an experience.

My skin, in fairness, had no experience of this kind of discipline and I wasn’t at all perturbed.

In fact, once it was over, he dragged me into a huge embrace and then promptly sent me off to the bathroom… it seems I wasn’t not having a good time - if I may, for once, be a tad vulgar.

That was, arguably, the most embarrassing part of the whole experience and even then, I wasn’t especially embarrassed by it.

****

Later that same evening, I was in the bar area of the Chace Hotel waiting for Mr James to finish dressing for dinner.

I was wearing a beautiful grey dress and had ditched the pink knickers in favour of a delightful matching set of racy lacies.

Sipping on a large glass of dry white wine, I got drawn into watching the football. My team, Manchester United, were playing against Aston Villa in the Premier League and it was a truly dismal performance.

I couldn’t help but curse the unwatchable Darren Fletcher for his donkey-like performance, when a fine silver fox - a handsome, well clad gent of circa 45 to 50-years old - peeped around the wings of his armchair to engage me in conversation about the abysmal standard of football on display.

He was a well-informed chap who seemed a touch surprised to be talking with such a knowledgeable member of the opposite sex. I’d been going to Old Trafford, The Theatre of Dreams, (Man Utd’s home ground). since the age of seven.

“Good evening, Miss Allen.”

Came Mr James’ authoritative tone from behind. I snapped round in surprise and was slightly pink about the cheeks to have been found down in the hotel bar chatting animatedly with another silver fox.

He looked at me with real hunger, perhaps even a wolfish desire and for an awful moment I thought he might march me right back upstairs for a second caning.

Whilst I was very eager to make the grade in this relationship, my backside felt as though it was sat upon a very large cheese grater. In fact, though I had been down in the bar watching the football for circa 15 to 20-minutes, I hadn’t even thought about sitting!

Instead, he offered me his hand, to lead me off to the dinner hall, politely bidding the other silver fox a pleasant evening.

I did the same, a touch relieved to be going to dinner and not to another disciplinary!

What can I say? I’ve long been a silver fox magnet and I do find them devilishly attractive.

Once out of the bar, sir growled at me, playfully.

“I can’t leave you alone for five minutes without you pulling a silver fox, what ever will I do with you?!”

I smiled smugly back at him and he shook his head.

“How’s your bottom?”

“Fine, sir. Thank you.”

“Fine? Fine? Next time, I shall have to do a more thorough job!”

“Sit.”

He pulled out my dining chair and I sat on it very carefully.

Ladies! Top tip: post caning do not wear lace - it chafes really, really badly.

The dinner, wine and company were marvellous but underneath my dress my bottom was positively smouldering and even subtle movements of adjustment were agony.

As the wine flowed and the evening wore on, the pain diminished and was more of a dull warmth rather than the searing or scratchy types of pain.

The same could not, however, be said of the morning after the night before!

Sometime in the early hours of the next morning, the conversation about the forbidden pink knickers was had.

Sir had been so genuinely taken by the moment that he simply hadn’t noticed them. However, he found them, immediately confiscated them, gave me a relatively moderate OTK (though on a sore and very well striped bottom) and I was also forbidden from wearing any knickers under my jeans for the rest of the day.

Large cotton pants would have been best, however my HoH to be wanted me to feel the chafing of my jeans, later that lunchtime, on the long drive home.

It’s the first time I can remember ‘going commando’ in my life and by God was I sore back there.

The final ghost marks of that caning were visible for a full 21-days.

I kid you not.

I was heavily marked for almost ten days and the final ghost - one of the two that strayed down into my crease - disappeared fully on the 22nd day!

That was the physical side of things.

The emotional side was far more potent. I instantly felt very connected to Mr James post-caning. A deep and intense connection, almost as if our relationship had been seared into my bottom.

In a way, I suppose it was.

It was powerful; the most intense experience of my life at that time and certainly right up there still.

Those were heady days post-discipline, filled with enormous amounts of adrenalin and sexual excitement but also with love, respect and a real sense of bonding.

There was only one thing left to figure out. What on earth was that bloody ‘ting’ before each stroke of the cane?

I put the question to Sir next morning over breakfast.

“Yes, I kept hearing that too. Couldn’t figure it out.”

“It was a tad distracting, sir.”

“Want to know what it was?”

“Yes, please.”

“It was the tip of the cane connecting with the mirror above the mantelpiece.”

“Thank God I didn’t know at the time; else I wouldn’t have been half as brave!”

We laughed and laughed and laughed about it. Mr James had been pulling the cane back as far and as high as the enormous mirror right up high above the mantlepiece.

I’m so grateful that I couldn’t see that and that I didn’t work it out whilst I was still down over the back of that there Chesterfield, as I’m not sure I’d have had the courage to continue!

There you have it, if you insist on dating disciplinarians, then you had better strap yourself in for a very eventful ride.

I’m unimaginably glad I did and to this date I view that encounter as the most intense caning that I have ever received, taken as an experience in the round.

It was everything it should have been and much, much more.

That disciplinary has served us well too, as a couple; I’m pleased to report that there have been no lies at all between us in a little over 13-years now.

I don’t see that changing any time soon.

Jacqui James
Live-Lash-Love

That was from the “DATING & DISCIPLINE” section of my website, more of which can be found here: https://jacquijames.substack.com/s/dating-and-discipline

[ALL materials ©Jacqui James 2023]