Tuesday, 19 July 2011


I don't think I'm an ogre.  Several years down the line from my encounter with Torrey I think I know what I'm doing.  One of the harsehst punishments I've ever administered was also one which affected me the most.
I'm easy going.  I don't shout, or demand someone calls me "Sir".  Some do, it's their choice and for their benefit.  I've known Jayne on and off for about three years years now.  We didn't actually meet until eighteen months back.
Jayne was doing a nursing degree after a few years drifting from job to job. Older than most but not exactly what you'd call "mature".  We'd  chatted on-line for a while, often with me persuading her to carry on with her course.  She'd met an older man and we'd lost contact.
Then there was a text.  "Sir, I need you.  Call me."
Jayne was in a state.  She was in her final year of her nursing degree.  She was working on a children's ward and if I knew Jayne, she was one of the good ones.  Always ready to go the extra mile for the kids and their families.  it wasn't a job to Jayne, it was the essence of her.
"OK, deep breath.  Tell Uncle Dominic".  She half laughed.
"Well ... It was a night shift and we had an emergency admission.  There was only me and Steph, the Staff Nurse on as the others had gone to supper.  Steph missed out an hourly observation on a one of the kids, and when I mentioned it she went and made up readings".
"OK, but there was no harm done, right"?
"The boy arrested in the early hours"
"We got a crash team to him and he pulled through, thank God.  But I should have mentioned the false readings to the doctors.  The boy could have died".  Jayne was in tears now.
"But it wasn't your fault", I told her. "That Steph took advantage of her status and put the boy at risk.  You felt intimidated".  I tried to lighten the mood as Jayne's was in some distress.  "Maybe I should pay that Steph a visit ..."
Of course Jayne knew it wasn't her fault.  She just didn't believe it. She felt she needed to be punished for her failure to act.  For her it was closure - a line drawn under her guilt.
Jayne had a spanker.  But that was just it.  He was her spanker.  It was a fun relationship.  She enjoyed her spankings greatly, and had a high pain threshold.  She needed to be punished formally and severely by someone who wouldn't crack when she started crying.
"I need to be caned, Dominic", she said, as calmly as her sobs would allow.  "And caned harder than I have ever been caned.  Will you do it"?
For God's sake Dom, get a grip!  This isn't roleplay - this is serious stuff!  by doing this you're just reinforcing her guilt.
"Jayne, listen to me.  You did nothing wrong by any real standard.  Honestly.  You just ..."
"Cane me, Dominic.  I want you to do it.  I trust you, and you won't mess it up".
It was really about catharsis for Jayne; she needed to put the guild behind her as it was eating her up.  Some people use affirmations.  Some believe their friend when they tell them there was nothing to feel guilty about. Jayne needed this.
We arranged to meet in a "play room" in East London I sometimes use.  It is a private Victorian house with one room furnished and styled in the manner of an authentic 1950's headmaster's study.  There is a wide desk at one end, some authentic utility furniture  and nondescript prints on two of the walls.  Perhaps the bank of canes and tawses hanging on the chimney breast would be considered a little over the top in an authentic school, but the room was important as it was a neutral venue.  It was an appointment she had to keep and an effort she had to make.  I was there twenty minutes or so before her, dressed formally in a business suit and plain tie.  I tested a few of the supplied canes for weight and balance.  In the end I opted for one of my own senior canes.  They are about 28 inches long and about the thickness of a man's ring finger.  I placed it prominently on the desk.  The doorbell rang.  I took a deep breath as I heard Jayne being ushered in by Miles, the venue owner.  There was no small talk.  There was, however, a knock on the door.
Jayne showed her face.  Small. blonde, in her mid twenties, she walked nervously into the small room, pushing her metal rimmed glasses further up her nose.  She wasn't wearing a "punishment outfit".  I sometimes tell women to wear something simple and stark - plain white blouse, knee length dark skirt etc.  This was no role play.  Instead she wore smart jeans and a casual top, with calf length tan boots.  She clutched a heavy tan handbag.
Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the formality of the scene.  Her gaze quickly found the thick straight handled cane on my desk.  It was starting to show signs of wear, which made it seem even more menacing.  She looked at me and half smiled.
"Did you bring it?  The essay"?
She rummaged in her bag for the five hundred word essay I'd set her on what she had done wrong, how she would not make the same mistake again and why she deserved to be punished.  I looked at the single sheet of printed A4.  It was well written.  I could see the beginnings of tears as I nonchalantly  tore up the document in front her.  She needed this, but she really didn't deserve it.
"Look, Jayne", I began. "You did nothing wrong.  You don't have to go through with this if you don't want to.  NO one, certainly not me, will think any the less of you if you back away".
She put down her bag and nodded at the cane.  I remembered that she had told me that she would never ask me to punish her at our meeting.  She just couldn't.  She looked flustered, but did not make any move to leave.
"Very well".  I tend to elevate my vocabulary during a formal punishment.  It sounds cheesy and pompous in real life, but ads to the scene dynamic. "After this, the incident is forgotten.  Understood, Jayne?  It is over".  I stood up, picked up the cane and approached her.
"Unbutton your jeans, Jayne, please".
She looked worried.  "B-bare, Dominic"?
"Bare, Jayne".
A cane is a vicious implement.  Some people love the intensity of it.  For others it's about accommodating the severe pain and the sense of achievement. Ironically it was imported intot the UK as a means of discipline out of supposed enlightenment.  It is much more painful than the birch, which it replaced, enabling the culprit to be punished through trousers.  No more need to bare a bottom.  We tend to ignore such niceties nowadays.
Reluctantly she unbuttoned.  With one light tug, I lowered her jeans to her knees.  Her pink cotton knickers followed with little ceremony, revealing a blushing, nervous girl ready for punishment.  Her bosom rising and falling rapidly as she tried to find the strength for what was to come.  At this moment Jayne would rather be anywhere else as I stood up and rounded on her.
"Thirty six strokes, Jayne".
All colour left her, along with her resolve.  She was in shock now.  I had her.
"Bend over".
She stretched herself over the wide leather topped antique desk, gripping the far end. Her full white bottom was on display.  He whole body seemed to rise and fall with her breathing, but she held her nerve as she heard me take up position parallel to her rear end.  How would she endure thirty six strokes?  Thirty six?
Jayne flinched as I swsished the cane through the air.
I placed the cane gently accross the centre of her bottom, aliening the tip halfway along her right cheek.  These things can do real damage in the wrong hands.  Only recently I had seen someone slashing away with no thought for accuracy or safety.  That's not what Jayne signed up for.  She would not be injured, but she was going to be one very sore young lady for a day or so.  Her buttocks clenched as the cane touched her.  I waited until she relaxed them.  I drew the cane back about a yard.
Jayne bucked as the first stroke bit deeply into the fullest part of her bottom.  She sucked in lungfuls of air as she accommodated the first stroke.  A thin, white weal began to form.
"Are you going to let senior staff bully you again, Jayne"?  I asked.
"N-no s-sir"! she gasped as the pain begand to subsiide.  She sunk back into position.
The second cut deep just underneath the first.  She thrust her hip out to the right.
"You'll take responsibility forr your actions in future, won't you Jayne, won't you"?
"Y- yeass SSsiiirrr"!
I drew back further
She stood up.  The pain was immense, taking over her entire being.  It had a shape.  She could even taste it as the third stroke landed on her delicate "sit spot" between bottom and thighs.  She shuffled from one foot to the other, digging into the floor.  I gave her a moment to recover.
I placed me hand gently on her back to let her know she was required back over the desk.
Three searing bolts of pain took possession of her.  I heard the first sobs as her body convulsed in hears over the desk.  I lost my resolve.  I walked around the desk and cupped her face in my hands.  I looked deep into her tear soaked eyes, her glasses now steamed up.  I removed them.
"You've had enough.  Come on now, Janyne.  Lesson learned.  Up you get".
She shook her head, gripped the desk tighter and dipped the small of her back, presenting her chubby little bottom once more for the cane.
I resumed my position.  Her bottom was a fine, deep crimson, highlighted with six angry red weals.  It was as if she was challenging me
I aimed low.
Three fiery cuts to her thighs delivered my message, and she bawled out her repentance.
Her knees gave way and she grabbed the desk tightly for support.
There was no way she could get through thirty six strokes.  And I had not intention of administering anything like that many. But she would get the full twelve..
I drew back almost to the shoulder now.
She hollered and danced, exhaling heavily.  She puffed.  It was time to stop, but we both knew we had to reach a target.  The line under her guilt would be drawn at twelve strokes.  She was a lovely innocent thing, and apparently, I was doing her a favour.  I felt awful.  She calmed down, and witough instruction, took up her position on the punishment desk one more time.  I found a relativelyy undamaged part of her bottom, lined up ...
"Huhhhgggh, hurf"  She was not eactly keeing now, but the energy was going from her".  She was at her limit.
"Last one, Jayne, then everything is forgotten.  Like we discussed.  Ready"?
She gave a small nod and braced herself.. Her knees locked, her back steadied.  Her bottom still twitched.
The final stroke, just as firm as the first, landed once again accoss the fullness of her bottom, now awash with fire.
I realised then that Jayne needed to be taken beyond herself.  It wasn't about pain, it was about going further than her resolve would carry her.  She needed to be taken to the core of herself before she could rebuild her confidence.  Maybe I've read too many self help books.
I threw the cane down and sprinted over to Jayne, once again taking her face in my hands.  Still tearful, very red, but now lit up with the broadest grin.  She was transformed.
"Thirty six?  Thirty six my arse, Dom"!
"You want the other twenty four, then"? I asked.
We thanked the good Lord who made Arnica cream as she took advantage of my offer to apply the lotion.  I have seen photos of bottoms where one cheek has been treated with Arnica, and the other left uncreamed over several days.  It's amazing the difference that stuff makes.  I should buy shares.
She dressed, gingerly, while I said our goodbyes to Miles.
We grabbed a coffee and chatted, still flying on adrenaline, before taking the tube.  We shared part of the journey.  I offered her my seat, but she refused.

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