A Tale of Two Spankings ( Spanking Two)

One would think that the impact of the cane and bath brush on my bottom would have restored my good humour. Alas, this was not the case as somehow with my unique ability to segment things in my mind, I proceeded to neatly separate the feelings of "my guilt" shame and "not my fault" resentment. I was feeling suitably ashamed regarding my failure to adhere to my diet, and with my bottom red and tender, motivated to adhere and reach the targets set out in the quest to lose weight. On the other hand, the deep-rooted anger and resentment I felt towards Stavros the Kebab man and Slithering Stallion was still burning.

Without fully realising it, I had started to project my anger not only against myself when falling into the trap of comfort eating, but to innocent bystanders around me, with one bystander being none other than Uncle Nick. When he made his phone call to me after the punishment session, he was quick to realise that I was not happy and that it was more than just about feeling suitably punished and ashamed. I was very busy building a wall around me again, using sarcasm as the main building blocks.  My sarcasm might work with other people around me, but with Uncle Nick, it is like water of a duck’s back, with putting my own backside fully in the line of fire.

In hindsight, I am once again amazed at how well he understands me, how my mind works, even when I am not fully aware of my own reactions. Instead of him becoming harsh with me, he only said with so much empathy in his voice, “I am sorry Baby, I know you are not happy”, and then gently directed the conversation towards my need of  a “wall breaking down” session, which we have both realised a while back, is normally after a two-week period. It was nearly the end of week three, since the last session. An appointment was set up, and with me realising that I am literally on the brink of a very deep and dark hole; I made it for the same afternoon, even though my bottom was already red and tender.

I am not quite sure whether HH realised the amount of trouble I was in when I arrived, but instead of the customary ten or fifteen minutes of talking, it was more like an hour. With a couple of well-placed questions, I vented, I ranted and I raved. I could feel anger coursing through my body, and at one stage, I felt as if I could literally punch a wall. That is about the time when I turned around to him, and asked, “I am angry?”

He only leaned back in his chair, and calmly said, “Yes, you are. I think it is time for an anger management session”

As I lowered my panties, my hands brushed my bottom which immediately told me that it is still tender and sore, and as HH lifted up my dress, after I have assumed the position bending over the chair, I felt my whole body stiffening in defence and resentment. When the first stroke of the cane seared over my already sore bottom, all my anger rushed to the surface. In between the deliberately slow, hard swishing strokes of the cane, that left my bottom burning, searing so badly that I could not help but to whimper, I entered into a rage internally.

With every stroke, the anger built. I was furious at my friends for leaving me behind and alone in this country with no-one to talk to, I was livid towards a foreign government that regards me only as a classification on a piece of paper, and will never do anything else but that.  I was angry at my own helplessness in not being able to do what I want to do, not being able to be in a better position to aid my parents, not being able to get to the man that I love, and not being able to live a life without fear and constraint of freedom.

I was raging at my treatment at the hand of two men at work, who are not only being condescending and patronising, but deliberately ensuring that my life remains a living hell, all in the name of political power struggles that I have nothing to do with. I was infuriated at my own failures, for falling pregnant when I should have completed a degree, for not leaving South Africa when I wanted to more than thirteen years ago, and for making one mistake after the other.

It was at about the twelve or the thirteenth stroke that my rage had reached such a pinnacle that this wordless shout of rage reverberated within my mind, but when the next stroke of the cane left its fiery streak, the wall broke. I deliberately relaxed my body, keeping my bottom muscles relaxed, falling into a rhythm with the swish of the cane, feeling the last couple of strokes brushing away the hard shards of resentment and anger, needing my tears to help wash away this awfulness inside me.

This caning was by far the worst I have ever had, and I think that HH, even though pushing his own limits again, realised that I was in a crisis. Afterwards, although I refused politely to sit down for obvious reasons, he made time to talk, not about anything specific, but to give me the comfort in his own way, as Uncle Nick that would have folded me in his arms was miles away.

  

It is now two days later, and my tale of two spankings has come to an end, but I have been left apart from a very, very sore bottom that still protest severely at any sitting position, with a feeling of calmness again. The intense anger that had built up is gone; it has been replaced with hope, and the belief that I can achieve my dreams. And for that, I can only thank Uncle Nick for loving and truly understanding me and HH for meting out a caning, although not fully in line with who and what he is, in his acknowledgment of my need to be helped in order to find balance again.