The definition of a corner is the position at which two lines, surfaces, or edges meet and form an angle. There is nothing spectacular about a corner, in fact, is downright dull and boring. I am an intelligent woman, dull and boring does not go well with me, in fact, I downright avoid anything that is dreary and tedious! So, why then this intent to put me in a corner?

It is a punishment I am advised, for you to stay there for a period, facing the wall, contemplating your sins. Staring at a wall will make me contemplate my sins...yeah right. I would be looking at the wall, at the white flatness surrounding me, wondering if I still have paint left, something that is bright and sunny in colour. If I have to stand facing a wall, let there at least be colour...

 It is for you to reflect on your actions, thinking about the punishment that will follow, I am told. Well, one thing is for certain, on reflection regarding the new colour scheme, I would come to a firm decision that the new painted room will not be in any shade of red or pink. If I then HAVE to think about the upcoming session where my bottom will be heated up creating a canvas of deep shades of red, let me at least not stare at the same colour.

 It is a time-out I am informed, to separate me from a very explosive environment where "inappropriate behaviour" has occurred, and it is intended to give me time to calm down...An erroneous take on my "inappropriate behaviour" would have resulted in this little issue in the first place. THEN on top of it, I am ordered into a bland, soulless corner? That would not be calming me down...in fact; I will most probably be plotting various versions of how to exact my revenge...in the finest details...

You will not be allowed to fidget, or move a muscle...your bottom will be bare, waiting for me, I am notified. I am not to fidget, nor move a muscle, whilst staring at the bleakness of walls for an undetermined time? Great! Next time we are in a long queue at the supermarket, with feet tapping away impatiently, annoyance being voiced because of the required wait in ONE position for a miniscule amount of time, I will gently draw the parallel. Movement is allowed to alleviate cramping muscles in the legs or lower back, an itch can be scratched, and at least a bottom is COVERED...

But deep in my soul I know, that when time seemed to have stretched into eternity, and I am asked to come out of the corner, and stand in front of him, I would admit that I that I was wrong. For I would have thought about what I have done, and in the reflection there upon, would have realised that irresponsible and wilful actions always do have consequences, and do cause harm and hurt, mostly to myself.

I would acknowledge that it was an act of love, one that allowed me to contemplate, consider, and conquer my anger that so many times created worse situations than what it should have been. I know, standing in a corner, staring at a wall, that might or might not be another colour than white, that when I am called, I will crawl over his lap, with no objection, no defiance, offering my bared bottom to him, in full acceptance of who I am and in what I have become.    


The Wall

There once was a woman, who was admired for her strength, control and her ability to lead, but sadly, nobody was able to see her for the woman she was. They could not see that she was looking to hand over her strength, nor did they realise that she desperately wanted to relinquish her control, and she knew, they would not understand that she wanted to be shown the way. She became lonely, doubting herself, her womanhood, and she started building a wall around her inner core. She used pride and sarcasm as the building bricks, and used rebellion to cement them together. She was locking away her loneliness and hurt, as she had given up hope. As the years went by, and the hurt inside her grew, the wall became thicker and higher.

 Then one day she met a man. He appeared gentle in nature, his face weathered by the years,   and as she listened to him and read his words, she could see the wisdom and strength of him. However, over the years, she had become so accustomed to protect herself, her tongue and wit sharpened on the stone of disillusionment, that as she starting talking to him, she did not heed his warning, as he softly demanded for respect to be shown. She had heard these words before in the past, and knew from bitter experience, that they are normally without value or weight. But no matter how hard she tried, how barbed the comments, how sarcastic the tone, she soon realised that she was unable to take control, to have him fail as many others before him did. 

As resentment at her own failure built up, her inability to prove yet again that his words were as meaningless and empty as so many uttered before him, her temper flared, and she lashed out at him, fully believing that she would finally claim victory over this strange and enigmatic man. To her surprise and horror, he told her quietly again, that respect will be shown, failure to do so. As her anger overtook her, spitting out words in defiance and contempt, he took her by the arm, and warned her once more. Blinded in her fury, she tried to twist her arm away, but he only pulled her closer to him and told her that she will obey.

She could scarcely believe it when he pulled her over his lap, holding her firmly in place. Her horror increased as she felt her skirt being lifted away, his hand against her thighs and legs as he pulled down her panties, with her her bottom left exposed and bare. She kicked with all her might, trying to cover herself up, to break free from his iron grip, desperate for him to let her go.  When his hand came down hard on her bare bottom, she was shocked into silence, not believing what was happening to her. She felt humiliation wash over her, turning her face crimson with shame and she tried anew to break free, but found herself only being gripped tighter, firmly kept in place over his lap.

 His hand was coming down on her bottom, in a slow rhythm of heat and sound. With her hand, she tried to cover her nakedness, horrified at the sound of his hand smacking against her flesh, feeling the heat of his hand's imprint, but he only gripped her arm, while continuing his slow rhythm of heat and sound on her bottom. Soon the heat was turning into pain, and although she tried not to utter a further sound, she found herself whimpering as pain and heat spread over her bottom. Her sounds of discomfort had no effect on him, his hand continuing to come down on her bottom, alternating from cheek to cheek. The pain became her focus, and with her bottom on fire, she pleaded with him to stop, telling him she was sorry, regretting every word she spit out at him, but his hand kept coming down, relentlessly.

The pain had become unbearable, but her shame, remembering her behaviour, was burning inside her. As she closed her eyes mortified at her own conduct, she suddenly, deep inside herself, felt a piece of her wall breaking free. She tried to ignore the urge within her, wanting to hold onto her protective shield, but as the first sob escaped her, she knew it was too late. With tears streaming down her face, she realised that her shame of what she had become, had broken a part of her wall down, and it was crumbling into nothingness. She felt her body relaxed against his, aware of him, his strength, his body and his hardness against her. Although her bottom was on fire, burning with intensity that she had never thought possible, she offered no further resistance, knowing she is deserving of the punishment, accepting his hand connecting against her bare flesh.

He finally pulled her up against her, cradling her in his arms, her face nestling against his chest, his hand now quietly covering her burning bottom. With her tears slowly subsiding, she was amazed at how safe, protected and loved she felt. And as he held her, gently and lovingly, she realised that although he had seen her intelligence and her strengths, he had seen so much more. He saw that she was looking to hand over her strength, he realised that she desperately wanted to relinquish her control, and she knew, he understood that she wanted to be shown the way.


Christmas Wishes

This is the time of the year that....
Many a gift bought with love and care are placed under the tree,
Feasts are prepared and laid out on festive looking tables,
Churches are visited, remembering what Christmas is all about...

This is the time of the year that wishes are made...
Wishes from those, wanting lovers, family or friends far away, closer to home
Wishes from those for lovers, family or friends ill or troubled to heal and recover
Wishes from those, missing and thinking about lovers, family or friends that are no longer there...

Whomever you may are, 
whatever your own wishes for this Christmas might be...
 a peaceful and blessed Christmas are my wishes for you all.



Diets, bottoms and a fan too..

In my quest to lose weight, I had a rare moment of total brain failure about two weeks ago. I am convinced that if anyone had to connect me to an EEG machine at that moment, I would have been declared a medical miracle - a functioning body, but no brainwaves to be detected, not even a blip. During my sad state of absent cognitive functioning, I agreed to and embarked on a controlled diet. The word diet is an easy concept for me to understand; food that I want and prefer to eat, I cannot. The problem lies within the word controlled.  It is rather a simple arrangement really, although granted that it was not well thought out by yours truly, but it remains simple none the less; failing to reach the weekly target will result in my bottom being the target.

To ensure that I do honour and remember the agreement, appointments to “discuss” the results were scheduled for every second week as well. I have to note, that I  am truly amazed at some people’s kind-heartedness at times...The first appointment was scheduled for yesterday, and as  agreed, I had to submit my current weight in order to determine what form the discussion was going to take.  I entered the bathroom, pulled the scale closer, closed my eyes and took the step that would determine my fate. Incidentally, switching the scale on and off, shaking it, removing the battery and replacing it, having a serious discussion in a threatening tone with it, will make absolutely no difference in the number displayed.

Good news though, I did manage to lose some weight during these last two weeks, however, the bad news is, it was not enough. After some serious self-deliberation regarding entering the realm of dishonesty, the number was submitted. I only received three little words back: “Prepare for punishment.” Prepare? What exactly I had to prepare was beyond me...my bottom was there in all her glory, clenching a bit during the panicky moments, and sending desperate signals to my brain that running could be an option... During the “discussion” held yesterday afternoon, a decision was made that bath brushes will be added to the “Destroy at all cost” list immediately. It was the first meeting my bottom had with said implement, and it was hate on first impact. The fact that the swats were deliberate and strategically placed did not improve the relationship either.

I also had a problem understanding why Uncle Nick did find it so hilarious last night when I told him, that  I had enlisted the assistance of a fan, and that the cool air it was producing was  directed towards my bare bottom. It was the only home rememdy I could think of, to try and recover from what feels and looks like a very, very bad suntan. I really did not understand his laughter...I HATE sleeping on my stomach; it makes me dream of huge slices of chocolate cake...    


Christmas Canes

He was in an odd and difficult mood from the moment I arrived at his office, and to say that the interaction between us went downhill fast, is putting it mildly. His only words regarding the upcoming punishment were that I was going to determine what it would be, and thereafter he steadfastly refused to engage further in the conversation. No matter how much I tried, he did not budge, only looking at me with that slight smile on his face, patiently waiting. It did not take long before my temper made an appearance, I wanted this session over and done with, I still had some shopping to do for Christmas tree ornaments, and time was ticking away! As anger overtook and destroyed any common sense I might have had, I deliberately strew caution to the wind, rising splendidly to the occasion.   

When he walked back into the room with both canes in his hands, I was already regretting my reactions, desperately trying to think of a way out, yet, with Ms Temper still well in place, I refused to opt for a simple apology. A couple of minutes before I snarled out that he can administer twelve strokes, six with the new and six with the old, sarcastically allocating it as a Christmas gift to him.  As I was reluctantly lowering my panties, feeling them resting below my bottom, I looked at the chair that was waiting. I knew the moment I assumed the familiar position, being bent over it; I will feel him lifting my blouse, feel the air on my bottom, with the inevitable pain soon to follow. I was trying to think of ways to slow time down, to postpone the moment where I have to submit, anything...but nothing came to mind.

When the first stroke came blazing down and across my bottom, I closed my eyes, only thinking, dear gods, what I have done. By the third stroke, all I could think about was the deep burn, the stinging pain that was searing into my bottom, and there was nine still to go. At stroke six, it took every bit of willpower not to reach out and rub my bottom, the pain had become all consuming, every line so far laid on, burning with the brightest of fire. It did appear that some of the gods that I was praying to fervently took some mercy on me, as I had some reprieve when his phone rang, and he left to answer it. While he was gone, I was wondering what he would do when he comes back, and finds me, fully clothed with car keys in hand, refusing the rest. However, I did not move. I stayed in position, bent over the chair, bottom fully exposed and burning, with the coolness of the air only seemingly aggravating the pain, waiting for his return.

At stroke eight, I was openly whimpering, hoping desperately every time when he changed canes, that he will get tired of the new cane. It inflicted a heavier burn than the older cane, the sting lasting longer, and an agony that has become indescribable. Unfortunately, the gods were done with my prayers, and my bottom continued feeling the difference between the canes. With the last two strokes, every bit of my bottom was on fire, and I was too afraid to move, as any slight movement seemed to make the pain more pronounced. As the last stroke fell, my whole body was shuddering but the feeling of relief washed over me, it was finally over...

When I finally managed to move away from the chair, and gingerly pulled my black satin panties over my bottom, I knew I was in for a couple of days of avoiding anything that might resemble a sitting position. I had a final look at the canes, hoping that they will both burst into flames, very much in a similar fashion that my bottom was on fire. It was also there and then that I decided, that no matter how cute or innocent they might look, nothing that even closely resembles a cane would ever have the honour to be hanging from my Christmas tree...ever!


Uncle Nick's Coupe d’├ętat

Uncle Nick and I had a marathon Skype session of eight hours last night, well, actually my night and his day. I know by now, that when telling him things, I should think carefully beforehand as to how and what I exactly tell him. His reactions often reminds me of a scientific experiment gone wrong; you innocently add two elements together, but instead of seeing a nice satisfactory glow and shouting "Eureka!', you are left standing with most likely a singed bottom, totally shell shocked in a burnt out room.

To be fair, no one can blame me. It cannot be expected from me to maintain sense and sensibility during a period where I saw the sun setting in the west and rising in the east, without any closure of eyelids in between. As such, it did result in me telling him something that really should have rather been left unsaid.  

With a disaster of note looming, I pleaded, cajoled, even had a little temper tantrum, but overall, it came down to some serious grovelling and begging. To my utter amazement, he finally did relent and I heaved a huge sigh of relief, having had averted what would have been a very embarrassing situation. I even thanked him, deeply and sincerely.

I should have known better, I really, REALLY should have KNOWN better, but I never even entertained the idea that he was only taking a slight breather, and that he was going to come back and leave me standing in that damn burnt out room, wondering what the hell just happened. Pardon me for not writing a full account about Uncle Nick's coupe d’├ętat, but I am still having serious heart palpitations when just even thinking about it, never mind writing about it.

But here is the deal; in exchange for him being so "generous and kind", and not doing something that would leave me embarrassed to the bone, I am to record the audio of the next punishment session scheduled! Can anyone please explain to me, what went wrong...no, forget about that...more importantly, can anyone please tell me, how on earth am I going to get out of this one?


A sudden lapse in sanity...

On Christmas day, my father will light a fire for the braaivleis (BBQ), next to the pool at about eleven in the morning, and not long after that, the aroma of smoke and of meat, being cooked will fill the air...

I will be in the kitchen, cooking the pap, using the coarser grain of maize because my mother loves it so much, and next to it on the stove, will be a pot with tomato and onion sauce simmering away...

The salads would have been already been prepared, with the potato salad already being eyed by all...

And when everyone is complaining that not another morsel of food can be consumed, my mother will appear with the trifle, and eager hands will be holding out their pudding bowls...with sudden space found in declared full tummies...

So, who in their right mind would go on a diet eleven days before Christmas? Or even worse, had a total moment of insanity when agreeing to do the diet in accordance with a "you fail, you are going to be spanked" programme?

If you are looking for me on Christmas day, I will be the one sitting quietly in the corner, looking very forlorn whilst nibbling on my celery stick...for I rather want to be saying “Ho, Ho, Ho” than “Ouch, Ouch, Ouch”....

Perfect Gift

Men do have a slight problem in understanding what a perfect gift is all about...

even Santa at times...


Do NOT call me a Pain Slut!!

Although a newcomer to the spanking world, I am able to take harder punishment than many others. I have a high pain threshold, as was stated by a neurosurgeon, who was dumbfounded by the fact that I managed to walk around for about two months with a collapsed vertebrae. This brings me to my second point, my incredible stubbornness where pain is concerned. The reason for both can be very easily explained; a mother that firmly believed that you control the pain, and not the other way around.

However, for some reason, this has resulted in a couple of people calling me a "pain slut", which to put it mildly, irritates the hell out of me. I have spoken in length to Uncle Nick about this, and it is his view, that it is most probably the vilest description one can attribute to another. In this community where we do the thing we love, spanking is the common thread, but we all have different ideas, preferences, ideals, fantasies and principles around it. I am not a box person, you cannot try to define me, and then put me away in a neat white little box, and act surprised when I do not stay within the box.

I am in a relationship where the male is dominant and I am submissive. Our lives do not evolve around spanking alone, but Uncle Nick punishes me through spanking where necessary. To be spanked is a deliberate breakdown of an inner hardness in me. This hardness builds up progressively and if left unchecked I become arrogant with an attitude, I become irresponsible in both actions and words. An effective spanking also acts as a stress releaser, releasing the softness, a quietness and harmony that bring out the best in me.

For this to work, this hard wall within me has to be breached, and the combination of a high pain threshold with stubbornness means that it takes a bit longer and harder for the wall to finally crumble. If the punishment meted out does not attain this, I become more unsettled, restless and in general, a very unpleasant person to be around. Make no mistake, I do feel pain from the first stroke or smack onwards, but I need to be pushed harder. I need effective spankings, breaking down what needs to be broken down.

There is no denial that the sexual element plays a role, and thanks to Uncle Nick I am able to put into words my thoughts about spanking: “I love the bit before, and I absolutely love the feeling afterwards, but make no mistake,  I do definitely do not enjoy the spanking in itself”.

So I am asking nicely, call me anything you want, but please do not call me a "pain slut”...

Raven Red Notes:
To the readers of this post: I really would love to hear your opinion on the topic.
To Miss Pink:  A heartfelt thank you for taking the time to read the draft and offering your advice.


I have a slight problem with anticipation. It is not in my genetic make-up to be made to wait for something, regardless whether it might be pleasant or unpleasant. Even worse, I absolutely hate being unsure about anything. I NEED to know the outcome and the sooner the better. And when a touch of fear is added into the cauldron, I become very unsettled. I tend to change from a self-reliant, confident woman, to one that becomes scatter minded, and unable to fully focus at whatever task is at hand.

Because I am a couple of years too late to register as a client with the Oracle of Delphi and Paul the Octopus has decided to go to octopus heaven, I had to develop a strategy in order to compensate for these moments. I embark on a fact-finding mission and try to gather all the information available. Normally at the end of one of these exercises, I would have resolved either the waiting period or the uncertainty. However, in cases where I could not totally resolve the situation, but have sufficient information, I apply a simple policy. Ignore it – it will go away, or I will deal with it when it needs to be dealt with.

 The problem is that both HH and Uncle Nick have realised that armed with enough information, I do have this unique ability to act like an ostrich, sticking my head in the sand, and ignore anything until I have to deal with it. In effect it means that to a large extend I am able to ignore any upcoming requirements to present my bottom, until the time actually arrives. Being the kind-hearted, obliging gentlemen they are, both had implemented corrective measures.

HH now absolutely refuses to divulge any information about what form a scheduled punishment session will take. No matter how much I cajole, beg or sulk, he cannot be moved. In my efforts to find out what will be in store for my bottom, I would eventually resort to using words such as “whatever” or “FINE!” For some odd reason, this does seem to be   directly connected to the upwards movement of the scheduled quantity of the strokes. Sadly, I have to report, I do have an appointment with HH on Monday afternoon, but for reasons stated above, that is all I know.

For his part, Uncle Nick, has this little annoying habit of noting my misdemeanours in his damn moleskin notebook. In addition, he loves to remind in detail of how he is looking forward to warming my bottom in the future. He has even went as far to post a video showing his preparation in readying an evil looking implement, scheduled to make the acquaintance of my bottom. In the period that I spent with him, I have also established to the detriment of my bottom that sulking does not work, and arguing is not advisable. And when a session is due with HH, Uncle Nick makes very sure that he keeps on reminding me about the appointment... as he has done today - about ten thousand times...

So, here I am, having to deal with a bottom that seems to tingle and clench at the most inopportune moments, short circuiting my normal brain functions, as it reminds me that Monday afternoon will be soon arriving...


The Purchase (Spanking Fiction)

She mocked him, openly, without any fear or reserve, foolishly believing in the safety that the shop offers. The shop assistant reacted with the same glee, two women bound together in their own peculiar conspiracy as they strive for a victory in the age-old battle of the sexes. With the last giggles escaping over her lips and basking in the glow of her conquest she walked towards the exit doors.

He walked behind her, and in silence his hands circled her, pulling her into his body. He was holding her tight, clasping her arms against her own body, forcing her to stop walking. The last sound of her earlier joy died on her lips as he bent his head down, tightening his arms around her, and in a low voice spoke quietly, for her ears only.

He stood next to her, watching her as she showed him the item of her choice. He shook his head, indicating with a slight gesture that it is not good enough. Her hands were shaking as she put it back on the shelf and reached out for the largest size, feeling the thick smooth wood under her fingers. She removed it from the shelf, holding it up for him to see, and as she glanced at him, he nodded his approval. 

He had stopped her when she reached out for a shopping bag, instructing her that she will be carrying her purchase home, in her hands.  The short walk home was in absolute silence, an earlier attempt to apologize to him being curtly dismissed. On entering the house, he took her by the arm and steered her towards the kitchen.       

With both her hands still holding onto the newly bought item, he bent her over the kitchen table. She felt him lifting her dress, placing it over her back, with his hands quickly moving back, slowly pulling down her silk knickers. She felt the cool air against her naked bottom as she heard him walking around the table. She lifted her eyes as he stopped, and as he held out his hand, she wordlessly handed over her new, large wooden spoon.  


Disney spanking?

Since my journey started, I have had many experiences, some good, some bad, but I am revelling in every one. However, I did not realise how much I have embraced and accepted what I am. Until today.

Walking along a mall, I went pass the local cinema. And stopped. And stared. And giggled.

The saucepan is the wrong way around, but oh my, the angle is just so right....

Rebellion and the Lochgelly Tawse

I thought that it was all done and dusted, along with my bottom because of it, but the saga of the "bleeping" tawse which I have written about before, continues.  I honestly do believe that if I hear one more word about that damn piece of cowhide, I will be going vegan...okay, maybe not totally, but definitely, where my bottom is concerned - no piece of leather will ever have the opportunity to touch my backside. Ever!

As a woman that is able to move on and put things behind her, although it is apparently not widely believed  by the male population, I delivered the tawse to HH, had my bottom warmed up considerably with it and did a faithful account of the said incident on my blog. Apart from nursing a sore bottom and avoiding where possible the wear of close fitting clothes, starting with any form of knickers, I carried on with life.

I should have heeded the warning signs in his voice when Uncle Nick phoned me from Mexico on Tuesday night. After the initial pleasantries, he stated that he has read my posting about the appointment with HH and the tawse. The way he is able to pronounce words with such a righteous drawl, should have set alarm bells off, but then silly old me was so excited to hear from him, that I literally ignored the little man jumping up and down in my brain, holding up a huge placard saying: "Run!!".

End result of the conversation? He very politely and in that oh so icy cold voice of his, told me that he still does not believe the story about my leaving the tawse accidentally behind in Coventry, and that his nose is out of joint, he is going to find the tawse he has in Mexico, and well basically, my bottom will be feeling it. Shortly after the conversation ended, I received a photo file, where one evil looking tawse is being held up triumphantly, and I swear I could actually heard the thing saying my name.

Going through my normal routine of reading the latest posts yesterday afternoon, I saw Uncle Nick has posted. Actual words escape me to describe my reaction to his post...no actually they do not, but they cannot be repeated here. I have now been labelled as prone to engage in inane prattling, although it has to be taken into account that I am NOT the one that is carrying on and on about a piece of leather. In addition, I am being accused of being patronising, all because out of pure desperation I offered to get another Lochgelly tawse when I am back in the UK. 

Chatting with HH on messenger, I informed him that it appears that although I am not even back in the country for a week; I am in trouble, again, about the damn tawse. I then asked him innocently whether he thought that I prattle, or whether he perceives me as patronizing. Receiving the word "Unlikely" but with a little icon of a man rolling around with uncontrollable laughter, did not appeal to my sense of humour at all. 

In addition, the fact that it appears that he is finding the whole thing extremely amusing, and is clearly not interested in my innocence in this whole debacle, is quite irritating. An actual statement was made that he "finds it funny that I am always in trouble". On top of it, he informs me to tell Uncle Nick "to take a chill pill"? I know the dear man is overworked, but he clearly also lost some of his cognitive functions. However, I did find it quite amusing how quickly HH lost his wonderful sense of humour, when I made my displeasure known, and obviously, again, with my poor bottom state of well being being threatened.

So, to Uncle Nick and HH, I now formally state: 


Boys and their toys

I was suppose to be at work since last week, but have been in bed with acute bronchitis.Yesterday morning however it was back to work, and as normal, once I have secured the largest cup of coffee, communication to the outside world commenced, including my good morning greeting to HH. Now keeping in mind that I had a parcel or two to deliver to him, and which I knew he has been looking forward to, his reply was his happy, chirpy self...okay, well, sort of.

It was made quite clear to me that his shoulder is not available to cry upon about my blues regarding Uncle Nick and me not occupying the same space, never mind the same country. Fine! I understood that we all have our blue Mondays, don't mind me, or the fact that I have had a blue life since last week Saturday. Based on his requirement that he only wanted to meet with me if I am happy, I gritted my teeth, and assured him that I was cheerfully and gleefully depressed. 

At the arranged time, I parked my car in front of his offices. The tawse and cane were lying on the front seat, ready for delivery. With the possibility that there might be the odd soul still lingering around, it was clear to me that I might get very strange looks strolling into an office building, bearing the gifts openly. The tawse disappeared quite nicely into my over sized handbag, but the problem was the cane. I eventually did manage to bend it that it could fit into the bag, but had to walk with my hand slightly inside the bag, resting on top of the cane, in order to stop it from popping out. The added benefit of this all was the fact that when HH opened the office doors the anticipated gifts were nowhere in sight, and I exacted some small measure of revenge for all the sympathy he has shown me earlier in the day. 

Once inside and while HH was getting the drinks, I unpacked the gifts and the expression on his face upon seeing a slightly not-so-straight cane and the tawse displayed on the table, was enough to brighten up my day considerably. We had a drink, a friendly conversation filled with laughter, but underneath the chatter, tension was slowly building up. I brought gifts, and I know that HH will want to play. The phenomenon of boys and their toys never cease to amaze me, you can actually see the hidden two year old within, barely contained, unable to curb the joy of having a new and bright shiny toy to play with. I have to add though, he was the perfect gentleman, stating with concern that I had still not recovered in full from being ill, and in addition was still marked from the last caning received from Uncle Nick. 

In the end though, an agreement was reached, he could play with the tawse only. The blinds were dropped, the windows closed, and I assumed the normal position, not willing for the tawse to be used on my hands. Bending over the chair, my bottom bare, the first swat of the tawse was not that bad. However, HH quickly established a rhythm, a hard one at that, I might add, which resulted in me quickly verbally indicating that it was starting to hurt. The impact of the tawse against my bottom was a sharp stinging burn, which left a tingling painful sensation. After a couple of very painful swats, I asked in desperation how many more?

I could hear the satisfaction of being able to play in his voice, as he told me quietly that when I had enough. He placed another couple of hard swats and by now, it felt as if a hornet's nest had been broken open on my behind. When he announced that it was the last one, I heaved a sigh of relief, only to yelp a protest when the last one turned out to be two. Something to do with me not getting up quick enough? As I gingerly covered my bottom with my hands, I saw him eyeing the cane. 

 With every inch of me ready to beg, I pleaded my case fervently, there was no way I could face the cane yet, not with my last punishment session under the administration of Uncle Nick still so fresh in my mind. Relief washed over me as he relented, especially as I could feel the heat in my bottom, the stinging and burning pain caused by the tawse not subsiding, the rubbing of my knickers against the heated skin seemingly aggravating the pain even more. 

In the end, I had delivered the gifts and HH could play, however, I also know that with my unique ability of landing myself up in trouble, I will be facing the cane again, more specifically; MY cane...and at that time, no playing will be involved.


Planes, canes and some leather...

Leaving and returning to Johannesburg, my suitcase contained a couple of non-standard travel items that might have raised the eyebrows of the person operating the luggage scanners at Jhb International and at Heathrow. I have been wondering quite a bit, if I were stopped, with my inability to lie without giggling, how exactly I would have explained these items of rather a specific taste away.

The two thick leather belts would have most probably not elicited much response, except maybe to admire the thickness of the leather and the handiwork of the artisan. I would have been able to tell the person, that the items were bought outside Johannesburg, as in my quest to find these two gifts for Uncle Nick, I visited a leather shop that I know is renowned for its products. However, alas, that would have only part of the disclosure. I would have had to add, that it was brought under my attention by the proposed receiver of the gifts that he firmly believes in utilising items to their fullest. In addition, I would have had to admit that I had quite a profound bottom clenching panicky moment, and therefore in the interest of my bottom's safety, would have no objection if the items were confiscated.

Things would have even gotten more complicated with the rest of the items next to the leather belts. For starters there was the cattle whip, and for some odd reason I do not think that telling the by now most likely very worried airport employee that it is only intended to be a wall decoration...eh, note wall, not dungeon, would have made any difference to his levels of concern. 

Last but not the least, right next to the belt and the whip, I had packed the two quaintly named leather straps, Attitude Adjuster and Persuader. There would have been no way to explain those two items away, especially taking into consideration that I knew Persuader and my bottom had an appointment with Uncle Nick as the mediator. For the record, it was not a very pleasant meeting at all.

Then the return trip...with a "proper" British judiciary cane (according to Uncle Nick) and a tawse fashioned after the Lochgelly tawse, which the saga about the latter already had resulted in my bottom being heated up significantly, neatly packed into the suitcase. Again, I would have had these items gladly confiscated I might add, as they are on their way to HH, and he has been gleefully informing me via mails that he cannot wait to test them...on my bottom!

But the thing I wonder the most, is whether the body scanner at Heathrow picked up the significant heat pattern in the region of my recently well-caned bottom....


Dissection of a spanking

Up and until recently, I have never been spanked. Now do not get me wrong; as a child I endured corporal punishment in many forms, and as an adult, some more, but being over someone's knee, being spanked on the bottom, the bare bottom? Never. Uncle Nick rectified that little oversight when the opportunity presented itself. The idea that I would be able to resist being pulled over his lap was ludicrous to say the least. I am still unsure how exactly from standing in front of him I found myself the next moment laying across his lap. Where was the resistance? A step back, putting my weight against his grip on my arm would have surely resulted in him not being able to do this to me. But my body seemed to follow willingly as he pulled me in and over, no rebellion, not even a slight negative movement, even though wordless protests were forming in my mind.

No words could describe the absolute shame I experienced, when my dress was lifted up and away, and he so effortlessly pulled down my knickers. My ears and face were burning with embarrassment at being so exposed and helpless, lying over his lap, while he was calmly informing of what will be following shortly. Yet, where normally I would have reacted in anger, defending myself, I did not even try to stop him. I felt his arm in the small of my back, his hand gripping me, keeping me in position; I could feel the heat of him against my abdomen and at the same time, the cool air brushing against my bared bottom.

The first couple of smacks against my bottom seemed to echo through the room, and more shame coursed through me. It was so loud! At first, there was only heat, but as his hand kept continuing to come down finding my bottom, heat turned into pain. He spanked hard, alternating between cheeks, seemingly finding every spot on my bottom, then changing the rhythm with a couple of smacks delivered on one cheek before moving on to the other. I found myself whimpering as the spanking continued, and at times, yelping. With the latter, he would only say, "That one got to you didn't it? Good."

The smacks on my bottom were not stopping and it felt to me that time came to a standstill. Even though he spanked fast and hard, I would find a small measure of relief when his hand would connect in the centre of my cheeks. Although they did hurt, the smacks delivered lower down, where bottom and thigh meets, really, really stung. Even more humiliating was the realisation that I was kicking my legs, signalling my loss in composure, my control, only now desperate to get away from the pain. And how hard I tried to cover my bottom with my hand, because dear god, I did not want his unrelenting hand finding those tender spots. But he did, and I heard my whimpering growing louder. My bottom was on fire, burning in a way that I have never felt before.

Yet, I felt myself embracing the punishment; I felt the muscles in my bottom relaxing in full acceptance of every smack being delivered. When it was finished, and he pulled me up into his lap, my whole body was shuddering and my breathing was erratic. I instinctively curled into him, not moving, craving his comfort in my final show of total submission to him. As his arms folded around me, waiting for me to calm down, I realised that not only has my body has become soft and relaxed, but that the brittle core, the hardness, the tension I can normally feel inside me was no longer there. That is when I knew, I am home, and this is what is right.

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Raven Red by Raven Red is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.