Below are three free short stories for you to read and enjoy, Another Dozen Strokes, Caught and Caned and Always on the Bare. They are only samples of my work, if you enjoy reading them, please take a look at my ebooks on my book page or find them all on Amazon
Ross was always very nervous when he reported to Miss Devenish. A caning was inevitable. After all, that's why he went. But he had no reason to be any more nervous as he pressed the doorbell this time, apart that the strange craving inside him seemed stronger than usual. Little was he to know that Miss Devenish was also in an unusual mood. She was always in the mood to wield the cane and place a few colourful stripes across a bare bottom, but today she was in the mood to administer a very severe thrashing.
Ross had reported to Miss Devenish on six previous occasions. She was an elegant and attractive lady in her mid-forties. Well-spoken and educated, she described herself as a professional disciplinarian, and she was exactly the right person to reacquaint her clients with the strict headmistress they so dreaded, but craved. She and Ross had developed what she considered a very enjoyable scenario. Ross reported to her for adult tuition in English Language. The lessons were of an hour in duration and Miss Devenish's mastery of her language made for tuition periods that were genuine in every respect. She would always stress that she expected perfection from Ross and always warned him at the start of the lesson that anything less would result in a caning. Ross always did his best, and he was also well educated, so reasons to cane him were few, but of course, Miss Devenish always found fault somewhere, so Ross's bottom always received a few sound strokes of the cane.
Today, however, something was different. As Ross waited nervously for the door to open his mind was in a bit of a turmoil. He had the insane desire to provoke Miss Devenish a little, perhaps by producing work that was uncharacteristically sloppy. He had never yet been caned on the bare bottom, the worst he had received was six of the best across the taut fabric of his trousers, and while that stung like the devil, today he felt he needed to feel a stroke on the bare. He secretly craved the humiliation of having to bare his bottom to Miss Devenish, then bend over and take the cane. The trouble was, he felt unable to ask. Miss Devenish and he had developed a thoroughly decent relationship. Everything was prim and proper. Bare bottoms seemed most inappropriate.
"Good afternoon, Ross," said Miss Devenish, as she opened the door to see Ross nervously biting his lip. "I trust you've been endeavouring to improve your handwriting, as I suggested when you were last here?"
"Yes Miss Devenish," he replied.
He failed to notice the slight disappointment in her face before she turned to lead him to her study.
Ross took his seat at his student's desk in the now familiar dark oak panelled room, while Miss Devenish took her seat at her own desk, facing him, and began to review his past written work. His eyes drifted from the notepaper in front of him to the umbrella stand in the corner, containing a variety of canes. One of which, he knew, he would be feeling across the seat of his trousers before the hour was over. He shuddered at the thought, but it was why he was here. It's what he craved.
"Looking at your last written essay, Ross," she said, looking up from the paper on her desk to regard him with her cool, blue eyes, "I can see that we need to work hard on your handwriting. It is simply not neat enough."
"Yes, Miss Devenish," he replied.
"Very well. I intend to spend this period concentrating on just that. I want you to write in your very neatest handwriting 'Untidy handwriting can usually be improved with the persuasion of the cane.' You may begin. In your neatest handwriting, please. Bring it to me when you have finished, and don't forget that I will have no hesitation in using the cane if your work is less than satisfactory."
"Yes, Miss Devenish."
Ross picked his pen then began to write. Miss Devenish always made him nervous, so it was difficult to write with a steady hand, but today, with the thoughts of provoking her filling his head, he was even more nervous. The finished result was not particularly neat, but it was probably the best he could do. He rose to his feet, then took the few steps to her desk, then placed the sheet of paper in front of her.
"Not good enough, Ross," she said, after studying his work for several seconds. "In fact it's even worse than the rather sloppy work you produced last time you were here. I think I will have to bring the cane into use earlier than usual."
Ross felt a wave of fear run through him. She normally caned him at the end of his lesson, just before he left. She would usually lecture him, explaining that his progress had been unsatisfactory and that she had no option left to her but to cane him. This time he had been here for less than five minutes, and the cane was already about to be put to use.
"Go and stand at the front of your desk," she said, firmly, as she rose to her feet.
With his legs feeling a little unsteady under him, Ross took the few steps towards his desk, then turned to see Miss Devenish selecting a cane from the umbrella stand. His pulse began to race as she selected a cane of medium length and diameter. It looked like the one she had used on him last time and it stung like the devil. The colour drained from his face as he saw her replace the cane, then select a longer, heavier cane. She'd never used anything as severe looking as this before!
"Yes," she said, flexing the cane into an arc, "I think I'll use this cane today."
For the first time, Ross saw a sadistic glint in her eye. A slight smile formed on her face when she registered his fear.
"Bend over the desk, grip the seat," she said quietly. "Stay in position until I give you permission to rise."
Dreading what was to come, Ross slowly bent over the old wooden desk, feeling his trousers tighten against his bottom.
"You will receive one stroke on this occasion, Ross, but I warn you, it will be a little harder than you have experienced in the past. You may find it surprisingly painful, but I have decided that this is what you need."
Ross felt Miss Devenish slowly raise the rear vents of his jacket and fold them up over his back, then he felt her gentle hand smoothing the taut fabric covering his upturned bottom. She had never done this before.
"I'm just making sure your clothes are not offering too much protection, Ross. I want to be sure you really feel this."
Now he was really scared. This was not what he was expecting.
He tensed as she took her position to his left. His whole body twitched involuntarily as he felt the cane placed across the centre of his bottom.
"Remember, Ross," she warned, "Stay in that position exactly until I give you permission to rise. Failure to comply will result in the punishment being repeated."
Ross's face screwed up almost as if in pain as he anticipated the cane stroke. The cane was gently tapping across the seat of his taut trousers. Miss Devenish looked down at his offered bottom with a look of determination and concentration.
SWISH - CRACK!
The cane stroke was like nothing he had ever felt before. As the heavy rattan bit deep into his bottom cheeks, and a puff of dust was expelled from the fabric of his trousers, he felt a searing line of agony eat into his flesh. He gasped and gripped the seat as hard as he could to stop himself rising up. The pain seemed to eat in deeper and intensify as the full effect of the cane made itself felt, before gradually fading to an intense burning.
"You may rise," she said quietly, after about ten seconds.
As he looked briefly into her eyes, through his own shocked and watery eyes, he again saw that sadistic glint. He was terrified, but VERY excited. He knew he needed this. He knew it was going to get worse and he needed it to. Miss Devenish knew it to. Unspoken signals had, in that brief eye contact, passed between them, something special was under way and both parties craved it.
"Let's see if we can do better with exercise two, Ross," she said, as she took her seat, placing the cane on her desk. It was not lost on Ross that she had not returned it to the umbrella stand.
"In your very neatest handwriting, Ross, I want you to write 'For some people, only very hard canings will produce the required result.' I expect a vast improvement on your previous very untidy effort. Be in no doubt, I can and will apply this cane more severely that you imagine."
Her hard eyes left him in no doubt that she meant it. His hand was shaking as he began to write, He could feel her eyes watching his hand and sense her glee at his inability to write neatly. When he looked down at his completed written sentence he was both frightened and excited by what he saw. The handwriting was dreadful. He simply couldn't hand it to her. He tore the sheet off the pad and was about to start again.
"You've had more than enough time, Ross," she said, coolly, "Bring me your exercise."
Cringing inside, he rose to her feet, then took the few steps to her desk. Her face was studying his as he placed the exercise in front of her. She was loving this, he could tell. Slowly, she looked down at the offending hand written text. He felt his legs go weak at the knees as he saw her hand slowly reach for the cane.
"It appears I need to add some venom to your caning, Ross," she said, "Resume your position over the desk, please."
Feeling almost sick with dread, but excited beyond his understanding, he again bent over the desk, then clutched at the seat on the other side. His bottom was still throbbing from the previous stroke. Again, he felt her lift his jacket vents then felt hand gently running over the contours of his upturned bottom cheeks.
"Are you wearing anything other than a thin pair of underpants under your trousers, Ross?" she asked, as her hand continued to explore.
"No Miss," he whispered.
"Two strokes," she said, taking her position. "If you move out of position, there will be consequences. Understood?"
"Yes, Miss," he whimpered in dread.
The gentle tapping of the cane on his bottom began as she adjusted her footing. He could hear her breathing becoming heavier as she concentrated on the cane strokes she was about to administer. He knew it would be worse. Much worse.
SWISH - CRACK!
A white hot line of fire erupted across his bottom as the cane bit deep into his flesh. Ross cried out in shock at the intensity of the pain. His grip on the seat increased and his knuckles showed white as he fought with the urge to leap up.
SWISH - CRACK!
The pain was so intense that he didn't think he could stay down, but the fear of more kept him in place. He whimpered as the searing pain seemed to sink deeper into him as the effects of the cane matured.
"You may rise," she said, quietly.
His eyes were moist with tears as he unsteadily rose, grasping his burning, throbbing bottom. As he looked into her clear, bright eyes, he sensed again her sadistic glee. The hint of a wicked smile formed on her lips.
"Take you seat, Ross," she said, as she placed the cane on her desk and sat down.
He lowered his burning bottom onto the hard wooden seat gingerly.
"There will need to be a marked improvement in your hand writing, Ross, if you are to avoid some additional very colourful marks across your bottom. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Miss," he replied, finding it hard to look her in the eyes, so looking down at the paper on his desk.
"Very well, to continue. In very neat hand writing please write 'When all else fails, a bare bottom caning may be deemed appropriate'."
His face reddened. He looked up to see her smiling with amusement at his discomfort. She was intending to cane his bare bottom. For the first time in his life he was to suffer the humiliation of bending over with his bare bottom exposed for the cane. How agonising would it be? He had already found the cane agonising beyond belief through two layers of clothing. What would it be like on the bare? His mind was in a turmoil. He was both terrified and excited. The power this lady had over him was intoxicating.
"I suggest you make a start, Ross," she said, "Punishment will be more severe if I am kept waiting."
His hand was trembling more than ever as he picked up then pen.
"I'm sorry, Miss," he said, weakly. "I've forgotten the exact wording."
"Then I shall have to think of a way to help you improve your memory," she replied, smiling. "When all else fails, a bare bottom caning may be deemed appropriate."
Ross did try to write neatly, but it was hopeless. Her eyes were on him, watching every stroke of the pen. She already had her right hand resting on the cane - the cane she intended to use on his bare bottom. As he finished writing the word he looked down at the mess that was the best he could manage. Three of the untidily written words stood out: 'bare bottom caning'. The time had come for him to experience what he had dreaded and yearned.
He thought his legs might fail him as he slowly rose to his feet, then walked to Miss Devenish's desk. His hand was shaking uncontrollable as he placed his written work on her desk. She spent some time looking into his terrified eyes before looking down at his offering. She said nothing for several seconds.
"Have you ever had your bare bottom caned, Ross?" she asked, with a slight smile on her lips.
"No, Miss," he whimpered.
"Then this will be an enlightening experience for you. Take off your jacket please."
Ross was sweating and shaking uncontrollably. He clumsily removed his jacket. Miss Devenish had risen from her seat. She took his jacket, then laid it on her desk before picking up the cane.
"Take your position in front of the desk, Ross," she said, firmly, as she flexed the cane.
He was under her spell. He had no choice but to comply. He looked down at the top of the desk, dreading the next instruction.
"Lower your trousers." she commanded.
Fumbling, he reached down, then loosened his belt. With his face red with shame, he lowered his trousers. They slipped down to his ankles.
"I think we'll have your shirt off, Ross," she said, as if an afterthought.
He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, then handed it to her. She put it on the desk with his jacket. He was standing in front of her now in just his underpants. To make matters even worse, he had an erection.
"Bend over the desk, Ross," she ordered, quietly, "The reach down to grip the seat. Under no circumstances lose your grip of the seat until I give you permission."
Ross lowered himself over the desk. Although dreading what was to come, he had a faint glimmer of hope that she had reconsidered his plight and might now allow him to retain his underpants to save a little of his modesty and offer a little protection from the cane. That hope was lost as he felt her fingers under the elastic waist of his underpants. With his face reddening further in shame, he felt his last remaining garment being tugged down. All he was now aware of was the cool air on his still throbbing bottom. She must now be looking at his exposed bottom, presented in the most humiliating manner, waiting for her cane.
He squeaked with dread as she took her position, then placed the cane across his bare bottom.
"It is quite obvious, Ross, that I have been far too lenient with you. I shall now rectify that. Four strokes."
Ross whimpered, then tensed. He didn't think he could take it.
SWISH - CRACK!
He hissed in a lungful of air as the first cane stroke across his bare bottom bit in venomously. White hot agony sank deep into his flesh. It was worse than he could have imagined. He had never known such agony.
SWISH - CRACK!
He cried out in pain as the cane bit in even harder, just below the previous stroke. He managed to hold on to the seat, but his resolve was being tested by the unbelievable agony that seemed to be blossoming under the skin of his bottom.
SWIS - CRACK!
This was the hardest stroke so far and it bit into the crease at the very top of his thighs, where they met his bottom cheeks. It was too much. He leapt up, grasping his burning bare bottom. His face was screwed up in agony. Tears welled up in his eyes.
"Resume your position at once," she ordered, coldly. There was no compassion in her voice. "Resume your position at once, or I will double the number of strokes."
Sobbing with pain and fear, Ross slowly lowered himself onto the desk, once again presenting his burning, throbbing bare bottom for the cane.
She was in no hurry. She stood admiring her handiwork, flexing her cane, while he waited in dread.
"The next stroke will be the hardest you have received so far, Ross," she said, quietly, after a long period of silence. "I expect you to remain in position until I give you permission to rise. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Miss," he sobbed.
He braced himself, tightening his grip on the seat, as he felt the cane gently tapping his upturned burning bottom.
SWISH - CRACK!
It was devastatingly hard. Once again a searing white hot line of fire sank sickeningly deep into the tender flesh of his bottom. He lost control of his hands as he shrieked in pain. They shot back to grasp the burning flesh and he half rose, before he managed to wrestle control of his body. He forced his hands back down, lowering his torso back onto the desk, as he tried to cope with the agony that was still blossoming in the wake of the cane stroke. He prayed she would not penalise him.
"You may rise," she said, after what seemed an eternity.
Gratefully, he lifted his weight off the desk. His hands went to his burning bottom and he was shocked to feel the raised weals left by the cane. He reached down to retrieve his underpants, where they had joined his trousers around his ankles.
"Leave them," she said. "I want you naked, just in case you need further punishment. Take off your shoes and socks, then take your seat."
She took her seat at her desk, where she then sat, waiting for him to comply. Ross slowly untied his shoe laces, then removed his shoes and socks, before stepping out of his trousers and pants.
"There's a clothes hanger in the cupboard in the hall," she said, as he stood before her. He was very aware that he was erect. "Fetch it. Neatly fold your clothes, place them on the hanger."
The implication was clear. His ordeal was far from over. Excruciatingly aware of his nakedness and growing erection, he went to the hall cupboard, then returned, folded his clothes and put them on the hanger. He stood, naked apart from his wrist watch, facing her with a huge erection.
"Give me them to me, then take your seat," she said, as soon as he had finished.
He handed her the hanger, then gingerly lowered his very sore bare bottom onto the hard wooden seat.
"For your final exercise today, Ross, you will write a neat and concise account of what you have learned today and what steps you will take to improve your failings. I will allow you ten minutes," she said, looking at her watch, then rising to her feet. "When I return I expect to find your completed, neatly written exercise on my desk."
With that she left with his clothes. He looked at his watch, then at the blank paper. His bottom was still burning and throbbing. His erection stubbornly refused to die. His mind was in a turmoil of conflicting sensations and urges
With just one minute to go before she was due to return, the paper he was looking down at still blank. In a moment of madness, driven by a mad yearning somewhere inside him, he began to scribble down his offering. As he finished his brief essay, he heard her footsteps in the hall. He just managed to place the essay on her desk, then return to his seat, before she entered the room. He whimpered in dread as she took her seat, then looked down at his completed work. Her face showed no expression as she read his very untidy offering and short:
I haven't learned anything because you've been too lenient with me, far too lenient.
"It will be an absolute pleasure to rectify this situation, Ross," she said, rising from her seat with a sadistic smile on her face.
"I'm sorry, Miss Devenish," he said, cowering in his seat, shaking with dread. "I don't know what came over me. It was a mad thing to write. I didn't mean it."
Ignoring him, Miss Devenish walked to her umbrella stand, where she selected the longest of the canes. It was over a metre long and made of a darker, thicker rattan than the others.
"I shall be using this, Ross," she said, flexing the evil looking cane as he looked on in horror. "It has far more weight the lenient cane I have just used on you, so it will bite in far deeper."
She walked to the door, cane in hand.
"Follow me please," she said.
Quaking with fear, Ross had to comply. He rose unsteadily to his feet, then followed her in dread. He knew he was about to endure agony beyond his worst nightmare, but it was what he craved.
She led him to another room off the hall. As she opened the door he saw it was empty apart from just one piece of furniture, and ominous heavy dark wooden structure, with leather upper surfaces and fitted with numerous leather straps with buckles. It was a whipping bench, and it stood in the centre of the large, bare room, on bare floor boards.
"This is a larger room, Ross. More room to swing a cane. You will find no leniency here."
Ross felt his legs might give way as she grasped him firmly by the arm to lead him to the whipping bench. He allowed her to guide him over it. Even as she began to buckle up the restraining straps around his thighs, he knew he could still escape, but her intoxicating power over him prevented any attempt. Within seconds, she had buckled leather straps around his wrists and over his back. Now it was too late. He was totally helpless and entirely at her mercy. The upper surface of the bench was concave and sloped down towards his head, raising his gaping bare bottom high. The leather straps around his thighs kept them well apart. The strap across the small of his back kept his back hollowed, exposing his uplifted bare bottom in the most humiliating manner. Whoever had designed this sinister structure had done so with just one objective - to render its 'guest' in the most exposed and helpless position for a serious thrashing of his or her bottom.
"You will never believe what I thought when I rose from my bed this morning, Ross," she said, as she took her position to his left, then placed the heavy cane across the centre of his bottom. "I thought 'I'm really in the mood to administer a very severe judicial caning'. I had no idea that you might behave so badly as to deserve one."
Ross, absolutely terrified, opened his mouth to plead, then changed his mind. He needed the caning. She wanted to cane him severely and he craved to please her.
"You will receive twenty-four strokes," she said, as she adjusted her footing, with her eyes locked on his gaping, wealed and perfectly presented bare bottom. "Do you have anything to say before your caning begins?"
In a voice he didn't recognise as his own, he replied, "Very hard, please, Miss."
"Good boy," she purred, tapping the cane across his bare cheeks.
A few seconds later her face turned into a grimace as she raised the cane.
The hysterical shrieking of agony began less than a second after the first, devastating stroke. A symphony of screams that rose in pitch and volume filled the room as the twenty-four strokes of the dragon cane lay a lattice of purple weals across his bottom and took Ross to a world of agony that made his earlier caning seem mild.
They were both panting when the caning had been completed. Miss Devenish, face flushed with excitement and fatigue, wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. She still held the cane. Ross, glistening with sweat, his shrieking now faded to a gentle groan, was still in another place.
Miss Devenish reached down to gently stroke Ross's cheek with her left hand.
"Another six, to please your Mistress, Ross?" she whispered in his ear.
"Only if you promise to make them harder," he panted in the voice he didn't recognise.
"I promise, Ross," she whispered dreamily, still stroking his face.
She continued to gently stroke his face for a few more moments, before rising to her feet.
"Better make it another dozen," she said quietly, as she took her position.
"Back at about 7.30 this evening, darling," said Tim, as he kissed her on the cheek.
"Have a good day," replied Karen, giving him a hug.
She remained in the hall, wondering what to do with a rare day to herself. She went into the kitchen, put the kettle on and made herself tea.
Karen had recently left her full time job as PA to an international oil executive. The long hours and stress had been getting to her, so she decided to leave and just do temporary work while she decided where her career was going. This was working quite well, and she had work most days, but for the next few days she had none. She wasn't too bothered, she thought she deserved a few days to herself. Besides, Tim's job as a buildings surveyor was going well, so they were financially quite secure.
Recently, thought Karen, as she sipped her tea, hey had both been so busy with their respective high pressure jobs that they seemed to spend little quality time together. By the time they had both arrived home in the evening, put together a quick dinner and had a glass of wine, they were too exhausted for anything but sleep. Their life was certainly lacking spice. With a free day ahead of her, Karen decided it would be nice to prepare a surprise special dinner for Tim, so she took her favourite recipe book down from the bookshelf and began to turn the pages. Scallops were a favourite of Tim's, so she came up with a lovely menu centred around these. She made a shopping list, put a couple of bottles of white wine in the fridge and by 10.00am she was in town shopping for the ingredients.
She spend the afternoon tidying and cleaning the house and by 3.00pm the whole house, apart from Tim's study, was tidier and cleaner than it had looked for months. She rarely ventured into his study. At his request she never cleaned in there. This was where he spent many hours locked away preparing reports and he said, although it was a mess, he knew where everything was, so it was best if she left it alone. However, she did take a quick look in there to see if he'd left any dirty plates or glasses, as was his habit. Sure enough, he'd left a wine glass on his desk. As she picked it up, the coaster it was sitting on lifted with it, stuck to the bottom of the glass with something he had spilled. What an untidy man, she thought, affectionately, as the coaster lost its feeble grip on the glass and fell into his waste paper bin.
It was while she was rummaging in his bin for the coaster that she stumbled across a screwed up piece of paper that caught her eye. Most of the scrap paper in the bin was screwed up, but lazily screwed up. This was very carefully screwed up to form a tight ball. Feeling a little guilty for being so nosey, she carefully opened up the paper and flattened it out. It was just one quarter of a torn piece of A4 paper with some typing on it, but not enough to make any sense:
"You've been a n...
Phone me a...
Although the message was incomplete, it aroused enough interest in Karen for her to empty the bin onto the floor and within a few minutes she had found three more tightly screwed up balls of paper. As she opened them up, and flattened them out, and pieced them together to complete the message, her mild interest changed to intense suspicion:
"You've been a naughty boy.
Phone me at once. You need to be soundly punished.
Text at the top of the page showed that this was the printout of an email sent two weeks ago from Miss Frobisher to BadboyTim.
Karen had to sit down at Tim's desk to compose herself. Her emotions were in turmoil: Anger, hurt, confusion. She had always been sure they didn't have any secrets from each other, and now this!
In a daze, she placed all the paper back in the bin, less the incriminating note. In spite of her upset, she tried to think rationally. Should she confront him with her discovery? No, she decided, not yet.
She decided she needed to know more before she did anything. Although it seemed more than likely that her husband visited dominant mistresses to be punished, the note in itself was not proof that he'd actually made a visit. She shouldn't jump to conclusions that might end up destroying her marriage. If she confronted him he might simply lie to her, then she might never discover the truth. No, she needed to keep calm and discover the truth herself, and the truth was probably sitting in front of her right now, inside his PC.
She gave the mouse a tap. The screen switched on. Good, he'd left it in standby mode. Five minutes later she had gleaned all she could from it. He had erased his history and she needed a password to get into his email account. She put it back in standby mode then left his study and set up her own laptop on the kitchen table. She had a plan and she still had almost three hours before she needed to start dinner.
Within two hours, Karen had downloaded and installed spy software on Tim's computer. If it worked she would be able to monitor what he was doing on his computer from her own laptop. She would normally have felt terrible about snooping, but in this case she felt fully justified. The hardest part for her would be to act as if nothing was wrong when he returned home, while inside she would be burning up with hurt and rage.
* * *
"How have you enjoyed your day off?" asked Tim, as he arrived home and poured himself a glass of wine.
"I've had a lovely day, darling," she replied, trying hard to sound her normal, cheerful, self. "I've bought some beautiful scallops, so you're in for a treat. Dinner is almost prepared. It will take about fifteen minutes to finish."
"Oh good, you remembered my favourite. I've just got time to get a couple of emails off to clients."
"OK, that's fine," she replied, "I'll start in a few minutes, so no need to rush."
Tim took his glass of wine into his study and closed the door. As soon as he had gone, Karen went to the kitchen, sat down at the table and opened her laptop. Five minutes later she closed her laptop. She had his email password, it was all she needed.
Twenty minutes later they both sat down to dinner, now each with their own secrets. That was soon to change, but only Karen knew that.
"I bumped into Irene while I was out shopping," said Karen.
"How did she enjoy her holiday? She went to Canada, didn't she?"
"She had a fabulous time," replied Karen. She was quite surprised how easy she found it to behave innocently while harbouring her new secret.
* * *
"Hello, is that Miss Frobisher? My name's Karen. I'd like talk to you in confidence about my husband. I've just discovered that he is one of your clients."
It had taken a lot of courage to make the phone call, and Miss Frobisher had been quite guarded initially, but as the conversation progressed, and she realised that Karen bore her no hostility and didn't pose a threat, she relaxed and eventually agreed to allow Karen to visit her at her "schoolroom".
"Hello. Miss Frobisher," he said, nervously into his mobile phone. "It's Tim. You instructed me to phone you."
"Ah, yes, Tim," replied the refined ladies voice, "Am I to understand that you have a further confession to make?"
"Yes, Miss Frobisher, I'm afraid so," he replied, cringing.
"But when you last reported to me for punishment you assured me that you confessed all your misdemeanour's, and you were caned accordingly," she said, menacingly.
"Yes, Miss. I'm sorry Miss," he answered, now flustered, "I'm afraid I held back something."
"And why was that, Tim?"
"I... I was afraid you'd be cross, Miss," he replied, his voice beginning to tremble.
"I am cross, Tim, very cross. I will hear your confession now, please," she said firmly.
"Well... it's another thing I did at school, many years ago. I've never told anybody because I was ashamed... I know I should have confessed earlier, but I was frightened. I thought you'd cane me even more severely."
"It's quite possible that I will, Tim. Now out with it," she demanded.
"I spied on the girl's hockey team in the changing room," he blurted out, "I was outside. I watched through a gap in the curtain. I saw them naked."
There were several, long seconds of silence. Tim's face was screwed up almost as if he were in pain as he waited for Miss Frobisher to reply.
"You despicable young man," she said quietly, clearly shocked. "It is now quite obvious that I have been too lenient with you, Tim. Far too lenient."
"Yes, Miss," he whispered, "Sorry, Miss."
"You will report to me this evening at 7.00pm for the caning of your life, Tim. You may well be sorry, but not as sorry as you will be when you feel my cane across your bare bottom."
"Yes, Miss," he replied, "Please don't forget that I can't have bad marks."
"You should have thought about that earlier," she replied, irritably, "You will receive the caning you so richly deserve, nothing less, a caning that has been overdue for many years. You will have to cope with the circumstances. Be here at 7.00pm. Don't be late. If you are, I will add strokes."
Tim had been caned by Miss Frobisher many times over the past few years, but something about her manner on this occasion was different. More frightening. She knew he was married and that he couldn't risk having cane marks that would last more than a few days, but the canings had gotten progressively harder and she had given him the impression that he might be quite badly marked on this occasion. He was very frightened, but also very excited. Deep inside, he knew it was a severe caning that he secretly craved.
He phoned his wife, Karen, at home to tell her that he had to work late and would be home about 9.00pm.
"That's OK, darling," she said, cheerful as always, "I'll have everything ready for you then. I had a funny feeling that you might be late tonight."
That was a strange thing to say, he thought to himself.
"Have you had a nice day?" he asked, trying to make himself sound relaxed - which he wasn't.
"I've had a lovely day," she said, enthusiastically, "I'll tell you all about it when you get home. Oh, and I think I have a temp job to start next week, so my weeks of idleness are nearly at an end."
"Well, that's good to hear. I'll see you at about 9.00," he replied, before hanging up.
Three hours later, feeling sick with fear, but very excited, he started his car and began his journey to Miss Frobisher's, professional disciplinarian, for his appointment with her cane.
At 7.00pm precisely, he lifted his hand and his shaking finger hesitated, before pressing the front door bell of large Victorian house where Miss Frobisher practised her disciplinary service. For the first time ever he had felt tempted to cancel the appointment. He was far more frightened than usual. But it was too late now. He'd pressed the door bell and he could see movement through the door's stained glass window. He heart was thumping as she opened the door. As always, she was immaculately dressed in a conservative, dark suit. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She said nothing until he had entered her house and she had closed the door.
"Go straight to my study and wait for me there," she said, quietly, unsmiling.
His heart was pounding louder. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. With legs feeling like jelly, he walked through the hall to the rear study, opened the door and went in and stood by her large, Victorian desk. The desk had a long and very severe looking cane laying ominously on it. It was far more fearsome looking than any cane she had used on him before. He placed a white envelope, containing her fee, on the desk by the cane.
Miss Frobisher entered a few minutes later and took a seat behind the desk.
"Sit down," she ordered.
He obeyed at once, taking the seat opposite her. He looked nervously into her eyes as she regarded him with interest. He looked down to see her pick up the envelope.
"I won't be requiring this, today," she said menacingly, handing him back the envelope. "Your caning today will be totally on my terms, so there will be no fee."
This came as a complete surprise. Tim's fear turned to terror as his hand took the envelope from her.
"As I said on the phone, Tim," she said, coolly, "It is now quite clear that I have been far too lenient with you. I intend to put that right today. Your caning today will be severe."
She watched his face, enjoying his fear, taking her time.
"Usually, Tim," she continued, her eyes burning into his, "I have you bent over this desk for your canings, but today I am taking you to the punishment room. You will be caned, while restrained over my whipping bench. I fear you would be unable to take today's caning without restraints."
This was becoming truly terrifying. Tim felt almost sick with fear.
"But what about cane marks?" he whimpered, "I can't have cane marks."
"You can be quite sure you will have cane marks, Tim," she chuckled, "You will simply need to deal with the consequences. You are the architect of your own destiny. You deserve a severe caning and I am going to make absolutely sure that you receive it."
Tim was panicking. He didn't know what to do, or say. Miss Frobisher rose to her feet and picked up the cane.
"Come with me, Tim, please."
She left the study, walked into the hall, then up the stairs, with Tim following meekly behind, shaking with fear. Once on the landing, she opened the door to a large rear room and led Tim in. The room had bare floorboards and the wallpaper was old and brown. A few chairs, a table and an old wardrobe stood against one wall, but the room was dominated by a black painted wooden structure with black padded upper surfaces and fitted with an array of leather restraining straps. Tim swallowed as he looked at the object he would shortly be strapped over to be caned.
"Strip," she ordered, as he stared at the whipping bench, "And put your clothes neatly on the table."
This was nothing like any of his previous visits. Although they had played the parts of Headmistress and naughty boy, there had always been a relaxed, light hearted atmosphere, sometime even a little humour had been permitted while she had dealt with him. This was very different. He felt as if he were being treated as a convict who was about to receive a judicial caning. Also, he'd never had to strip before. She'd simply ordered him to lower his trousers and underpants, then bend over the desk. Stripping was altogether more humiliating.
"If you're not stripped within thirty seconds I will add another dozen strokes," she said, icily, as he stood, paralysed with fear. It spurred him into action, and he began to strip off his clothes. She glanced at her watch. She meant it.
Twenty-five seconds later, he stood before her, naked and cowed. She slowly circled him, still holding the dreadful looking cane. His humiliation was total as she scrutinised his naked body.
After a few minutes, she put down the cane and guided him to the whipping bench. He was so scared that he felt he might wet himself. Her grip on his arm became firmer as he put up a token resistance. She guided him over the bench and he found himself kneeling on two padded surfaces, placed well apart, with his torso lying over a higher padded top that sloped down towards his head. The effect was to project his bare bottom to be the highest point of his body, humiliatingly exposed. Within seconds he felt a heavy leather strap tighten across the small of his back, pinning him to the structure, then she progressively secured all his limbs tightly in place with more strategically placed straps. He was totally helpless and his bare bottom was perfectly presented for the cane. But she had one more surprise for him.
"I've decided to deprive you of some of your senses, Tim," she said, as she opened the wardroom and reached inside. "You will be hooded, rendered blind and partially deaf. I want you to be able to concentrate one hundred per cent on the pain of your caning, and I don't want you anticipating the strokes. You will not know when each stroke is about to bite into your bottom, it will come as a shock. Also, you will be gagged."
Before Tim could object, a rubber ball was forced deep into his mouth. A leather harness held it in place firmly as more leather straps were tightened over and behind his head. He could now only gurgle. Speech was impossible.
"You will receive twenty-four strokes of the cane," she said, quietly, "Administered with maximum severity. They will be far harder than anything you have received before and they will be administered with a much heavier cane - this one." She picked up the cane and swished it through the air for his benefit. Tim was horrified, but it was too late. He was completely at her mercy. She could do whatever she liked and he was helpless to stop her.
"I shall now fit this hood," she continued, holding up the black leather item for him to see. "When the hood is in place I will leave you to reflect for some time. You will not see me return, and you will possible not hear me return. It is likely then the first clue you will have when I have returned is when this cane bites savagely into your poor, bare, upturned bottom."
Tim's eyes where wide with terror and he was sobbing uncontrollably past the ball gag. This was a nightmare!
"When you have received the first twelve strokes, Tim," she continued, "You will be left for a further period to reflect, perhaps half an hour. It will seem like an eternity for you, as your poor, burning, throbbing and very sore bottom tries to anticipate the next twelve strokes. They will be as hard as I can make them. You have no idea how painful it will be."
The last thing he saw was her smiling as she stepped towards him with the hood. The last thing he heard was her saying:
"Now it's time to enter a world of darkness and agony, Tim," she purred as she pulled the hood over his head. Light was extinguished totally by the tight fitting hood. Thick padding over his ears rendered him almost totally deaf. All he could hear was his own breathing and the loud beat of his own heart. It was terrifying. He had absolutely no idea where Miss Frobisher was, now. He didn't know if she was standing over him with the cane. He knew that at any moment his bottom could be set ablaze. The waiting was truly awful. It seemed to go on for ages.
Then it happened! The shock of the burning, searing line of agony that erupted across the centre of his bottom was beyond belief! The initial pain was like nothing he had felt before, totally unbearable, but as the pain matured, it seemed to blossom under his skin, and the agony increased. A muffled shriek forced its way past the gag.
The second stroke was even harder! The venom she had put into it was beyond his comprehension. He simply couldn't cope with the level of agony - but he had no choice. He was struggling frantically with his restraints, and shrieking hysterically, but it did no good. The strokes steadily rained down, laying fresh lines of white hot fire across his helpless bottom.
Twelve strokes seemed to take an eternity. His bottom was blazing in pain, throbbing.
The silence returned. He sobbed hysterically for the whole time he was left alone. It seemed like ages, but it was just under half an hour later that the agony reignited. Now it was even worse. The cane was biting into weals already sore and throbbing. There was no mercy. His previous canings had been just mere tickle compared to this. And the marks! He guessed he must be cut to shreds and would be marked for weeks, if not months. It would be impossible to conceal them from Karen. By the time the last of twenty-four strokes bit savagely into his bottom, he was physically and mentally exhausted.
She waited for his sobbing to fade before removing, first his hood, then the gag.
"My wife," he sobbed, as the gag was removed from his mouth. "She's bound to notice the marks."
"I wonder if it will be surprise for her," Miss Frobisher replied, as she began to loosen the straps holding his sweating body to the whipping bench. She seemed completely unconcerned.
"That was agonising beyond belief," he said, still sobbing, as he ran the fingers of his freed hand over the massively swollen weals that decorated his bottom.
"It's no less than you deserve," she said, simply.
He couldn't believe this was the same person he had been reporting to for the past few years. In shock and disbelief, he dressed, bid her good evening, and left.
He sat, painfully, in his car for fifteen minutes, before he felt composed enough to drive home to his wife. He didn't know what life held in store for him now. The weals on his bottom were so prominent that she would notice them as soon as they climbed into bed. What would she say? How could he explain it?
* * *
"Hello, darling," he said as cheerfully as he could manage, as he entered the front door, "Have you had a nice day?"
Karen came to greet him in the hall, smiling, but looking at him in a strange way. The sparkle in her eye made him very nervous.
"Yes," she said, "I've had a wonderful day. "I went into town and had coffee with a new friend I've made."
"That's nice," he said, still uneasy at the way she was looking at him.
"Yes," she continued, watching his face carefully, "Her name's Miss Frobisher. She had some very interesting things to tell me."
She continued to smile as she watched the colour drain from his face.
"I've met up with her few times in the past few weeks, and she's given me some excellent advice on how to deal with husbands who deceive their wives. She recommended that I purchase a few items. Why don't we go up to the spare bedroom? I'd like to show you."
Tim continued to look at her in disbelief. His mouth hung open. Gradually, Karen's smile faded and he saw how angry she was.
"Upstairs. Now!" she ordered.
Meekly, he made his way upstairs. He opened the door to the spare bedroom and was staggered to see another whipping bench standing in the middle of the room. It was exactly the same as the one he had been strapped to just an hour ago. Looking wildly around the room he saw a selection of dreadful looking canes and a gag laying on the bed.
"Strip," she ordered.
He looked around at her, stunned. She meant it. Her hard, cold eyes left him in no doubt.
"I've just been..." he whimpered, "I've just been thrashed. My bottom is a mass of weals. Miss Frobisher seemed to go mad with the cane."
"I know she did, darling," she replied, "I was watching her. But she only administered twelve strokes. The first twelve were administered by me."
She watched with some amusement as his mind analysed what had been going on.
"But you haven't received anywhere near what you deserve for deceiving me for all this time. You will receive another twenty-four strokes tonight, and they will be hard - and that's just for a start."
"But," sobbed Tim, "I'm black and blue."
"Nowhere near as black and blue as you will be by the time I've finished with you. Now strip. Do as I say. If you are not over the whipping bench, naked, in thirty seconds I will add another twelve strokes."
It was the second time he'd heard the same threat, and he believed her.
Sobbing with fear, he took off his clothes and draped himself over the bench. Horrified that his sore, throbbing bottom was offered up again for the cane. She wasted no time in strapping him down, then ramming the ball gag into his mouth.
He knew, from the look in her face, as she picked up the cane, that he would receive no mercy. He was right. All the anger of his deceit welled up inside Karen as she looked down at his wealed bare bottom.
His muffled shrieking began as soon as the caning began. The strokes were savagely hard. There was no mercy. There were no pauses, the agony was continuous and it escalated as strokes bit into weals still burning from previous strokes.
As soon as the twenty-forth stroke had bitten into his raging bottom, Karen put down the cane. She was flushed and excited.
"As soon as I think you've recovered from this caning," she said, breathlessly, "You will be caned again. You will be caned again and again, until I feel you have received all you deserve, so you can look forward to having a very sore bottom for at least the next year, Tim."
When his sobbing had quietened down, she removed his gag, but she kept him restrained while she tended to his wounds with cotton wool and antiseptic.
"It's funny," he said after a few minutes, "All this time I've been married to a sadist, and I didn't realise."
"Yes," she agreed as she continued attend to his burning weals, "It is funny. I didn't realise you were married to a sadist either. Until this evening."
As soon as she mentioned the name of the house, Thomas was transported back fifteen years to his school days, and he felt a shudder of fear run down his spine. As a schoolboy, Thomas and his friend, Dan, used to pass "Wood End House" on their way to and from school. It was a large, detached and quite sinister looking, red brick Victorian house set in its own grounds behind a high brick wall. Entrance was via a huge, ornate, wrought iron gate. He and Dan always imagined that it was haunted.
On their way home one evening, they had been joined by Wendy, a girl that Thomas had a schoolboy crush on. Both Dan and Thomas were both in a particularly boisterous mood, both trying to impress Wendy. Dan had dared Thomas to take a few apples from the tree just inside the wrought iron gate of "Wood End House".
"My brother said the house is haunted," warned Wendy.
"There's no such thing as ghosts," replied Thomas, trying to sound confident and knowledgeable. "How many apples do you want?"
"Six," replied Wendy. Her eyes widened with nervous admiration as Thomas pushed open the heavy, squeaking, wrought iron gate and began to climb the apple tree just a short way up the drive.
"You can have a dozen if you like," Thomas called out cheerfully from half way up the tree, relishing the opportunity to demonstrate his bravery, as his two friends watched him from the other side of the gate.
"I'll give you a dozen!" said a woman's voice from the direction of the house, "A dozen strokes of my cane across your bottom young man."
In complete panic, Thomas dropped from the tree, apples scattering around him, and ran as fast as his legs would carry him through the gate and into the street. His friends were already scampering away up the road. He didn't look back, so he didn't see the lady, but he had heard her footsteps walking briskly towards him on the gravel drive. He pictured her with a cane in her hand.
Thomas changed his route to school after that incident, always fearing that a woman wielding a cane would be waiting behind the gate for him when he passed by. The image of her haunted him. Even now, fifteen years later, the image he had manufactured in his own head, made him nervous each time he had to pass near to "Wood End House".
Now, he was running his own small gardening business. The call he had just taken was from a lady called Ms Craven. She had a refined voice and explained that she had a large garden that needed regular maintenance, and that her regular gardener had recently retired for health reasons. She lived in the same town and Thomas agreed a time to call in to quote for the work. It was then that she gave him the address and the name of the house. Thomas realised his hand was shaking as he put down the receiver.
Later that afternoon, Thomas pushed open the same heavy wrought iron gate he had last ran out of all those years ago. It still squeaked. He became aware he was sweating as he walked passed the apple tree. It seemed smaller now. A minute later he pulled himself together and knocked on the oak front door of "Wood End House". Of course she won't recognise me after all this time, he thought to himself. It might not even be the same person, she might have moved.
The door was opened by a glamorous and attractive lady, smartly dressed in a conservative suit. Her dark hair was held back into a tight bun and beginning to grey. He guessed she was in her late forties. She looked at him for a few uncomfortable moments, before he found his voice.
"I'm Thomas," he said, clearing his throat, trying to disguise his nervousness, "I've come to quote for the gardening."
"Oh yes, of course," she said, studying his face carefully, her clear, hard, blue eyes boring into him.
There were a few uncomfortable seconds of silence and Thomas felt himself flushing.
"Perhaps you would care to take a look around the garden, Thomas," she said eventually, "As you will see, it's suffered a few weeks of neglect. I'd like a quote for tidying up, weeding, trimming hedges. If you'll excuse me I'm in the middle of something, so just knock when you've had a look."
She closed the door.
Thomas was nervous and excited by the mere presence of this refined lady. The thought that it might have been the same lady who had promised to cane him fifteen years ago was impossible to put out of his mind as he looked around the large garden. He realised he had an erection. Ten minutes later he knocked on the door again.
"I've had a look around, Miss Craven. It's a lot of work, I think it will take about a week to put it back in order,"
"I accept the quote, Thomas," she said as soon as he had given her a price, "When can you start?"
"I usually ask for a fifty per cent deposit," he said shyly.
"Well I don't usually pay a fifty percent deposit," she replied firmly, "I pay when the work is completed to my satisfaction. When can you start?"
Thomas found himself becoming erect and his face flushing again. He felt sure she had glanced down and noticed the bulge in his trousers. She looked back into his face with a hint of amusement in her eyes.
"Next Monday," he said meekly.
"Good. I'll expect you at 8am sharp." She raised her eyebrows slightly, indicating that she expected a reply in the affirmative.
"Yes, Miss Craven," he replied obediently.
* * *
Thomas was unable to put Miss Craven out of his mind for the rest of the week. He was almost desperate to know if she was the same lady who had threatened him with the cane. The thought excited him and scared him.
He began work on Miss Craven's garden at the agreed time the following Monday. She occasionally brought him out a cup of tea and inspected his progress, but other than that he saw little of her during the following week and she didn't seem interested in engaging him in conversation.
Towards the end of his last day, he was tidying away his tools, happy that the job was complete, and he found himself standing by the apple tree he had tried to steal apples from when he was a boy. He tried to imagine what it would have been like if he'd been caught. He found himself becoming erect again, and unconsciously put his hand to his erection.
"A penny for your thoughts, Thomas?"
Her voice made him jump and he quickly pulled his hand away from the front of his trousers, looking to his left to see Miss Craven standing to his side with a cup of tea.
"I was just admiring your apple tree," he replied awkwardly, not being able to think of what to say. She looked at him with a slightly amused look on her face and he felt his face flush again and his erection harden.
"Yes," she said at last, "Of course you were."
Thomas blushed further as he took the tea from Miss Craven.
"They're coxes - the apples." she said after a few moments, obviously in no hurry to return to her house. "The tree's past its prime now, but I enjoyed excellent crops until a few years ago."
"Oh," replied Thomas weakly, face now bright red.
"Yes," she continued, intent on reminiscing, "In fact the apples were so abundant that they attracted the attention of a few young scoundrels from the local school. Tried to steal some. I nearly caught one of them. I watched him climb up the tree from the kitchen window over there," she said.
Thomas looked over towards the window, trying, but failing, to appear casually interested, face still glowing red.
"He's very lucky I didn't catch him," she continued, smiling at the memory. "He may have found it difficult to sit down for a few days if I had."
Thomas could think of nothing to say, and after a few moments Miss Craven seemed to forget the past.
"Come up to the house when you've finished clearing up, Thomas. We can settle our accounts."
Ten minutes later, with his work complete, Thomas knocked on the door with his empty tea cup in his hand. He was sweating profusely, excited and nervous.
"Come in, Thomas," she said firmly, leading him to a large oak study, then sitting down behind a desk to face him.
"We need to settle your account," she said, looking directly into his face. He found himself looking down at the floor, unable to hold her gaze.
"But first," she continued, "I'd like you to help me with a bit of maths. It's not my best subject."
"Of course, if I can," he replied, "but it's not my best subject either."
"I'll make it very simple, then," she said. "Let's suppose I owed you, what shall we say...twelve apples, for example. Let's suppose it took me fifteen years to pay you back. You'd be owed interest, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," he whispered, cringing inside.
"Well, as I said , maths isn't my best subject, but I've worked out that if the interest was, say, five per cent a year, then I'd owe you twenty-six apples. Does that sound right to you, Thomas?"
"I suppose so, " he whimpered.
"Good," she said, standing up and walking to a cupboard. "Let's swap apples for strokes of the cane, strokes of the cane across your bottom, Thomas."
She reached into the cupboard then stood to face him. She had a wicked glint in her eye and Thomas felt his legs go weak as he looked at the long cane she was flexing in her hands.
"I recognised you as soon as I saw you," she explained "So let's settle this long overdue account now, then we can settle the other more recent one for your gardening."
"You can't do that, Miss," he whimpered as his legs felt like jelly.
"Oh, but I can, Thomas, and I will. Step over to the desk, please. Face the desk, now, or I will add strokes."
Hesitantly, but obediently, Thomas complied. He felt the power of her domination over him and had no option but to obey.
"Take down your trousers and underpants, Thomas," she commanded firmly.
"Oh...surely not," he pleaded, "That's not right! You can't expect.."
"Always on the bare, Thomas. Always on the bare," she said patiently, "There's no other way. Now take them down at once or I will double the number of strokes."
Whimpering with fear and humiliation, Thomas slowly undid his trousers and allowed them to drop to the floor, then, with his face now glowing an even brighter red, he eased down his underpants.
"Now bend right over the desk," she said quietly, placing the long cane across his back to encourage him.
Hesitantly, Thomas leaned forward, excruciatingly aware of the sight his bare bottom would present to this elegant lady. With his all his weight on the desk, he had never felt more exposed in his life. The cool air on his bottom only adding to his feeling of exposure and humiliation.
"I do so like an unblemished, white bottom to cane," she purred as she looked down at his offered buttocks. "Tell me, Thomas, have you been caned before?"
"No Miss," he whispered.
"Excellent. This will be fun then. The cane hurts so very much more then you might imagine, Thomas. I do so love to observe the reaction of a first caning. Perhaps we'd better make sure you stay in place."
From somewhere, she produced a coil of rope, and before Thomas had grasped what was happening, she had secured his wrists to a heavy brass drawer handle on the far side of the heavy oak desk.
"Now, twenty-six strokes I think we agreed."
Thomas couldn't believe what was happening to him. He felt the cane tapping gently across the centre of his bared bottom cheeks, He had no idea what to expect, but he was dismayed that even these gentle taps stung unpleasantly. He screwed his face up in dread in anticipation of something considerably more painful
SWISH - CRACK!
Nothing, but nothing could have prepared him for the excruciating agony as Miss Craven brought the cane down with amazing force to bite deeply into his virgin white flesh. His whole body tensed in shock and disbelief at the ferocity of the stroke and the intensity of the line of fire that erupted deep in the flesh of his bottom. As he hissed in a lungful of air, he clung to the thought that she must have made a mistake, she hadn't meant to cane him so savagely.
SWISH - CRACK!
Stroke two confirmed it had been no mistake - it was even harder. Thomas shrieked in agony and began to struggle.
SWISH - CRACK!
Agony overlaid agony. It was more than he could stand. The pain was at a level that was beyond his ability to comprehend. He was writhing and screaming now. His legs were weaving around in a frenzy, but his wrists were held firm as the cane continued to find its mark, again and again, biting ever deeper into the writhing buttocks. Miss Craven's face was a picture of determination and concentration as she wielded the cane with merciless venom.
At twelve strokes, Miss Craven paused for a break and took a seat behind Thomas to enjoy watching the weals mature across his squirming buttocks.
"I beg you, Miss, no more, please, I beg you, I can't take any more."
She smiled at his pathetic pleading.
"But we're not even half way through, Thomas," she said, cheerfully.
"I'll come back another time to take the rest. I promise, but I can't take any more now, please Miss."
She stood, then walked up to stand behind him, then gently traced a finger across the lattice of angry weals that covered his bottom.
"You do look rather sore," she said after a few moments, as her hand continued to caress his blazing bottom. "If I did agree to postpone the remainder I would need to be quite sure that you would return."
"You can keep my my money until I do," he replied at once, desperate to say anything to avoid any more strokes of the cane biting into his burning, throbbing bottom.
"Very well, I think I can agree to that," she said after some thought. She took her hand away from his bottom and picked up the cane again. "But I think I'll add four strokes for the inconvenience. Better get them out of the way now."
SWISH - CRACK! SWISH - CRACK! SWISH - CRACK! SWISH- CRACK!
Before Thomas realised what was happening, the agony erupted with increased intensity across his bottom and the room filled with screams. Miss Craven sat down with a sparkle in her eye, flushed with excitement and a smile on her face, as she waited for the screaming and writhing to subside.
She eventually released him and he rose unsteadily to his feet. He was erect.
"I expect you back within two weeks," she said, "And if you take your caning well I may do something about this." She gave his erection a gentle tap with the end of her cane.
* * *
With a shaking hand, he picked up the phone and punched in the number. Sweat stood out on his forehead as he listened to the phone at the other end ring. He whimpered as his call was answered.
"Hello, Miss Craven. It's Thomas. I'd like to come back to receive the remainder."
"But it's been only three days, Thomas. You must still be very sore."
"I am, but I still want to come."
"You do realise that it will be very, very, painful," she said sincerely, leaving him in no doubt that she meant it, "I intend to cane you very hard, Thomas, very hard."
There was a long, long pause, before Thomas answered in a whisper, "That's what I need, Miss."
There was another long pause before she answered quietly, "Then I shall make sure it is, Thomas. Come here at once. I want you here in ten minutes and I will add an extra stroke for each minute you are late."
"Is that a promise?" he found himself saying.
"That's a promise," she whispered. The line went dead.
Thomas took off his watch and put it down on the table in front of him. He spent fifteen minutes watching the the minute hand as it slowly traced an arc around the watch face, then he strapped it back on his wrist and rose from his chair. He decided to walk to "Wood End House". It would take longer than driving, but he was he knew she wouldn't mind him being late.
As he set off on foot at a leisurely pace, Miss Craven looked at the wall clock in her study . She ran her tongue over her lip, then picked up the cane she had just placed on the old oak desk. It was the cane she had used on him three days before. She put it back in the cupboard then removed another cane. This one was longer, darker, and because it was made of a denser wood, much heavier. She swished it through the air a few times, then placed it on the oak desk, next to the rope - two coils this time, as she didn't want his legs thrashing around so much.
Ten minutes later, she looked at the clock again and smiled.
"Oh, Thomas... Thomas.... You really have no idea what you are in for," she said quietly to herself, as she settled back in her chair to watch the minute hand of the clock steadily add to the number of strokes she would soon apply to his bare bottom.