A Sunday morning with Coffee, Croissants and a Caning

I was late. Very, very late. More than an hour and a bit late. HH told me on Friday afternoon, that he was not working his normal Saturday morning, but would be at the office on the Sunday morning for a short while, and I am late! Oh dear God, how I was praying that he will still be there when I searched for him online. I rushed to the bakery, with a lighter heart, a smile and hope renewed. Relief had washed over me; he will be there, waiting for my offering.

I rang the bell and he opened the door, as was our normal routine. I was relaxed, happy to see him, to have some of his time. I followed him into the room, where on other occasions I would have normally been bent over, but a quick look at the table confirmed that no paddle or cane was visible. There was no spanking scheduled - I was only the bearer of croissants, and he was the coffee maker.

I knew it was time to leave. The coffee cups had gone cold, the croissants had been eaten, and there were only crumbs left on the two white plates. I thanked him politely for the conversation and the coffee, knowing I have not given him any reason for my out of characteristic croissant offering, but grateful that he did not ask either. A slight smile curled around his mouth, as he accepted my gratitude. My eyes widened, my mouth dried, as he returned his thanks for the croissants."I would like to thank you appropriately".

I nervously tried a laugh, ignoring the contractions of muscles deep inside of me, the instinct to arch my back to present my bottom, a bottom quivering in anticipation, ignoring the emotions of thrill and fear, which were creating small waves of heat, gently lapping in between my legs. I waved carelessly with my hand in the air, unable to look him fully in the eyes: "No need really, I am happy with normal thanks, and it was only a pleasure".

I got up from the table, standing next to my chair, my heart raced as he repeated his wish. I attempted to deflect him with another denial, but he quickly called my bluff, and dropping my eyes, I conceded. I watched him, barely breathing, as he moved around the room with purpose. Moving from window to window, he closed the blinds, and I watched as the light from the bright sun slowly disappeared. As the last blind was closed, the room had become the familiar place I knew, my sanctuary, my altar, the place where I relinquish control.

He left the room, closing the door with his instruction hanging in the air: "Get yourself ready". I was pushing my back against the wall, my bottom now bare, my trembling hands having removed my panties, waiting. My breathing erratic, my hands protectively over my bottom, waiting. I stared at the empty cold coffee cups and crumbs in the two white plates, waiting. I saw the black chair, pulled away from the table. I placed it where he has shown me previously, and it was ready, waiting.

As quietly as he had left, he returned, my eyes flicked to his hand, my breath caught as I looked away. He stood waiting, not moving. He watched as I slowly approached the chair and I could feel his eyes on my back as I assumed the familiar position. Bent over the chair, he silently stepped forward and lifted my dress up to my waist, and I could feel the warm morning heat against my bared bottom. In the absolute silence, I felt the  gentle tap-tap-tapping of the cane on my flesh, I arched my back,  and as I lifted and offered my bottom to him, I closed my eyes.

The touch of the gentle tap-tap of the cane against my skin, induced anticipation into every fibre of my being, every nerve sensitive and alert, as I waited for the inevitable moment of nothingness. When the moment arrived, I barely managed to draw a breath, when I heard the swish of the cane on its way, followed by a loud crack as it found its home against my bared flesh. A white-hot searing flash of pain streaked across my bottom with darts of fire piercing deep into my tender flesh. With a deep gasp for breath, my fingers gripped into the chair, and there were no thoughts, only an empty space into which I lost myself, as I waited for the fire to ease into a stinging throb. As I exhaled, I felt a hot flush of heat as it rushed through my entire body.

He never spoke, nor did he request that I count the strokes aloud; the silence was only broken by the swish of the cane, the crack of it snapping into my flesh, and my involuntary sounds of agony and discomfort. He took his time, with every stroke allowed the cane to search for the tenderest spot, tap-tap-tapping against sensitive flesh. He patiently held off, waiting for me to return from my empty space, to respond to the searching cane, to arch my back and present my bared bottom, willingly, waiting for the fire to cleanse my soul.

Afterwards, with my flesh raised and burning in protest to my gentle touch, as I covered them with my hands, I realised, he did know the reason for the offering of croissants, after all....