I do not want to be caned...

During the last session with HH, there was so much anger and bitterness in me, that in my resentment against the world and everyone in it, I erected a wall of pure stubbornness. As I was bending over the chair, bottom bared, he caned me hard that day, his short course in anger management eventually destroying every bit of my inner resistance to let go of the rage that was surging through me. I could not sit properly for nearly two weeks thereafter, my bottom tender, swollen and sore, stinging in protest every time I moved.

It was a constant reminder of the price I had to pay for my streak of obstinacy, and I decided that I would not be going down that path again soon. I did not want a caning again and therefore deliberately ignored the fact that I have this peculiar pattern of only managing for about fourteen days to stay in line. I isolated myself, believing foolishly that I could stay out of trouble, and when seeing the marks left by the cane in the mirror every morning, my resolve not to be caned again became stronger.

I cannot quite explain how a resolve at not being caned again turned into a very deliberate attempt to avoid any form of spanking as far as possible. I immersed myself into work, working twelve to thirteen hours a day, ensuring that nowhere along the line an opportunity might come along where I have to present myself to HH. I had very nicely put myself on a road that could only end one way, but I closed my eyes and persisted.

For the past week, the topic of presenting myself to HH has become more prominent in my conversations with Uncle Nick. Last night I closed my eyes when I finally asked him the question that had been coming for a while, a question that I knew contained my acknowledgement of a battle lost, “I need a spanking, don’t I?” Time had run out, it has been more than four weeks since my last session with HH, and I have left pure havoc in my wake. Even as I stated in a rather plaintive voice that I do not want to be caned again, I realised that my reluctance had nothing to do with the rattan cane.

It is about the desire and the reluctance of wanting and not wanting my defensive walls to remain in place and to be broken down. It is about knowing that the moment that my dress has been lifted and my knickers are lowered; my bared bottom does not only reflect my vulnerability in flesh, but that of my soul. It is about knowing that when I am bending over the chair, with my bottom awaiting the swish of a cane, the thud of the paddle or the crack of leather that I am acknowledging my submission of control, but with it, my need that the walls should go.

It is about knowing that the moment I feel the first impact against my bared flesh turning it a shade of red, the stinging burn reverberating through my body, that I will continue to hear the swish of a cane, or the thud of the paddle, until the last vestige of the walls I have built, has been removed. It is about knowing that even though I have stated that I do not want to be caned, my resistance and protests will pass, and I will remain in place, waiting and wanting the purge.

I had embarked on a new road nearly a year ago, and even with this flare of rebellion against the changes within me, I know that I have not only accepted who I have become, but that this is who I am.

Moonglow