Tag Archives: caning

The story I was finagled into writing by my online dom

When a young lady makes contact, out of the blue, demanding that a story be written for her, there are only one or two possible outcomes.  Neither involves me writing the story.  One stings a lot, and the other produces the following.  You, the reader, must decide if her effort is satisfactory, her fate to be determined by the comments you provide.

It was getting on for 11 when I cracked. He wasn’t going to budge. I knew I was in serious trouble because silence was the ultimate sanction, the one he knows I hate the most. It drives me bonkers. Earlier in the evening I had managed to justify my actions quite easily to myself. It had been very hard to get through the new list of tasks, and to have failed at one was hardly a sign of rebellion. Or so I thought. But as the night wore on and I flicked the tv around and drank wine too quickly, I realised my mistake. I had agreed to obey him in everything he required, I had even ASKED for increased discipline, for Pete’s sake, and now, on the first day, I’d blown it because it hadn’t been convenient to me.

I looked at my phone again. The text I’d sent him said 7.23 pm; ages ago. He had told me that I wasn’t to come and see him that night. It would be good for me to write my journal and dwell on the effect the tasks produced in me. I was to text him that they were done, and get to bed early. Oh God! I’m too honest for my own good. Why couldn’t I just have lied about cumming? He would never have known as there was no opportunity for him to inspect me. I’d known why I had to earlier in the day. I get so ratty and distracted when I’m worked up and I needed my thoughts straight to be on top of things. But now, I realised it was the worst instruction to have flouted. It was the control he loved best, to have me walk around all day in white knickers with no release until I was given permission.

I couldn’t bear it any longer by 10.15. I knew I only had a small window before I’d be too drunk to cycle. I would have to go round and throw myself on his mercy. Only I knew that would be the last thing I’d get. I fumbled around for lights and keys, my hands too nervous, my mind too distracted to be competent. At least it wasn’t far. I breathed in the abruptly colder Autumn air and braced myself. Thank God my bike practically knew the way on it’s own. I reached his door, my mind racing over the possibilities of what might happen. This was different now. Any memory of past minxy misbehaving to get spanked had vanished. I knew, as I’d asked for his serious discipline, I was not going to like the consequences of my actions. At all.

The catch buzzed open. He was an osteopath so had door release to let in clients. Woefully I made my way in and went in search of him. He was nowhere to be found. It dawned on me he must be in his consulting room at the back. I pushed the door open gently to find him standing next to his couch. The jolt of the look he gave me will stay with me forever. I had failed my tasks, I’d interrupted his evening plans, I’d come to see him unbidden. My humiliation was complete. I hung my head in shame and waited.

“Jessica, put your hands on your head. Now.” He moved around the room, gently moving things and preparing.

I started to shake. I knew better than to speak.

His tone was cold. “Come here.”

I moved through water it seemed. I had to look up to see where the couch was but daren’t meet his eyes. I drew closer to him and felt a surge of lust, even in my predicament. He was so damn sexy. I looked down again as he reached out, matter-of-factly and started to undo the buttons of my coat. My arms fell to my sides to help its removal but as he drew it off my shoulders I realised there was no ounce of affection in the gesture. I felt naked already. Next, my dress. Whisked up and over my head in one gesture. Unclipping my bra, pulling down my tights for me to step out of, leaving me standing in only knickers, I felt like a little girl being dealt with before her bath. Perfunctorily.

“Bend over, Jessica.”

I had no doubt he meant the couch. That place of healing that usually had such wonderful associations was now ominous. He had never spanked me in here before. It felt terrible, terrible that he had stepped so far away from the usual sessions over his knee. They now seemed glowingly loving in comparison to this. I bent over and gripped the far edge covered in toweling, such inappropriately friendly material to be in contact with.

He made me wait. All he did for what seemed like an age was pull my knickers up into my bottom cleft to expose me. And to smooth his finger along the tightness it created over my soft lips. Too soft. I understood the gesture. He owned me there and I’d had no right to flout his instructions. I heard the cane swish behind me and my stomach dropped. Oh God, the cane. The highest implement for expression of disapproval in our hierarchy. The hairbrush hurt the worst, but the cane dug deepest into my mind. Bad girl, bad, bad girl.

I had only received it twice before. I didn’t want to remember why. I just lay my head down and tried to concentrate my will on not moving. If I did, the stroke would be repeated. And yet I knew that it would be his pleasure to witness my inability to control myself as the outrageous stinging pain ripped through my bottom. All of them would count.

“Jessica, it’s 24 strokes. 12 for disobeying me and 12 for coming here and interrupting my evening. You must stay still, or I start again, from the beginning.”

What! From the beginning? My mind raced to take in the impossibility of withstanding the punishment again from the start. And yet I wouldn’t be able to stay still…

“Do you understand, Jessica?”