RD's spanking started very benignly. He sat on the edge of the bed, put me over his knee with my jeans still up, and began to spank me--hard, but it felt nice through my jeans. This was a brief tease of a warm-up. Soon he told me to stand up, lower my jeans and panties and get back over his knee. He started to spank harder, and now it hurt.
He ordered me into the corner. He kept telling me the whole time that I was really going to be taught a lesson. The same, vague not-sure-how-afraid-I-should-be feeling persisted, and I think this was mainly because he was being so calm, even a little “logical” -- I'd misbehaved, I needed punishment, he was going to deliver it.
RD led me from the corner. He had pulled a chair out and was now holding a brush, a round wooden bath brush. Shit. Things were about to get serious.
I dreaded the brush, but was not about to say “no” to anything. “Get back over my knee,” he said. He started to spank me briskly with the brush, all over my bottom. Damn! I kicked my feet a few times, and he responded by spanking my thighs. “Every time you kick, you're getting spanked there,” he said. “I want those legs straight – understand?”
“Yes,” I murmured.
“Yes, sir!” I happen to like calling my tops “sir,” but in the heat of things, I sometimes forget how to speak properly. He seemed annoyed, and spanked me harder and faster. I sort of wanted him to get angry, to raise his voice. That tends to bring the scene from the physical into the emotional real quick for me. Sometimes the fear I feel makes it easier to process pain, too.
RD said he doesn't play while angry. I said it was okay to pretend that he was.
And he certainly felt angry when next he took off his belt. I got a painful taste of that, and then he moved on to a stiff leather strap. Very nasty. It was just a very solid impact and he had me crying out, yelping, quite a bit. I stayed down and took all he handed out. The thing actually felt like a paddle at times. During this part of the session, he did raise his voice a little, lecturing me about my irresponsibility, my inconsiderate behavior.
Everything he said was true, and I hated it. I've been trying for months to improve this particular habit. Still, I said I would work at it harder. I don't think he liked that "promise" -- but I don't know if I can change overnight.
“You know we are not finished here, Sandy,” he said. “I am going to make sure this lesson sinks in, and that you remember it.” I already would remember it. My ass was on fire from the strapping, and I was sobbing a little in points. “When you get back on the plane tonight, you are going to have a very uncomfortable time sitting, young lady.”
Then he sent me to the corner again, but this time he told me to kneel. (This was something my father used to use as punishment when I was a kid -- scary.)
When RD beckoned me back over, he was holding the cane. I had expected that. There were pillows piled on the bed for me to position myself over. He told me to keep my bottom up, and to stretch my arms out in front of me. I clutched the bedspread and buried my face in the pillow.
“You are going to take every bit of this caning, Sandy. You deserve it."
I did deserve it. And it was awful ... and wonderful. Not at the time, of course. At the time, it was just excruciating. I loved him pushing me, hurting me. I loved him telling me that my sobs were not going to get me out of it. He paid particular attention to my thighs, whipping the rattan down and leaving a series of red lines, some of which became welts. I had strokes all up and down. He knew where to aim to make it hurt. I'd guess there were around 200 strokes, all told.
I wanted to cry, to let loose with a real cry, but I could only sob a little. At last he stopped. "That's it, Sandy. We're done." He climbed onto the bed and suddenly he was holding me. I curled up into his arms and sobbed a little more, let my breathing gradually return to normal. Awesome. I felt ... cared for. I felt special.
What a trip. Hope I don't have to wait another whole year for round two...