A Disciplined Girl

We are at the holiday house and it is our first morning here. We usually end up arriving very late at night and when we finally awoke after a long and deep sleep my owner asked me what I should do.

“Hug,” I responded.

“That’s second,” he replied.

“Kiss,” I guessed again (knowing, of course, that was the wrong answer too).

“That’s third. What should you do first, cindi?”

“Suck owner’s cocki,” I told him. (It doesn’t pay to stretch this game out too far.)

“Then why isn’t cindi doing that?”

cindi obliged.

“What is up on the shelf in the dressing room, cindi?”

I took my mouth away from his upright cock long enough to say,

“Da thin, nasty cane.”

And, that’s when my thoughts returned to a time I don’t think I have written about in any detail in this journal.

I was rather green to this notion of a disciplined life but already incredibly enraptured. I was spending far too much time reading about girls getting caned for this and that and I was in a whole other space in my head. I think it frightened owner a bit at the time. He wasn’t sure what to make of my intense desires, I think, and one day when I was telling him about some girl that had apparently had a caning every day for a week, he responded in a way that still gives me goose bumps when I think about it.

“Well, if it is good enough for her, then it is good enough for you. If you want to play in this space, then you need to show your commitment.”

“What do you mean?” I asked

“Why shouldn’t you have a dozen of the cane for a week? You think you can talk the talk but if you are genuine you need to walk the walk.”

This was a dare, a very scary dare and one I intended to take; not that he gave me any choice. He was as serious with me as he has ever been. I’d need to present each evening for correction and that was that.

I spent that week in a sort of suspended animation. I think we were both on such a euphoric high that we didn’t take into account that the children may well have heard some things. Certainly, I tried to contain my squeals but that week was in the days before I knew too much (if anything) about gags. I imagine I bit on my hand and fingers. I know I tried to use a huge amount of self-control to contain the pain.

We were here, at the holiday house the whole time. I don’t remember everything but I do remember that I counted that there would be 84 (I’d say it was more like 90 in fact because there was extras when I came out of position) strokes. Each day when I had received the 12 (or more) strokes, I’d deduct it from the total. That’s the way I got through it mentally, although I remember when the very last stroke came down it was such an anti-climax, because by then I had become rather used to the daily correction. I was certainly relieved and proud to have attained the goal of obedience but what about tomorrow? What would life be like tomorrow, without the cane?

The mornings were the easiest. I’d realize that I had a stretch of hours ahead of me before needing to bend over the end of the bed (or sometimes on all fours on the bed tied up, if he felt like being particularly sadistic). I’d have a lightness of being until mid-afternoon when the approaching hours would hang over me. It bears keeping in mind that once a light skinned bottom has been marked and bruised, the following strokes only add to the art work in ways that make sitting tender and the psyche a bit fraught.

Yet, I simply adored the marks and bruises criss-crossing by buttocks and when I swivelled my head to study them, I felt a joy and sense of pride and pleasure that can’t be properly described. I know at times owner worried about it. I don’t think he had any idea how the marks would endure and although he had no intention of not going ahead with the decree, I could see on his face some concern at the state of my backside. I tried to assure him my backside would be all right and he settled. In fact, I think he took some pleasure in the notion that as I sat in the old boat I was sitting on a very tender bottom that was given by his hand, so to speak. I found it delicious.

There is so much that I have forgotten because my head was mush that week. I cooked and shopped for food and did all the ordinary things I do on holiday here but in my head, I was living the life of a disciplined girl and all that really mattered to me was that I was finally living authentically. I was living out my dreams and fantasies.

I do recall that at some point he needed to return to the city and when he told me I had a sense of relief. I would have one night off being caned. In fact, the lack of the caning that evening played on my mind. If he’d been there, another 12 strokes would have been over already. When he returned, I told him about that feeling and he offered to give me 24 strokes that evening so that I could “catch up”.  I suggested we try 18 and when they were given, he simply told me he was carrying on to 24.

I remember crying but no tears came. My hands were tied. I was on my fours on the bed and although it hurt like hell it never occurred to me to break position, to ask for leniency or anything else. He was in complete control and I simply responded to his words. He told me to stay still in a firm, authoritative voice, and so I did.

Afterwards, he rubbed his hand over my stinging backside softly, cooed and calmed me and put me to bed. I was in a state of wonder. Why had I not known about this life before this? How could we have wasted all those years?

He’s caned me in the garage; in the Gardens in town; in the bedroom; in the bathroom; in the hall way of a house we were renovating with a piece of fresh cane from the garden. He has walloped me with paddles, a ping pong bat, a rolled up newspaper, a horse whip, a wooden spoon, a hair brush; a flat piece of wood, rope, a tawse and I have probably forgotten a few others along the way. If I’m cheeky on the street, he doesn’t hesitate to give my bottom a few smacks.

I adore the sensations, of course. I love to feel that I have no control. I love the challenge. I love to feel in my place. I want to know that I am owned. I simply adore what it does to my state of mind. Almost instantly, my mind is relieved of thoughts. I bunker down into a state of acceptance. Perfect peace is granted to me.

On my luckiest days, I am plugged and tied tight; put to bed with a kiss and told to go straight to sleep. I sleep the sleep of the angels and when I awake, I consider myself the luckiest girl in the world. On these days, I have everything I could ever want.