Just after my caning ...
Some of you may remember the spanking I received from Kara Chains, my boss, a few months ago. Well, some brats don’t always retain their lessons, and find those lessons repeated–harder and longer and more firmly. I am, ahem, one of those brats.
Last week, I was diligently working in my office when Kara popped in and told me we’d be having lunch later than usual that day–ostensibly to accomodate an out-of-office errand she had to run. I murmured “no problem,” but inside, my tummy lurched. I knew that this was no simple “late lunch” information; I knew that lunch would be late so that she could discipline me before we ate.
An hour later, two friends appeared in the office, under the guise of “stopping by.” Again, I knew better–this time, there would be witnesses, people watching Kara unceremoniously ripping down my pants and panties. Just moments after their arrival, one pulled me into Kara’s spacious office. The spanking bench was in the center of the room, and as I gasped, the door was shut.
“Get up there,” a voice hissed in my ear.
I eased myself onto the bench–spanking furniture that forces one’s bottom up and out, up and prominently displayed for correction. Kara informed me that my bratty behavior had hit baritone levels, and she was about to put a stop to it. I gasped again when she reached under a pillow on her leather couch and pulled out a paddle.
“I’ve got toys hidden all over this office,” she smirked.
A few swats of the paddle landed on my clothed behind, and then I felt Kara’s hand warm me up a bit. Now, the paddle is my favorite implement. Even when it’s used for punishment, paddles (and hairbrushes) are the most recurrent implements of my fantasies, so despite how hard a paddling might be, it still tickles my fantasy fancy.
As I suspected, it wasn’t long before my pants and panties were pulled down and out of the way, leaving my just-pink behind exposed. And then, Kara walked behind her desk. I looked up just as she whisked a cane out from under that desk.
“Today, Sera,” she said, “isn’t about that. It’s about this.” And she whipped the cane through the air–a long, whippy cane with a curved handle.
Don’t get me wrong–in my fantasies, canes do appear. They make nice marks and they denote real punishment. And like, I suppose, many or most spankos, I do fantasize about real punishment for real transgressions. At the same time, canes hurt! Really hurt! And I hadn’t been caned in at least a year, maybe longer.
But caned that afternoon I was. Kara informed me that I must count the strokes, and she asked me how many I deserved. I trembled–what a terrible question to ask a girl about to be disciplined! If I said too low a number, I knew I’d get more for that mistake. And too high a number would be stupid to state.
One of our audience members, though, leaned in close to me, pulled my hair and whispered, “Just _give her_ a number, girl.”
“Twelve,” I squeaked. “Twelve of the best.”
Twelve, alas, was not good enough. I was summarily sentenced to 18 strokes–18 whips of the cane across my naked flesh. 18 clearly-counted strokes, followed by “Thank you, Ma’am.”
I am not a good counter. I get distracted easily. If I’m given a break, I even more easily lose track. I got breaks. I lost track. Our audience members leaned in and talked to me. One just rambled out numbers: “42. 26. 13 …”
All in all, I believe I took forty strokes. Forty stinging stripes, from the top of my bottom to my sit spot. And I received more hand spanks and paddle spanks after the caning–and if you’ve been in my position, you know how much those extra spanks hurt after a caning.
Did I learn my lesson? Suffice to say that even after I was allowed to pull up my panties and leave the room, I was ordered to return for a quick reminder. Suffice to say that as much as I have tried to control my brattiness, as soon as I find it easy to sit, I can’t quite help myself.
One confidant of mine says I am seeking a real punishment spanking, the likes of which I haven’t experienced in several years. Perhaps my friend is right. I feign to say “yes” or “no.” What I know is that I’ll be given what I earn, and as stingy and painful as these lessons are to learn, it takes a lot of bare bottom displays to teach a brat one firm lesson.
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