Paddles

My husband very sweetly suggested this Saturday morning that we do something fun together today. We weighed up the options and decided to head for a country town where I know there are lots of good restaurants and fun galleries to wander through.

I love these little sojourns where we can be on our own. Over lunch the conversation got around to kinky sorts of subjects. I had just received a parcel with an object called The Ass Master and we chatted about the possibilities of that amongst other naughty topics. There was lots of giggling on my part and lots of insinuations on his part as to what could be my fate.

From there, we visited a lovely, rather chic gift and home store. I spotted two lovely living chairs that I'd love but my husband wasn't interested in paying the exorbitant price on the tags. Fair enough. Wandering further around the store I saw a pair of butter paddles. The thick set of wooden paddles were in immaculate order and call me nuts but I pointed them out to him, not the other way around.

"Look at these paddles. Aren't they interesting!"

"They were used to make butter balls."

"Oh, I made butter balls for my Gran when I was just a little girl."

I wait for the penny to drop...

"But, you know, cindi, they could have another purpose."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, I think we'll get these."

So, mission accomplished, my husband took them to the counter to pay for them. In attendance were two women, slightly older than us, full of chat and as it turns out, innuendo.

"Ah, so you've chosen the butter paddles. That's interesting you want those. You know we have people coming into the store telling us horrendous stories about these butter paddles from their childhood."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, it seems they hurt like hell. You know, we sell a lot of wooden spoons..."

"Do you?"

My husband felt it best to distract them with talk of corsets, another of the objects they sold and how he used to lace up his grandmother as a young boy."

"Oh yes. I think the women back then made the young children do that, in a perverted way."

It was getting weird. No matter what we did the conversation returned to them calling us for who (what) we were. I bowed out, choosing to wander around the store and pretend I was unaware of their game.

So, all paid, one of the women passed the bag to my husband.

"Well, it's off to the dairy with you and enjoy your instrument of discipline."

 Cheeky.

Nearly spanked with a hairbrush

Last night, I had a dream about getting a spanking. This is a very rare event. Unlike Abel who has regular dreams about giving spankings, I don't, alas, dream about getting a spanking except on very rare nights.

I was living with another family. There was a dream before that dream where I was with a boy, a disabled boy who I think belonged to this family. I was very close to him and putting two and two together, somehow or other I was a part of their family. Maybe, they'd adopted me or maybe I was an exchange student. I really don't know.

Anyways, clearly I'd done something naughty and the father was not at all happy with me. I seemed to know that I was going to get a spanking. I was waiting in the living room area of their house and I felt a sense of expectation about it. Maybe, I should have had a sense of foreboding about it but I don't recall that; just a knowledge that at any time he could call me for my punishment. I was completely accepting although I had no idea what a spanking would be like. I am clear on that. I felt curious as much as I felt worried. I was fairly certain it was going to hurt quite a bit. I figured that if someone was going to punish you by putting you over their knee, they were going to make sure it was memorable and motivated a person to never do that thing again. But, I didn't know for sure.

He came into the room and he said to me, "Let's get this over with. Into my study."

I got up immediately and walked into the study. I was ready to do exactly as told but at that moment he remembered that he'd left the hair brush in another part of the house. I was disappointed that we couldn't get on with the discipline. I had this sense that punishment was a good thing because once I got what I deserved I'd be able to be forgiven and to move on with a clean slate. I distinctly remember wanting that spanking so that I could be punished and be done with the sense that I was "in trouble" and in the bad books.  There would be no pleading for leniency from me. I wanted that hiding.

And, then...the dream ended. I never did get my spanking. I never did get a chance for the father to tell me that I had been forgiven and that he expected me from now on to obey his rules and that he felt sure that I was a good girl who simply needed to be reminded that it was my place to do as I was told.

I am still awfully disappointed about it. I can't understand at all why my subconscious would derail me in this way and not allow me the correction I so sorely needed. And, it's not the first time I've been taken up to the moment of a good thrashing in my dreams only to be let off the hook by waking up. It's absolutely not fair!

Comfort, the kinky way

In 'real life' when I think about being comforted I think of the usual 'girlie' things, like soft words, big hugs and gentle kisses. I think of him telling me that it will all be all right; that he will be all right and I will be all right. I think of smiles and then laughs and after that, all is right in my world. I respond very well to a positive and upbeat approach. If he is upbeat then I'm upbeat.

In my thoughts, say, when I am waking in the morning and I'm in that world between being awake and being asleep, 'comfort' takes on a different face. Take this morning, for example:

I'm naked and he's called me to him. He says that he needs to spank me for disobeying him. The spanks on my bottom with the hairbrush should be received as a symbol of his will and his love for me and that my staying still to receive them is a symbol of my understanding that his will prevails and that I am receiving the spanks with love.


He asks me to climb over his knee and he begins to spank me with his hand. They're getting harder and I so very much want to wiggle away from his hand but he reminds me every now and again that I must stay still and accept the correction. A wiggling girl is a girl who has not accepted the importance of the spanking in her life. If I should wiggle it's a sign to him that he must spank harder and longer until I recognize the futility of wiggling.


Now, he takes up the wooden bath brush that stings so viciously. He tells me that he is going to turn over the counter and that when the sands all drift down the spanking will be over. Only three minutes. Can I be a good girl and stay still for three minutes while my bottom is well spanked?


What else is there to say? I tell him that I will do my best. He tells me that I must give into it and to just accept it; to let it pass through me and to allow the discomfort to guide me to better behavior in the future. He tells me that he is sure that I can be still; that I understand how important it is to receive this correction.


I try to hold onto his words; to please him by staying still but the heat is rising and I'm desperate to get away from that brush. I try to focus on the sands but there are so many of them still to pass through the little outlet and I begin to howl to the moon, to relieve the heat of my bottom and distract myself. Or, do I howl because I have to do something?!


When I have quietened again and just let myself surrender to the brush he tells me that perhaps next time when I have a mind to disobey I may remember the feeling of lying helplessly over his knee and I may choose differently. Do I think I may choose differently next time, he wants to know?


"Yes, Sir, yes, very differently," I assure him.


I am keeping a close eye on the sands now and it is not too long to go. Maybe five seconds, four seconds, three seconds, two seconds, one second...


"Time, Sir!"


He checks the timer. 


"Ahhhh, so it is, that's a good girl."


He rubs his hand over my bottom and I welcome the relief of the rubbing.


"Come to Daddy."


I curl up in his arms and he gives me a big hug, a rub of my back and then my bottom.


"All better now. My little girl is a good girl again."


He coos into my ear how proud he is of me and how this is just a little aberration. He's sure the correction has set me back on track and that I won't do it again.


"You won't do it again, will you darling?"


"No, Sir, not ever ever again."


"I thought not. Good girls don't disobey, do they?"


"No, they don't."


"Why don't they disobey, darling?"


"Because they are good."


"Yes. And, perhaps they may need to be spanked very soundly if they disobey. Do good girls like to be spanked very soundly."


"They don't like that at all!"


"No. So fortunate that you are a good girl, my darling. I wouldn't want to have to do that again. I won't have to do that again, will I darling?"


"I doubt it."


"I do too."


"Now, run along, there's a good girl."


"Yes, Sir."


And, then my day began. Such a comforting start to it.

Training and growing up

A good 'slave' friend of mine and I were having a long chat recently. The conversation ranged over a diverse range of topics. Being a slave and living the life of a slave much longer than I have even known about this sort of thing, I give consideration to all that she has to say. She's a bright girl and she's thought long and hard about all these topics. She says she learns from me but I never walk away from a conversation from her feeling uneducated.

The conversation turned to 'obedience' and she was telling me that whilst doing certain daily tasks for her Master was difficult in the beginning, they have become simply the way she lives. She had been trained and she now felt no resistance to these rules and regulations. In fact, she didn't even think about them at all. She just did them as she would brush her teeth before she went to bed. It was just life.

For reasons unknown my mind went to cooking. Perhaps ten years ago, after cooking a zillion meals for the family I sort of 'jacked up' (Is that another peculiar Australian expression? It means I went on strike.) I started to complain and wanted to know why it was solely my responsibility to provide the meals. We had a few weeks of restlessness about it. On occasion, I'd be slow to get the meal prepared and seemingly blissfully unaware of the revolution going on, he'd stay in his study and work (or read, or watch the news, or whatever). Of course, I had to allow for four hungry children as well as him and so at about 7.30 pm I went in there once or twice and said something like, "I wonder how long you'd stay in here and wait for someone to call you to say that your meal was on the table. At what point would your hunger take over?"

He explained the game plan. If I needed an ingredient which I had forgotten to buy, he'd go get it.Or, if I needed his help from time to time I was welcome to make out a list and he'd go to the grocery store for me. If (and he was really referring to a weekend night) I asked him nicely, he'd go pick up some Chinese food. But besides that, the food for the family was my job and the sooner I accepted that the better we would all be.

The laying down of the rules and the realization that he had no intention whatsoever of changing his mind meant that eventually I just accepted the situation as law. I obeyed and made the dinner without complaint thereafter.

Do I always do so without thinking about it? I would not say that. My mind often goes to the fact that I am contained within that rule; that I might feel like complaining a bit but I know that the results won't be to my liking and so I don't complain. This is not to say that I don't often enjoy making the meal. Cooking is a way to show your creativity and I am a 'scratch cook'. I make the meals from first principles with loads of vegetables and healthy ingredients. I take pride in the fact that we sit down as a family each night and eat a healthy meal; discuss the events of the day. We are all winners according to this rule.

I'm  not at all displeased to be contained within that rule. On some level I am conscious of enjoying that I know the lay of the land and that things are decided. One of the arguments he gave at the time was that I expect him to do certain things without complaint and he expected me to do this chore without complaint. That's fair.

Now please don't misunderstood me or be at all offended when I say that there are many things that submissive gals and 'slaves' do that we don't and won't incorporate into our lives. My husband would have enormous difficulty in doing something that didn't seem natural and I think I would too. I'm not going to greet him at the door naked on my knees. People come and go from this house at their leisure. There is just no way that either of us would ever relax long enough to do that knowing that some adult child is about to turn the key in the lock. Even if they weren't here, I just can't see it. He'd never think to ask that of me and so it would seem staged to both of us. Of course, one should never use the word "never"!

Yet, he does have his expectations. He isn't the least inclined to want to hear me use any swear words. (He once read the blog and saw that I had used a swear word and told me to delete it at once.) He expects politeness at all times. He does not care to be criticized. If I want something of him, or for him to do something he will happily listen at the appropriate time but he doesn't want to hear any frustration in my voice. He wants an attitude of working together to achieve the things I want. And, if he says "no" or he can't do it yet or he can't afford it yet, that's the way it goes. I have to understand he is doing his best and he has our best interests at heart.

At times, he has rejected my opinions and ideas only to tell me later that I was right. This is frustrating. Why lie about that? It's hard to have a good idea summarily rejected. But, if you look at the overall game plan, we've done well and we live well.

I mentioned to my friend that within the D/s relationship I had lost much of the sense that I used to have that I was sometimes a "little girl".  She told me that I had evolved and that was why the little girl had gone. I knew how to obey now. I was trained. (Correct me A if I don't have the right tenor of your words there.)

On some level, the thought is appealing; that I am trained now; that I can't make mistakes any more; that I just do as I am trained to do. I do do something daily that I enjoy to do. Only very recently has it become the norm for me to comply, almost without thinking. I've discovered enough times that it is detrimental to me not to do the task daily to understand that it is easier to do it and get on with my day (or night) than to be resistant to that knowledge. It is the way I live now.

And yet, I miss the "little girl" quite profoundly. I heard an old podcast recently about the "Daddy" status and whilst I've never entirely bought into that word or the implications of it, I do love the concept that a girl is treasured and taken care of, as well as having expectations of her. In my fantasies my Daddy is no push over. He doesn't hand over a few hundred bucks for me to go squander. On occasion he may treat his girl, but he is strict. His girl achieves. His girl does as told. (You might like to check out the Agnes and Frederick story if you like that sort of thing). The point is, she gets to be small. She gets to goof off a bit at times and is calmly but determinedly brought back into line (okay, occasionally he brings out a strap or something but it is rare and done with love.)

I think what I love about the "little girl" is that little girls are always loved and forgiven by their Daddies. They may be naughty and they may disobey but it is not fatal. A hiding isn't fatal. And, he'll hug her after and tell her it hurt him more than it hurt her. And, she'll sob and tell him that she is so sorry to have disappointed him and she'll try never to do it again. He has to correct her bur he never stops loving her. Do you see how comforting this concept is? (My husband sometimes says to me, "You are very cute, little girl." and I adore that.)

Does the man who Tops a girl, who sets the rules down and ensures they are enforced and punishes (perhaps by withdrawing from her) when they are not obeyed go on caring for the girl? And, if she does comply regularly and repeatedly, is he careful not to be too complacent about that? I might make the meal without resistance but that doesn't mean I don't hope that someone might say, "This is delicious!" I might do my daily task without question but that does not mean I don't hope that I may still receive some praise for doing so. If the praise and pampering should dry up when the girl is trained, well then...I don't particularly want to grow up.

Pain and punishment

I am actually working flat chat right now with no time to spare, but a couple of migraine headaches in the past week has forced me to slow down and thus I found myself having a read of new blog posts on my blog roll this evening for a bit of light entertainment. I happened to notice Pygar’s ‘pain and punishment’ and had a good ole read there. Why is that topic so endlessly fascinating to me, I’d like to know?! I left Pygar a comment – thoughts on the top of my head and the tip of my tongue - and then I thought it might be fun to elaborate on them a bit here.

A good many submissives have an innate understanding, perhaps learned through experience that the Dominant is often not just playing around. He really does want the submissive to learn to do things his way and if she doesn’t do things his way, she may well find herself being corrected in a way that will be memorable and unpleasant. Even in the most relaxed of situations, and I think of my husband and I as fairly relaxed about D/s in the sense that there are very few ‘rules’ per se, he expects that I will behave in a way that accepts that we have a certain dynamic and when push comes to shove, he’s the boss.

This dynamic is always there but I think there is just something or other in the makeup of the submissive mind that feels obliged to test out the Dominant from time to time. For example, my husband had been away for 5 weeks when he arrived home last Friday night and proceeded to have his way with me. It is what I wanted. Desperately. And yet, there came a moment when I said, “I’m not sure that this is appropriate. Shouldn’t we just cuddle a while?”

If he’d ‘wimped out’ on me I would have been a mess but true to form he upped the tempo and therein he assured me that he was the boss and that I had better just toe the line; fast! Perfect. That is just how I needed it to go. I wasn’t manipulating him. I didn’t plan it to be that way but my mind simply had to know if he was still up to the task of being the guy I needed. In this way, I think women sometimes misbehave because they need to see the outcome of the misbehaviour and if that is pain and punishment, so be it.

However one plays out ‘pain and punishment’ it seems to come down to issues of the dynamic between the two people. I made the comment on Pygar’s page that I dance with the Dom according to well learned steps. Once that dynamic is well in place, there seems less and less need to try to alter those steps. One can perhaps move in different ways but if it is a tango, it is a tango and if it is a waltz, it’s a waltz. One can move around the dance floor as the mood takes one, but one still has to use the appropriate steps.

My dynamic with my mentor, as an example, is clear. There is a degree of respect inbuilt into the dynamic and we never deviate from that. Well, I did once, unwittingly. It was one of those moments in life when one of my buttons had been pressed and I reacted fast and furious. My reply dripped with sarcasm but I was too busy being incensed to even take that in. I soon learned that sarcasm was completely and utterly unacceptable to him.

Did I learn because I was corrected or because he was so very clearly upset with me? Well, I’d say it was both. Bottom line, I recognized that my behaviour should never, ever be repeated and I have not had the slightest desire to ever put that to the test. It was a step I was unsure about. We stopped. He intervened, taught me the step in slow motion such that I would always have that step down and we moved on. I must say that I approve of this method. I like learning how to dance well. It is comforting and reassuring to walk out on that dance floor and have the confidence to dance well.

Over time, my husband and I have done all sorts of things; a few daily swats, a weekly correction, punishment for misbehaviour and fairly long bouts where our dynamic has no punishment or real pain at all. They have all had their place in our lives as we evolve. But I think most of all, I want to be thought of as “good”; as knowing what he wants and fitting snugly into my place underneath his wing. I just want to be loved; turned on; aroused, pleasing.

Sometimes, that means there is pain and sometimes that even means there is some form of punishment; or both. But, at the end of the day it is about getting that feeling of ownership that reminds me that I am one of the lucky ones: owned; cherished; much loved.

A story for Thanksgiving

Each year, as Thanksgiving approaches, I feel a bit wistful for our life back in the United States. We lived in a country town where all the children went to the same town schools, parents met at the edge of the soccer or lacrosse field on Saturday mornings and life was dictated according to the seasons. My children got off the school bus, threw their bags through the kitchen door and went off into the woods to play with the other neighbourhood kids for hours; whatever the weather. The house was small but very cosy and we loved our lives there.

We especially loved Thanksgiving. There were no presents to worry about and it was all about being together and a fantastic meal, the dessert often shared with American friends, or even the whole meal with our friends from down under who lived in the next town.

I wondered this morning whether I had anything at all to contribute to the festivity of this time for kinky American readers when I suddenly recalled that I had once written a story wherein I had made mention of a turkey. It is an odd story if you don't know the background, so let me fill you in so that you don't think I am a complete deviant (not that you would, of course!).

The character of Mr. Owens in the story is a dear, dear Internet friend from the UK who has chosen to be absent from my life this year for reasons I don't know. But, if you happen to be reading Mr Owens, I still think very fondly of you and wish you would write to me. He has the most deliciously devilish mind and is the inspiration for this character and his special piece of equipment. My other special Internet friend, Rich, dared me one day to find a pair of rubber gloves "erotic", and this was my offering to him. Hence, the rather unusual ending to the story, the goal of which was to make him laugh (which he did, I am told). The story has had less than a handful of readers so I take pleasure in dusting it off for you here. I wish you a most festive and happy Thanksgiving Day.

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FANTASY No. 2

Lucinda stood in front of the Master’s desk as he read the note she had been told to give to him by Mr. Manifold. Upon reading the note he looked back up at her, disgusted.

“So this is the second time you have come to your mathematics class without your text book this week?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Have you any plausible explanation for this irresponsible behaviour, girl?”

“No Sir.”

“No, indeed! Well, in my experience Miss Belland, girls who cannot remember matters such as bringing their text books to class, need assistance with remembering important matters.”

Lucinda was silent. She didn’t know what to say to that.

“Well, girl?”

“Oh! Sorry, sir. Yes Sir.”

“Pay attention, girl!”

“Yes Sir.”

“Now, where was I?”

“You were saying, Sir, that sometimes girls need help to remember things.”

“Quite right!”

“Experience has taught me Miss Belland, that the cane applied to a girl’s bottom can improve her memory significantly. After I have given girls a jolly good caning in the past they have remembered things they were continually forgetting. I believe that the memory of my cane has a lasting impression on a girl and frees her mind to make room for organizing her life. Perhaps after I have caned you, soundly, you will find yourself saying, ‘Now, do I have all my equipment for my class?’ Anyway, we shall see.”

“Yes Sir.”

“I would like you to take off your skirt and panties please. You can put them over there, by the chair at the door. You won’t need them for quite a while.”

“Yes Sir.”

Lucinda did exactly as she was told. She was not a new girl at this school. She dared not disobey.

“Now girl, come and take your place at this whipping bench. It was delivered earlier this morning and you will be the first girl to behold it. Is it not a fine piece of craftsmanship?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Mr. Owen put a great deal of time and care into making it for me. See here how the slats for the girl’s tummy are bowed, thus raising the rump. A beautiful job! And Mr. Owen has used the finest leather straps for securing you in place. I am particularly pleased with the holes he has made on the base of the bench for your feet. I’m sure you will appreciate Miss Belland, having your feet firmly planted in them, so that escape is unthinkable.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Well this is a test run, so to speak. Mr. Owen has asked for feedback, and he will make any necessary adjustments, of course. It is my duty to see that every girl has the most professional and memorable experience possible. A caning, at its best, is a highly educational experience!”

“Yes Sir.”

“Very well, Miss Belland, move along! Bend over the bench.”

Gingerly, Lucinda moved the two necessary steps forward and put each foot in the holes of the platform of the floor attached to the bench. It was easy enough to place her feet in the holes but it would take some effort to get them out. She bent over the bench. She could feel the wooden slats under her tummy. She sank into the bench, and without even trying her bottom was raised, proffered for the master’s attention. Now the Master secured the two leather straps across her back and stretched them tight. She was as well secured as a turkey tied at the legs at Thanksgiving, ready to be put into the oven.

Lucinda’s heart was leaping about in her breast. She’d been caned before now, to be sure, but Mr. Cromwell had a look of glee in his eye that had her frantic. He seemed completely smitten with his new piece of furniture. Mr. Cromwell surveyed Miss Belland’s buttocks. There could be no doubt to the observer that he was looking forward to this.

“Do you think twelve hard strokes will be enough Miss Belland, for you to always remember your books and equipment?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Yes, I think so too. Twelve it will be then. But I don’t want to drag this out on you, girl. There will be no need for you to ask for the next stroke. Simply count the stroke and thank me for it. Anything else would be impolite.”

“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.”

“Then, let’s begin.”

Mr. Cromwell went to his supply of canes in his rack behind his desk and selected the thin bamboo cane sent to him from the far reaches of northern Queensland. He was partial to the canes from that country. They didn’t look harsh canes and he was surprised initially to hear girls raise their voices in song when he lashed them down on their buttocks. Experience had taught him that a thin, whippy cane had the most lasting effect on a girl’s behaviour and from that day he had a standing order from a supplier for canes from the tropics.

Mr. Cromwell walked towards Lucinda and placed the cane across the middle of her buttocks, and then a little lower, a little higher. She knew what he was doing. She knew he was an orderly sort of man and she knew that he liked to create a series of horizontal stripes. He was measuring; checking to see just where he would lay all twelve strokes. He was not only a master of education, but indeed, a master of the cane. Without further ado, Mr. Cromwell brought the cane up to shoulder height and slashed it down on Lucinda’s buttocks. It was too soon to howl. She had to control her panic. She sucked in gulps of air instead, swallowed hard and said,

“One Sir. Thank you Sir.”

“You are welcome, my dear. It is my duty to teach you your lessons. That is what I am here for.”

“Two Sir, thank you, Sir.”

“Three Sir, thank you, Sir.”

And so the stokes bore down on Lucinda one after the other, perhaps only six or seven seconds apart. By the sixth stroke she was in absolute agony, and panting hard. At this juncture, Mr. Cromwell decided to take a break. He took a second or two to admire his handiwork thus far. Miss Belland had a delicious round bottom and striped it looked good enough to eat.

“Let’s remind ourselves Miss Belland, as to why you are here having your bottom whipped. Put it in your own words, girl.”

Lucinda took a moment to take one long breath to steady herself.

“I am having my bottom whipped, Sir, because I forgot to bring my mathematics book to class twice this week. You are teaching me, Sir, how to remember things.”

“Well said, girl! Another six and I think I may have got my message across. Let us continue.”

Lucinda braced herself for the final six strokes. There would be no extras today she could be sure. Secured to this blasted new whipping bench (if she ever met Mr. Owen she’d be sure to make it her life’s mission to pay him back for his sadist pleasures in the woodshed) she couldn’t move an inch out of position if she had wanted to.

Mr. Cromwell continued to bring the cane down savagely. It bit into Lucinda’s bottom time and time again, creating long vivid welts. She tried hard to remember that with each cane stroke it was one less, but then again, she had the final stroke to receive yet – and Mr. Cromwell had never deviated from the rule: the last cane stroke must be the hardest.

“Now for the final stroke, Lucinda, and you know that this must be the hardest. It is a tradition of the school.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Brace yourself girl. It will be memorable!”

“Yes Sir.”

Lucinda heard the cane arc up through the air and she registered the sound as it made its way down and across her buttocks. For several seconds, she didn’t feel much at all. About five seconds later, an excruciating pain was felt across her buttocks, as if someone had taken a red hot poker to her. From deep inside of her she could feel the words of hatred welling up. She wanted to tell this man what a rotten, horrible, old bastard that he was. But she stopped herself in time. Should she utter even a syllable of one of those words, she would be caned all over again, and it wasn’t worth that.
l
“Twelve Sir. Thank you Sir.”

Mr. Cromwell put the cane on his desk.

“You are most welcome, Miss Belland. Just stay there for the moment please, while I write up the official record, and then we’ll talk some more. A caning is always a good start. But for a girl to have a lesson firmly imprinted on her mind, we need to go a little further. I will be right back. I just need to get a new pair of rubber gloves."

Asking

A weekly ‘correction’ has been an idea that has appealed to me for a long time. As much as the idea of a punishment has an erotic appeal to me and is most certainly a big factor in so many of my fantasies, in reality I don’t respond to corporal discipline all that well. My husband isn’t inclined to that since he realized that corporal punishment brought out the feisty, rebellious side of me and he couldn’t see the point in having corporal discipline if it wasn’t doing us good.

Maybe a month ago now, I came to him with the suggestion that we have a weekly ‘correction’. It would be at the same time each week but other than that the details of it were up to him. He expressed his concern. He loved me. He didn’t want to inflict pain on me really. But, didn’t he get excited every time he did do that? Yes, he assured me he did. So, if I was asking him to give me a weekly correction, asking for him to inflict pain, was he all right with that? More than all right apparently because although it was not Saturday morning, the time agreed, he thought we should start right away.

Out came the ropes to tie me to the bedroom chair very securely and into my mouth went the ball gag. It had been a long time since I’d felt more than a few strokes of the cane, and although my mouth was filled I managed to scream my way around the gag with every stroke. But, I loved every nasty minute of it, the lovely sex afterwards and the delicious feel of being sore every time I sat down over the day.

The following Saturday, I was tied to the bed. Arms stretched out and tied to the front and back right post of the bed, but my feet were left alone. This time he used the ring gag and his choice of implement was a flat thick wooden slicer, the sort you use to turn something in a flying pan. From the first wack of that implement I registered my protest with deep, guttural shrieks. It stunk like the bejesus and I swear the cane is easier to take than a paddle. But, on he went to all intents and purposes having a swell old time flaying into my backside while I pulled on the ropes in some vain attempt that I could actually get away. Yet, low and behold, the sex afterwards was heavenly and my state of mind all weekend wonderfully elevated. Off to the races we went and my little heart was filled with joy and love.

This past weekend, I woke on Saturday morning laid low. My throat was very sore, my head ached and it was clear this girl wasn’t up to a thrashing. On Sunday morning, I feared that he would let it go; let me off the hook. I knew I didn’t have the courage to ask again. But, he came through with flying colours. We spoke of walking the dogs to a breakfast place and agreed to do that and I thought that was that but just as I was thinking of a shower, he told me the correction needed to come first.

Over the bed again (it’s high and I can bend over it at hip level) and tied tightly to the bedposts and this time, my ankles too. I was utterly and completely secured.

“Think about the past week. Is there anything about your behaviour that requires correction?”

I tend to go to water at these moments.

“Ummmm, I can’t think of anything...”

“Well you better hurry up because if you don’t, it won’t bode well for you.”

“Well, I answered you back a couple of times. I was a bit argumentative a couple of times.”

“Yes, you were. Unnecessarily so. Anything else?”

“I...I don’t think so...”

“Well, there is the issue of the petrol gauge being on empty again and we didn’t deal with that yet so that will have to be taken into account, won’t it?”

“Yes, owner.”

“Hmmmmm”

I’ve never managed to convince my husband that a girl needs a warm up before a caning. He brought his hand down a few times but it had little bearing on the fact that the first stroke bit into me and had me howl.

“May I please have a gag for my mouth?”

I do so much better when I can focus my energies on something in my mouth.

“Certainly. Which one would you prefer?”

“The cocki gag please.”

So, in it went and I felt ever so much better. For a guy that shows reservation with corporal punishment I have to give my husband full marks in acting since he certainly appears to be enjoying himself as he wallops my bottom and produces red stripes across white skin.

I did not cry but I did come up as high as I could a few times towards the end, rather like a horse neighs his protest up into the air, only to find that my restraints were tight and binding and I had nowhere to go.

One of his favourite little tricks is for me to think that he is done. He will come to me and be tender with me, perhaps rubbing my bottom a little or touching my face as I breathe hard and go into the phase of recovery.

“A few more, I think. Not quite done yet.”

But, again, the sex was very, very good and the day, a perfectly happy one.

We are only three weeks into this ritual but it is going very well. It meets my needs and I honestly don’t think it is onerous for him. I’m not getting that impression.

But, I did need to ask for this. It was not going to happen if I did not ask. I would encourage others who are cognisant of a need to discuss that need with their partner and see if you can’t come to an arrangement. Asking is not easy but then again, not getting for what you need has no upside at all.

The Training School - chapter 4

On the way out to the garden, the girls went by a wall to wall bookcase and Lucille stopped to look.

“We are allowed to borrow the books,” Pammi told her. “as long as we return them to their same position. Nicholas has them all in a special order.”

An avid reader, Lucille was grateful to have something to divert her mind and she selected two books and took them out to the garden. The other girls seemed more interested in the magazines they had brought down with them from the bedroom. Lucille quickly became absorbed in re-reading ‘Anna Karenina’, one of her favourite books at university.

In the middle of the afternoon, completely absorbed in the story, she was oblivious when Nicholas stood at the double door leading out the garden quietly observing them. He coughed to announce his presence and she immediately looked up.

He should have been pleased with what he saw. In front of his eyes were three quiet girls, sitting as they had been instructed, with their bare bottoms directly on the garden seats. He came towards them and instinctively all three girls straightened themselves up as if to project the best image of themselves for him that they could. There was something about Nicholas that people responded to; not just the girls that were sent to him but all the people who entered his orbit. His high standards were projected in everything he said and did. People tended to react to this by behaving in a way that was pleasing to him.

“Girls, Susan has arrived. Please follow me to the study now.”

When the three girls entered the study their first sight was of a rather tall, lean girl, with long, wavy, red hair cascading down her back. She was standing in the corner closest to Nicholas’ desk with her face to the wall and her hands on the back of her head. The hem of her skirt had been hitched up into the waist band of her skirt and her round, bare bottom showed signs of having recently been soundly smacked.

“Sit,” he said to the three of them, and they sat down on the upholstered seats as they knew to do, all looking sorry for the girl who could not see them. It amazed Lucille how in a matter of hours, this new and incredibly humiliating way of sitting down was already beginning to feel almost natural to her. It was strangely stirring to her, though she would deny it of course if quizzed about it.

When they were all settled, Nicholas said to the girl in the corner, “Susan, are you ready to behave?”

There was no answer but Lucille knew she was very angry. She could clearly here her laboured breathing and the air she snorted through her nostrils, not to mention the fact that her shoulders and neck moved up and down in concert with her breathing.

The three girls watched as Nicholas walked to an umbrella stand by his desk and took from it a black riding crop. He lifted it into the air and brought it down on the chair closest to Susan, as if the chair’s seat were a substitute for her bottom. If she had any sense at all, Lucille thought, the girl would start co-operating around about now.

“Susan, are you ready to behave?” he asked her again as calmly as he had the first time.

“Yes, Sir.”

She sounded completely contrite; a different person.

“Turn around.”

Susan turned around, her hands still on her head. It was a deeply embarrassing moment for her, of course and Lucille tried not to look at her so as not to make it any more difficult.

“Have you anything to say, Susan?”

“I am sorry I was rude, Sir.”

She was a feisty one. Lucille could clearly see that. But, all girls were the same really. Their self-preservation skills kicked in when confronted with a nasty black riding crop in the hand of a man with resolve.

“Very well. You may take you hands down from your head and come and meet the other girls.”

Susan came towards them, her skirt still hitched into her waist band.

“Susan, I would like you to meet Lucille, Sherri and Pammi.

The girls said hello to Susan and she said hello back.

“Sit down, Susan, as you know to do.”

It seemed that Susan was well aware of what Nicholas wanted and she performed the move well. Perhaps they had already gone over this when alone and this was what the trouble had been about. Lucille could only hazard a guess.

“Very well,” Nicholas began. “Listen carefully, girls. I will only say this once. Whilst you are here at my school you are to follow my instructions. Listen carefully for commands and respond immediately.”

He paused, allowing them to drink in his words.

“You must always be honest with me. I will listen to what you have to say, so long as you say it politely. I have no interest in disagreeable girls and your best manners are always expected. Is that understood?”

Nicholas looked at each of them individually and one by one they said, “Yes, Sir.”

“Your owners have provided me with a list of goals for you and whilst there are daily routines that you will all do together, I will often be working with one girl separately. At those times, the rest of you will have chores to do and tasks to perform. You may ask questions so long as you do so politely. Now, are there any questions?”

Lucille had a burning desire to understand what on earth she was doing here. It had all been so sudden and it still felt surreal to her; that at any moment she would wake up and discover the day had simply been a figment of her imagination. She needed something very tangible to hold onto; something that would make sense to her.

“Sir, may I ask...could you please tell me...why are we here? What is the purpose of our time here?”

“Training, Lucille. You are here to be trained. That is what your owner wants – for you to be well trained before you return to him.”

She wanted to say, “but, trained how and for what purpose?” but she was worried this might come out as sounding impolite and so she simply said, “I see.”

“Any other questions?”

The girls shook their heads quietly.

“Very well. Now, Lucille, you will stay here with me for a tutorial. Sherri, Pammi and Susan, the three of you are to report to Mrs. MacNeice in the kitchen. You will be assisting her with food preparation and any other chores she has for you. Off you go and make yourselves useful. ”

The three girls left the room silently whilst Lucille watched them go, Susan's bare spanked bottom being the last sight she had of them. In one sense, the thought of preparing dinner never seemed quite as appealing as it did right at that moment and yet she was incredibly curious as to what this man could teach her.

The Training School - chapter 3

In spite of the issue at the commencement of lunch, Lucille enjoyed her meal. Nicholas was correct in saying that Mrs MacNeice provided great food. The roast lamb was the best she had ever tasted. There were no potatoes, but there was any other vegetable she could have wanted and plenty of string beans. No dessert was offered but there was a bowl of fresh fruit which was sent around the table after the main course dishes were taken away. Nicholas encouraged them to indulge in the fruits of the season – apricots, nectarines and peaches, fresh from the trees in the garden.

Nicholas was an excellent conversationalist once he got going on topics that interested him, she discovered and she found herself absorbed in his stories about country life and farming in particular. Nicholas, it turned out was the owner of a large holding of land on which there were hundreds of sheep. He had a Manager to run the day to day running of the farm whilst he oversaw the overall operations of it, along with other investments. It was easy to forget momentarily the reason why she was here. Under other circumstances, she would have admired him as a caring and engaging host. She had to keep reminding herself of his other side lest words fly out of her mouth before she had considered them carefully, which she had a tendency to do.

Pammi and Sherri both seemed very sweet girls if not a little lacking in confidence, she thought. They were particularly careful to be courteous, she noted, and twice Nicholas praised them on their manners. She took that to mean that there had been improvement over the week. Certainly, Nicholas’ attention to detail was punctilious and he observed them all closely. Sherri, a girl who was really a little too thin, Lucille thought, picked at her food until Nicholas said,

“Sherri, I want your food all eaten up. You won’t leave the table until your plate is clean.”

She ate with more relish after that. All in all, it reminded Lucille of the times she had been with her father to horse racing meetings and they had gone for afternoon tea in the members’ dining room. Everybody was careful to attend to the needs of everybody else at the table and there was a lovely congenial atmosphere, much as she imagined it was in the generation before her when life was more genteel and civil.

Over a cup of tea at the end of the meal, Nicholas asked Lucille how she felt about horses and she told him about the horse racing meetings which had been on her mind only minutes ago. She said it was unfortunate that she had not learned how to ride herself but she feared horses up close.

“We have six horses on this property that we use, mostly for rounding up the sheep and checking the boundaries. Most of them are gentle. I’d like to get you riding while you are here. There is no need to be afraid of them once you know how to handle them. I believe you could do that.”

“Oh no, I couldn...”

“Excuse me?”

In mid sentence, Lucille remembered what Nicholas had said – that if he said she could do something, she could do it. And, it stopped her cold. She didn’t want a lecture again and in some way, his insistence that she could do things that she had never done before was appealing to her. She could not imagine how he could make possible something she had never been able to do before, yet his blind faith in her to accomplish new skills gave her a shot of confidence that perhaps she could.

“Nothing, Sir. I will try, Sir.”

“That’s the way, girl."

Then, Nicholas referred his comments to all the girls.

“Now, our last girl, her name is Susan, will be arriving shortly. Sherri, Pammi, take Lucille up to the bedroom and show her where she will sleep. Then please show her the garden. I shall call for you later this afternoon when we will go over the rules and protocols all together. Dismissed.”

Lucille watched the other two girls for clues as to what she should do and followed their lead. In fact, both of the other girls were a few years younger than Lucille but they had a whole five days of knowledge here over her and that, for now, gave them seniority. In fact, they did nothing special but simply left the room quietly and orderly whilst Nicholas poured himself another cup of tea.

Once outside of the dining room, Sherri put her finger to her mouth to gesture not to talk and so Lucille, who was burning with desire to fire questions at the girls, simply followed them as they made their way upstairs.

Pammi opened the door to a large and really beautiful room, the walls a soft blue and the trim, shiny white. Lucille loved the architecture of these old farm houses with their big rooms, high ceilings and large windows and she noticed these features first. Then, her eyes went to the four single beds, two on one side of the room and two on the other. All four beds were exactly the same. The frame was of wrought iron with vertical bars leading to a horizontal bar at the top of the frame, ending at the height of Lucille’s waist. She had no idea why but the little beds spoke to her and she was lost for words.

The girls showed her where everything was and as Nicholas had said, the contents of her suitcase had been unpacked and put away. Everything in the room was exceptionally neat and ordered and the bathroom had obviously been remodelled in recent times with the long vanity unit having four sinks, one for each girl, two toilets and two showers. Four pure white fluffy towels hung on four individual towel racks.

As orderly as the space was, it was not without its creature comforts. There was a stylish glass vase filled with white roses at a round table at one end of the room, closest to the window, and next to the vase were some recent magazines: Vogue, Cosmopolitan and Madison. The drapes were beautiful; blue and white cotton in a small floral design which matched the colour of the walls perfectly. Lucille was impressed.

Now that she was alone with the girls she was anxious for them to tell her everything they knew and she began to ask them questions: what had happened and what should she know? Pammi, it seemed, had chosen to make herself their spokesperson.


“Lucille, we cannot talk about it. Nicholas told us both that we are not to talk amongst ourselves about what happens here and especially what happens in private, when we are alone with him or ...other people. He says that we will be punished if we do.”

“But, no one is here with us. What they don’t know won’t hurt them, for heaven sakes.”

“I am sorry. I can’t talk about it. But, I will give you some advice. Just obey. Things will go much better for you if you do. Don’t try to buck the system and don’t think that arguing will get you anywhere. Just be polite and obedient.”


Lucille had trouble processing Pammi’s statement. She anticipated that she could win the girls over and that together they could manoeuvre things to their satisfaction. She looked over at Sherri who was nodding her head in agreement.

“Are you two...frightened of something?”

In silence, Sherri walked to the round table and beckoned Lucille to follow her. She opened the drawer of the table to reveal three wooden backed hairbrushes of various shapes and sizes.

Sherri looked at Lucille and Lucille looked back at Sherry. The way their eyes met said it all.

“Ohhhhh.”

“More like ‘ouch’.”

“Let’s go out to the garden,” suggested Pammi, who seemed to want to put an end to this turn of events. “It’s a very pretty garden and we can take some reading out there and wait to be called.”

Together, the three girls left the room and made their way down the stairs again and out to the garden in silence. They were all lost in their individual thoughts.

Seeking co-operation

I can't say that I would have paid much attention to this photograph if I had come across it in tumbler myself. It was the words that were put with it that tickled my fancy:

"The girl on the right is concerned about the way the girl on the left is responding, because she knows she’s most likely the one who’s going to have to pay for it."

Yep, that got my attention and made me smile.

Once upon a time there was a thought to write a story about a group of girls and it was to be a rather difficult situation for them. If one misbehaved, someone else in the group might just be punished for her misbehaviour.

The words that went with the picture above totally explained (to me) why the girl on the right should be looking with concern at the other girl. She was the one likely to pay the price for the other's missteps.

It's a delicious and devilish thought, don't you think? (or am I alone here with my kinky thoughts...?)

As I was waking up this morning here's where my mind went:

It's after the scene above. The girls' ropes have been taken away and their mouths are empty. They are quiet and subdued after the ordeal; still naked. Yet the girls remain who and what they are: the one on the left is an extrovert and often in trouble. The one on the right is more of an introvert and tries hard to stay out of trouble. They are close to one another in only the way an introverted and extroverted girl can be. The introvert is attracted to the fun and excitement that the extroverted friend can bring to her life and the extroverted girl benefits from the commonsense and caution of the introverted girl. Let's call Miss Extrovert, Erina and Miss Introvert, Indy.

The man is not happy with the way things have gone in the session. and he is not ready to let the girls go and rest. He wants to consolidate the lessons learned with some time in the 'classroom' and he tells them to take their seats - two wooden seats at two separate wooden desks, side by side. The girls are reluctant. Their bottoms are marked and sore but neither of them dares disobey him.

He gives them both paper and a pen and he tells them that before they will be dismissed they are to write in their best hand writing, 250 times

"I must obey all commands instantly and with good grace."

They are not to stop writing at any time. They are not to look about and they most certainly may not wriggle in their chairs.

Do they understand?

"Yes, Sir." "Yes, Sir."

"One last thing," he says as they pick up their pens, "If there is any misbehaviour by one of you, I will punish the other girl."

The girls respond to this statement in entirely different ways. Indy sends up a silent prayer begging Erina to please behave herself, whilst Erina sees it as a delicious dare. How brilliant that she can be naughty but that the consequences will be felt by Indy! She knows it is bad but too good to let the chance go by.

Within minutes Erina is behaving like an errant school girl. She is shuffling about in her seat, looking all about her and crossing out words in a way that she knows will rile Mr. Perfectionist looking on.

"All right Erina, you were warned. Indy come here."

"But, Sir..."

"Don't make me ask twice Indy."

Poor Indy comes up to him positioned as he is over a big wooden chair holding a wooden back hairbrush and as instructed she bends over to take a walloping. Within a minute, the poor girl is howling as the brush meets her already tender backside and within two minutes tears pour down her face.

After three minutes of enthusiastic paddling, the man tells her to stand and even to express her regret for the misbehaviour and her thank yous for the correction.

This just isn't fair!!

"I am sorry that Erina misbehaved, Sir. Thank you for punishing me."

"Are you happy, Erina?" he asked.

It was true to say that at this moment, Erina had mixed feelings. Poor Indy looked so sad and confused and she had done something that Indy would never do to her. She bowed her head in shame.

"Continue on with your work, girls. Erina, begin your page again. It is a mess."

"Yes, Sir." "Yes, Sir."

As poor Indy carried on with her lines, sitting on a red hot and very sore bottom, she began to wonder what she ever saw in Erina. Yes, she had been lots of fun, but this high jinks of hers today had been too much.

The more she thought about it, the more upset she became. How dare the girl go about getting her in trouble like that again! How would she like to get that paddling??!! She would never do that to her!

Or, would she?!

A devilish, sinful and quite out of personality thought occurred to her. If she were to do something naughty, she could get back at Erina and teach her a lesson she would remember for a long time.

Ohhh, but she couldn't! Could she?! Well, maybe just this one time...

Before any thoughts of anxiety about being bad entered her good little head, she acted decisively and lifted the desk lid and banged it down, making such a thud that Mr. Perfect jumped out of his chair.

"Indy, how dare you make that noise!"

"Oh, what the fuck! Who cares about a little noise? Let's liven things up in here."

Her statement was met with silence and looks of total incomprehension. Both Mr. Perfect and Erina were too shocked to immediately respond. Indy said that?

"How dare you speak to me like that, young lady. Erina get over my knee right now."

"But, that isn't fair..." she began.

"I'll decide what is fair around here, Erina. Now, over my knee and don't think you won't pay dearly for this uproar."

Reluctantly, Erina tipped her naked body over Mr. Perfect's knees and from the first whack, he made sure that Erina would remember this paddling for a very long time. She howled out her complaints and cried her heart out while Mr. Perfect paddled her bottom, on and on and on...

To Indy's surprise, she enjoyed the spectacle enormously. She had no idea that there was a sadistic bone in her body until this moment but the day's events had changed all that. Erina was getting what she deserved and she was enjoying watching every moment of it.

The time finally came when Erina was told to return to her seat and much more subdued now, both girls completed their lines without another moments fuss.

When they were dismissed and returned to the bedroom they shared, they looked soulfully at one another and at the same moment said, "I'm sorry." They hugged one another tight.

From now on, Mr. Perfect could expect co-operation from both of them. It was guaranteed.

Training

One of my big splurges over the years has been children's books. Most of them are packed away in boxes at the moment since they over ran the book shelves and eventually needed to make way for adult reading but as yet, I can't give a single one of them away. Both the children and I have such strong ties to so many of them. Does anyone know 'Patrick and the dinosaur?' One son was obsessed with dinosaurs and I have a large collection of stories about dinosaurs. But, no story was ever better than Patrick's wonderful imagination when his brother takes him to the zoo. Dinosaurs abound in his imagination, follow him home and even peek into his upstairs bedroom window. All the while his older brother is completely oblivious.

I was wandering about the house doing some housework just before when, for no reason at all, Madeline popped into my head. With three boys and only one girl, it finally dawned on me one day when my children were still young that I had many more books where the hero was a boy than I did a girl and I went about actively seeking out books that were about girls. Of course, I bought the Madeline series:

"In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines, lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.."

It is a completely adorable set of books about 12 little girls who are orphans in a Paris convent and Madeleine, bless her soul, is the hardest of all to contain. She finds herself in one scrape after the other. Fortunately, things always end well, as they should for such an adorable, robust and courageous little girl.

I have wondered, from time to time, why I so often conjure up the image of being in a strict boarding school. Although I do feel loved by my parents who send me there, it is a distant, formal sort of love. They don't believe in sparing the rod to spoil the child and it is for my own good that I am sent off to the school with a 'hard as flint' Headmaster.

Often, on the very first day, even before the ordeal has formally begun, I am a witness to what is in store for me at the official 'meet and greet' appointment with the Headmaster. The Headmaster seeks my parents (or often just my father's) confirmation that he understands that corporal punishment is the preferred form of discipline at the school. It never seems to bother my father (or both parents) at all, and they assure him that they are in complete agreement that corporal discipline is a very good thing. 'Headmaster', as they call him, should feel completely free to correct my behaviour in any way he deems effective.

To add to my misery (or should I say, entertainment) he often suggests to my parents that in order for me to understand that all parties are in complete understanding of the measures used to teach me my lessons, a few strokes should be meted out immediately. My parents don't blink at the suggestion and I am invariably told to bend across the Headmaster's desk where my parents can observe his skill at delivering stripes to my bottom that will ensure my compliance of all rules laid down.

There truly is no way out for me. It would be fruitless to send a letter home complaining of my treatment, given that my parents and the Headmaster are clearly in cahoots and I determine very early on that I must make the best of things and do my best to stay out of trouble.

Unfortunately, my best is never good enough. Trouble comes sometimes because my marks are not satisfactory. Interestingly, in this fantasy, it is my French that causes the most difficulty and as well as making regular acquaintance with the Headmaster's cane for the offense of not mastering the language, I spend many a long hour sitting in the detention room writing my vocabulary out, 20, 50, 100 times, until the entire list is committed to memory.

The Matron at my fantasy school in no way endeavours to shelter her girls from the perils of the Headmaster's cane. To the contrary, she makes good use of her wooden backed hairbrush and the slightest sign of untidiness, of a noise in the dormitory after dark, of running in the halls or eating a contraband lolly is met with a long and arduous trip over her knee.

Such offenses are recorded, of course, and a list is sent home to my father along with the academic report at the end of each term. It is customary that all strokes of the cane meted out by the Headmaster are also meted out by a girl's father over the holidays. Thus, a girl in week 1 of the term who receives 6 of the cane will know that she can receive the same amount in her father's study upon her return home a few months later. And so it goes...

Of course, I progress and I progress fast. No relatively smart girl is not going to figure out in short order that it is in her best interests to be outstandingly polite, well behaved and diligent if she should ever wish to sit down again without it being the most awful chore. She understands quickly as well that excuses and complaints will get her nowhere. A girl who tries to justify the unjustifiable quickly discovers that things get so much worse. Much, much better to agree that the behaviour is unacceptable, acknowledge that the behaviour most definitely requires correction and most importantly, offer one's heartfelt thanks for receiving it.

One of the mandates of the school, of course, is to prepare a girl for her fate; that of marriage to a strict man, usually a good ten years older, who will appreciate a well trained girl. My mother was such a girl and my father a man who understands the importance of such training for his daughter as well.

As is the case with Madeleine, the story ends well. I come to appreciate the training I have been given and recognize the importance of it. I meet and marry a man who believes in weekly correction for his wife, adherence to dress code and all his whims, as well as exemplary manners and behaviour. I am blissfully happy with my new life and revel in his attentive care and encouragement.

In real life, I wouldn't be without my family for all the world, but I so often wondered growing up and for many years after that what it might be like to not have a family; to live only with a lovingly strict man and for him to be my world. Of course, I can only wonder and perhaps this is from where this fantasy stems; my efforts to explore that other world that I can only wonder about.

It is interesting though, is it not, that for zillions of years before I entered a power exchange in a formal sense that I was thinking these thoughts, over and over. In some way, it had entered my mind that strictness equalled love and care. And, perhaps more interesting still, that for me, nothing has changed.

Corrective procedures explained

Her father was a man of strong will and conviction and he had made up his mind that his only daughter would not be spoiled. He was convinced that whilst she should always be cared for very well, as he had always done, she was not to turn out like so many other girls from wealthy families; spoiled, precocious, demanding and with expectations that they should achieve nothing in their lives except how to use a credit card.

To this end, Clive Jameson decided to enrol his daughter in a small and specialized private school in the countryside where special care was taken that a girl achieved her absolute best, but that she also remain free from the influences of nasty and undisciplined brats as he has observed at her previous school.

Margaret did her best to try to persuade her father to allow her to stay at her school in the city but it was the temper tantrum she threw when he said 'no' to her that convinced him that this step was essential.

"Margaret, the matter is closed and I forbid you to bring it up with me again. At Ridgewood Academy you will receive excellent tutelage in your lessons and as well, you will receive discipline that will make you strong. I am doing this for your own good and one day you will thank me. Now, go to your room."

Margaret cried herself to sleep as loudly as she could so as to make her father feel sorry for what he had done but it had no effect at all. The next day they left for her new school. Her uniform would be provided by the school she was told so she had very little packed in her suitcase save for Monty her bear, and she prayed that he would not be taken from her. Though in her late teens, she was still young at heart.

The Headmaster greeted them in his office a few hours later and although he appeared stern he was not without warmth. He assured Margaret that although discipline at the school was strict, it was fair and equitable and that at his school she would be encouraged to impose self-discipline upon herself and to achieve at the highest standards. It was evident from her reports and tests, he said, that she was a most capable girl who could do better, and he intended to oversee that happy outcome himself.

Later, when her father had bid her goodbye and asked her to write regularly, she was taken upstairs to the Matron of the boarding house and it was through talking with her that she began to learn the ways of her new school. Poor behaviour, should that occur, was punishable in various ways but at Ridgewood Academy a different approach was taken than simply to punish bad behaviour after the fact.

Rather than punish a girl for poor behaviour, or achieving an inappropriate grade or for disrespectful conduct towards a Master or Mistress, it had been determined that all girls would receive a "correction" on a weekly basis. This correction would, in most cases, ensure that a girl understood that it was very much in her interests to avoid any further dealings with the Headmaster regarding inappropriate behaviour.

On Sunday evenings, immediately after the Chaplain's sermon girls should meet in the assembly hall (the room with no chairs) where they should stand up straight in lines with their hands clasped behind their backs. One by one, their names would be called and when Margaret's name was called she should immediately move forward to the front of the room and stand in front of the oak table.

When given the command she should take down her panties (regulation black) and bend across the desk, whereupon the Headmaster would raise her skirt to reveal her bare buttocks to the whole school. She should remain totally still (unless, of course, she wished strokes repeated) and receive 12 hard strokes of the cane. These strokes would be administered in a manner whereby it was hoped that marks would remain all week. This, it was deemed, would enable all girls to sit on a well marked and bruised backside for the duration of the week thereby ensuring that a girl was continually reminded of the expectations of Ridgewood - high academic achievement, superb manners and total obedience.

Naturally, Matron explained, there was the odd exception to the rule and from time to time, a girl did act inappropriately at some stage during the week, in spite of the stripes offered to her each Sunday evening. In this case, a note was made in her file and she was offered an extra six sound stripes to her buttocks and thighs on the following Sunday evening. Without exception, these extra stripes had convinced all girls, so far, of the best road for her to take.

"Do you have any questions, Margaret? Is there anything you would like to say?" asked Matron.

"No, Ma'am."

"You would not like to express your thanks for your acceptance at Ridgewood Academy and the opportunity to excel?"

"Ohhhh, yes, I would, Ma'am. Thank you for having me here Ma'am. I am very grateful for the opportunity afforded me to learn my lessons."

"That's the way, Margaret. Be sure to give your thanks to Headmaster on Sunday evening, after your first caning - always very sound. Headmaster is a most committed man and puts a lot of effort into his work."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good girl. Run along now."

Without realizing it, as Margaret opened the door with one hand she was rubbing her bottom with the other.

And, well she might!

For her own good

My husband and I arrived home late on a Thursday evening and this has been rather wonderful timing because we have had time to lull about at home and get over our jet lag and exhaustion. Even better, my cough is virtually gone and I feel kind of cheeky again, which means I feel like my old self. Good news, right?!

Believe it or not, I spent most of Saturday fast asleep which is some kind of miracle. But, in and out of sleep I must have been, because in my thoughts I was constantly being spanked, in one scenario or the other.

Sometimes, I was back at school. It was a very strict school (what a surprise!) and on my first day my parents and I were taken in to see the Headmaster. He wanted to confirm with my parents that they understood that he believed strongly in the benefits of the cane for his girls. My parents assured him that they were in total agreement.

Then, he wanted to check that I had not brought to his school any panties. Girls in his school, he said, were forbidden from wearing panties because they were inconvenient for Masters and gave a girl the impression that she had rights, which she did not. Again, my parents assured the Headmaster that they agreed and that no such panties were in my suitcase nor on my body. When my parents had waved us goodbye, the Headmaster escorted me back to his study to initiate me in his ways. Better, he said, to begin where he meant to end.

Whilst the idea of receiving discipline from a woman in real life holds zero appeal for me, in my dreams there is often a very strict Matron who works in conjunction with the Headmaster, and so it was yesterday. Whilst the Headmaster handled issues of a serious nature, it was Matron who dealt with minor matters, such as girls giggling in the hallway, or talking after lights out. She had one of those expensive Mason Pearson hairbrushes I saw all round Europe in pharmacies and she used it liberally. Being stout, she had no problem in taking a girl over her knee and it was her way to issue a sentence of so many minutes; say, two minutes of hard spanking with the brush for not making one's bed with the specified corners.

It didn't end there. The Headmaster had all sorts of rituals for his girls and one such ritual was a monthly enema, which he considered good for "our health", followed by an inspection of our "holes". Once a week, we were given a class on our "true purpose" and we needed to get good grades in this subject, along with all our subjects.

No girl was allowed to do poorly and when a girl received a low grade, she was given a second chance. True to form, Masters at the school dealt with poor grades in a traditional way. A girl was soundly whipped and once that was completed, she was given time to review the lesson, after which she was allowed to re-sit the test. It was with pride that Masters noted that all girls performed to a most satisfactory standard when given this personal attention. The school maintained an exemplary academic standard and as well, graduates of the school were considered to make outstanding wives. It makes sense, doesn't it?!

I was beaten consistently all Saturday - all for my own good. Such a lovely way to spend a Saturday!

The Strap

A lovely family get together on the weekend in a relaxing, country garden led to some really interesting and, for me, kinky thought-inducing conversations. It was the kinky thought part of the day that I thought you folk might be interested in...

The matriarch of the family, a most beloved woman, and apparently the best granny a child could ever ask for, or so I was told by endless grandchildren, had married a man who it seems was a strict disciplinarian. He had a strap and he was not shy about using it if the children were naughty. The story was told to me by the son but it seems that his three sisters’ bottoms were not spared either, and they were all pretty familiar with that piece of leather routinely used to correct their behaviour.

Sometimes, when Hamish deemed that his son needed correction, his mother would intervene. Now, she didn’t intervene in the usual way that mothers do. She didn’t say, “Oh, Hamish, please don’t belt my darling son. He’s a good boy really and I am sure he meant no harm.” (Or words to that effect). Instead she would say to her husband,

“I’ll handle this, dear.”

She’d take the strap from him and take her son to the study whereupon she would close the door and say,

“Now, when I hit the arm of the couch make sure you yelp loud. Got it?”

And, on would go the charade with this dear woman belting away at her couch whilst her son yelped away on cue, eventually whimpering his way out of the room to have a little mock cry in his room.

It was the story he wanted to tell on her passing, all these years later. His much loved mother had been his protector when he was a boy and continued to love him and all her great big family with exuberant abundance to her dying day.

I was not surprised to hear the story really. She was an amazing woman, the likes of which won’t be seen again, nor the times in which she lived. I relished the opportunity to see the photographs of her life on display and there was one of her sitting with her husband. They looked completely at one, and he not at all the disciplinarian of his son’s story to me. And yet, there was a steely looks in those eyes that I would have missed on first glance.

How clever she was to keep him happy and content! She had him think that she was in accord with his disciplinary views whilst she went about bringing up of the children in her own way. For you see, she was no ‘walk over’. She had most exacting expectations of behaviour of the children and when she gave away money to the grandchildren towards the end of the life, she did it a few years before she died, so that she had some input as to what they did with the money.

“She didn’t exactly give instructions as to what we were to do with the money,” explained one grandchild to me, but she made it clear in her letter to me that I was to think carefully about how I would spend the money.” She said that if I were to buy a house, it should be a house “to raise a happy family” and “a welcoming home.” She wanted the best of the past to remain in their lives and for their lives to be led in a noble and nourishing way. Born nearly a hundred years ago, she was a woman who embraced the youth, absolutely adoring the babies, but holding on with all her might to a more genteel time when manners, etiquette and hospitality were exemplary.

This morning, my mind is filled with those times, of fathers who disciplined with the strap and of daughters who either did as they were told or were corrected for their behaviour. Of course, I know that in reality, it is not like a film of the outback where Sam Neill is playing a part of the strict father and has a manly study in which he takes his daughter for punishment. My mind, however, is a whole other thing and when I think about these sorts of events they are translated to be something very arousing.

---------------------

I’ve been sent home with a note from the school master, you see. He’d been scolding me for not doing all of my homework and had written a letter to my father advising him that his daughter was not attending to her school work sufficiently well. I am told to give the letter to my father that evening and return it to him the next morning before school, signed. In this way, he can be sure that the letter is seen by my father, and of course, he’ll want to know what action my father took.

I feel a sense of dread at having to take the note from him and I consider whether to appeal to the schoolmaster to deal with me himself. Must we tell Father? But, I’ve tried that before. The schoolmaster considers it imperative that fathers be advised of unacceptable behaviour and his suggestion in the past was that he punish me himself but that a letter to Father advising him of this would still need to be delivered. The chances of double punishment were too great to risk.

“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.”

My afternoon is miserable and when I finally tell Mother that I have a note to give to Father from the schoolmaster she simply sighs, and tells me that I should knock on his study door immediately after dinner. Mother is not like Hamish’s mother at all! But, she has the good sense to know that it is better to feed Father a good meal first before notes from schoolmasters are delivered.

I am especially quiet at dinner. My appearance is clean and neat and my manners beyond reproach but I don’t have much of an appetite. Even so, the policy is that all food presented must be eaten and I don’t dare to leave a morsel. In this way, Mother has been kind because she has quietly instructed Molly, the woman employed to help Mother with me and all my siblings, that Margaret should only have a small helping this evening.

When dinner is over and the girls have finished clearing the dining table, Father resides to his study and tonight, Mother asks me to bring Father his pot of tea. I already have the letter in my pocket and I take from her the silver tray. Our eyes do not meet.

I knock on the door, as required. “Enter” says Father. I place the silver tray with the tea service upon the grand oak desk.

“Thank you, my dear.”

“You are most welcome, Father.”

Father has already returned to his writing.

I go and stand in front of him with my hands behind my back, one wrist above the other.

“Excuse me, Father...”

“Yes, Margaret?”

“Mr. Draculas asked me to give you a note.”

I take the note from out of my pocket and hand it to him and return my hands to their submissive place behind my back.

Father sighs. Another naughty child to deal with...

He reads the note and looks up.

“Margaret, I pay very good money for you to have the opportunity to receive a good education. You must give your full attention to your studies. Mr Draculas is perfectly correct. You need a reminder of your place, girl, and of my expectations of you. Fetch me the strap.”

Although I am certain that these words will be spoken the moment Mr Draculas has begun to write the note, my stomach does a double back flip. I am stricken with fear but know that no good will come from dragging my heels or begging for mercy. On the contrary, Father wants to see a contrite girl; a girl that knows that her correction is for her own good and very much deserved.

I walk to the door I have come through and from the hook at the back of the door I gather the strap and pass it over to Father.

“Assume the position, Margaret, over the desk.”

Whilst Father stands up and walks around the desk, I move closer to it and before bending over the desk, reach under my skirt to take down my panties to my knees. I grip the other side of the desk tightly. I already know that if I raise myself up I will only prolong the correction and so I must hold the edge very firmly indeed. It is Father who gathers the skirt up over my back to reveal my bare bottom.

“Count the strokes please, Margaret.”

Without wasting time, Father begins the task of turning my pale bottom first pink, then a light red and then a deep, scarlet red. Throughout the correction, I do my best to call out the numbers with some self control and decorum.

“Four, thank you, Sir.”

“”Niiiiine, thank you, Sir.”

Twwwweeeeelvvvvvvve, thank you, Sir.”

Finally, Father returns the strap to the hook on the back of the door.

“Attend to your clothing, Margaret.”

Father returns to his seat.

“Have you anything to say, Margaret?”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you for providing me with discipline, Father. My punishment was richly deserved and I shall try much harder to rise to your expectations.”

“Very well, my dear. I am sure you will. You are a good girl when you try your best. Now, I have signed the letter and it must be returned to Mr. Draculas first thing in the morning. Please give him my thanks for bringing the matter to my attention. Now, go and do your homework immediately, please.

“Yes Sir.”

I turn, ready to exit at a fast pace.

“Oh...Margaret...

I turn back.

“Yes, Father?”

“Two hundred lines, please, to be done straight after you have completed all your homework.

‘School girls who do not attend to their tasks shall be corrected with the strap.” Give them to Mr. Draculas, please. We don’t want him thinking I am going soft on you.”

“No, Sir. Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

I return to my room and with a quick rub of my tender bottom, begin my tasks.

---------------------

At a certain point of the afternoon yesterday, my husband sidled up to me and whispered, “What are you thinking, cindi? If only they knew!!”

If only, indeed!

Spanking memories

When I was young my parents were very busy running a business. I did not see a lot of them. They employed two wonderful Italian women, one that was there by day and one by night and they were surrogate mothers in many ways. I became good friends with one of their daughters, in particular, and I was often over at her house or at the ‘coffee lounge’ her father ran.

In my home life and early school life, there was no spanking. There really was not even discipline. I did my homework and music practice without being asked. I got myself ready for school. I did my chores. I truly was very (and pathetically) good.

In the life of my friend, however, there was spanking and discipline. My friend’s mother was not always there with us when I was at their home and it always intrigued/appalled me that there was this rather odd and creepy neighbour who was in charge of us.

One day, my friend suggested we pull up some cucumbers from the garden and just eat them; right there, just like that. She devoured hers but I was not all that keen on cucumber without it being sliced. Anyway, maybe we did something else other than eat the cucumbers. It is a long time ago now. But, this neighbour had a fit, in Italian. I didn’t know what he was saying but it seems we were in big trouble. I was scared out of my wits.

He took my friend inside and soon thereafter, I could hear him strapping her hands with his belt. It was totally surreal to me. I had never seen or heard anything like this and I did not like hearing my friend being hurt. I expected to be next but it seems that I was just that Aussie kid from down the street and untouchable. I was spared the strap. He growled at her in Italian and I think the idea was for her to tell me later in English what it was all about but she did not want to talk about it.

There was another Italian man; dark, quiet; mysterious. When I looked out my bedroom window I often saw him standing on the corner, resting on a cane. I found him terribly creepy for reasons I can’t explain and I asked my parents about him. It seems that he said that he had hurt his back and whilst waiting for the compensation case to be settled he hung out where people could see him, using the cane to walk. (When the case was finalized and he received his payment he threw away the cane and was able to walk perfectly well. It was quite a co-incidence.) If I put myself back in my girlhood, I can still feel the same foreboding sense when around him. I travelled a long way out of my way to avoid him and felt sick whenever I saw him. I simply cannot explain that.

My mother was friends with a woman and her son was a good friend of my brother. Once, the family of four took me with them on a trip to the country. I can’t remember why they took me but I remember the conversation in the car. We were probably being a bit naughty in the back seat. Well, probably the sons were being naughty. I’m not kidding here. I truly was very, very good back then.

In an ominous voice the father said,

“If you keep doing that John, you know what will happen when we get home, don’t you?”

John was very agitated when he said that and he replied,

“You’ll take off your belt and beat me.”

I was in shock. I was living a truly sheltered life as far as these things were concerned.

“That’s right,” said the father.

I felt I had been given to vagabonds for the day. Who talked like this?


One day, a girlfriend and I went for a walk around the neighbourhood and to the sea. We were passing a house when we heard,

“Oh, no! Please father, no more! Pleeeeeese, no more.”

We could distinctly hear the sound of leather coming down on bare skin. We looked at each other in silent dismay. Could this really be happening to this poor boy?!

A few years later, my family moved to the country and for the first time in my life I went to school with girls and boys. They were a rather naughty lot of scallywags, the boys, but I liked them. One boy was always in trouble. There was this very mean teacher at that school and I guess he was in charge of discipline because one could often hear the strap being used liberally from his office. I don’t think I ever said a single word within 50 metres of that office. I was not giving him reason to strap my hands.

On this particular day, a young, innocent lass fresh out of university was conducting her History class when this nasty teacher strode by and saw her unable to control the class. He instructed the red haired, naughty boy to come with him and right outside the classroom, in our line of vision, he strapped his hands. I can still hear the piece of leather coming down. I can still see his outstretched hand. I can still see his reddened hands when he showed the other boys later. I honestly felt that I was in an asylum. Who did these things to children?

Is my kink, my desire to be controlled and spanked and whipped, anything at all to do with these memories? Have I in some way eroticized those awful images? I have no idea. All I can say is that I have wanted to be spanked from the age of five or so. Whilst waiting for the bath to draw I would bend over and touch my toes and imagine what it would be like to have someone behind me wielding an implement over my soft, white cheeks. So, if those images are responsible for my kink, I guess some of those sorts of images occurred at a very young age. I have no way of knowing when I first observed one of these horrid events.

I have always loathed the thought of someone else being hurt. I hated those movies about ‘Tom Brown’s School days’ when they caned a boy for whistling or whatever, at the same time as I held my breath, overcome with a desire so overwhelming that I did not know what to make of my own reactions. In bed that night, I would transpose what had happened to the small, dear little schoolboy onto me. I was no longer appalled. I was wet with desire. (Picture me on an overseas flight in my thirties with Roald Dahl's 'Boy' as my entertainment - appalled and burning with desire at the very same moment...)

And, so it goes. I would move mountains to defend my children from some situation where they were to be beaten at the same time as I crave it for myself; day dream about it; write about it; hope.

The only difference with my daydreams these days is that when the nasty, nasty man puts down his cane or his belt or his whip after punishing me, he takes down his pants and plunders me, not once but three times. I guess that makes me not only kinky but perverted. Oh well!