Put your hands together for Mr. Cane!

Last night it poured and poured, and the heavy rain woke me up. Unable to settle down to sleep, and too cold to get out of bed to write, I lay there thinking about various matters pertaining to my D/s style of life. I happen to be one of those people that don't like loose ends and the notion of accepting 25 strokes of the cane for something that happened a while ago sits out there; a loose end. I want to put it to bed and yet the scaredy cat side of me holds it in abeyance. It is bothersome.

As I thought about that, I thought, 'well, how many strokes of the cane have I had at the one time?' Then, it dawned on me that this would not be the first time to receive 25 strokes. In fact, I think I might have had 26 or even 27, and I got through it all right.

In fact, it happened rather a long time ago, and it happened like this...

When I accepted myself as a woman who likes to be spanked, I began to read blogs and one in particular. Eventually, I was brave enough to click on the email address on the site and I wrote to the author. He seemed, and is, a charmer and I told him I was an avid reader, and someone with little knowledge of spanking issues. I asked him if he would like to correspond with me. He was delighted to do so and I had my husband's approval. All was well.

As time went on, and my appetite grew and grew, it became apparent that I was in what I now know to be "sub fever". I didn't do anything to harm myself or my marriage, but the potential was there, I suppose, or so my husband thought.

One day, I left a comment on my new friend's blog, on a post that talked about someone getting 12 strokes of the cane for a week. Unbeknown to me, my husband saw the comment and by then, he was getting rather upset about my correspondence; or more particularly, my heady state of mind. He said to me that if a girl wanted to show that she was her husband's girl, definitively, she would accept 12 strokes of the cane for a week. Was I willing to do that?

I did not hesitate to tell him that I would be willing to do that to show him that I belonged to him; alone. As it turns out, he was deadly serious. We were on vacation at the time, at our holiday house, and he provided 12 sound strokes that night.

Immediately afterward, I felt a sense of relief that lasted about 12 hours, when I began to feel a sense of apprehension for the 12 to come that evening. Apprehensive or not, I received the next 12 the following evening, right on schedule. But, on the third day, he needed to return to the city for a few days, and whilst I had a reprieve for a few days, I also was disappointed that I couldn't get further along with my 'correction', for want of a better word.

When my husband returned, he offered me another 12 strokes that night. Whilst no-one wants me to go into detail here (you don't, do you?) my bottom was pretty bruised and marked by now. Yet, my husband could see that I was pretty shaky about the idea that on day 5 I was only at day 3 of the correction being carried out. I still had 48strokes to go and it was telling on my nerves.

"I am willing to give you an option," he said. "If you wish, you can have another 12 now, if you'd like to get further along with this."

As much as I hated that option, I liked that option and I agreed to that. On we went; number 13, 14 and so on until we reached 24.

However, I did stand right up a couple of times and make some rather pathetic crying sounds in the hope that he might go easy. That earned me another few extras, and thus at night's end I had received at least 25 strokes of the cane.

Of course, he made all the right noises afterwards, telling me how proud he was of me and giving me lots of hugs and praise. I liked that part a lot!

In fact, I wore my stripes with an enormous sense of pride and truth to tell, it was an experience I would not have missed for the world. He was proud of me for being brave and true and I was proud of him for proceeding on as he had decreed. It certainly did no harm to our love life.

For some time now, Mr. Cane has been safely put away backstage, awaiting his re-entrance. Sure, the wooden backed bath brush has been out to play and the tawse has been out of the drawer pretty regularly too, but let's face it, there is nothing like the cane.

I'm tempted to say that I am even missing Mr. Cane. But, then there's that thing where five strokes later, you think to yourself, 'I am never getting myself into this position ever again!!!'

And, the wait goes on...