Fear (not) the Spanking paddle

There are a couple of things in life that I actually do fear. Spiders tend to send me scrambling very, very far away, and then unique to South Africa, the most awful (they say harmless) insect of them all - a Parktown Prawn which normally results in me becoming a pillar of salt, reducing me to nothing more than a mumbling fool, pleading for anyone to remove it. However, my fear for both of these ominous looking insects pale in comparison to my fear for a paddle, well specifically, HH's paddle.

I do not know whether it was because my first adult "spanking" was with a cane and that most of the punishments thereafter were canings, but I know the feel of the cane intimately. Although it does not diminished by hate/love that I do have for it, I know that the "kiss of the cane" as Uncle Nick puts it so eloquently, creates very specific lines of fire that streaks across my bottom, which after the initial couple of seconds of nothingness, causes a burn to the centre of my soul. It creates its own song as it whispers through the air, before biting into my bared bottom with a searing sting, raising the protesting flesh of my bottom in welts, the pain drilling down deep sending shudders through my entire body.

Not being HH's favourite implement (thank yea gods), I was eventually introduced to his paddle. It is an innocent-looking miniature cricket bat, proudly displayed in his office. From the top of the handle to the bottom of the blade the measurement is 45cm (about 18 inches), but the part that concerns my bottom the most, is the blade. Most likely crafted from willow wood, it measures 27.7cm (11 inches) long, and 6.5 cm (2.55 inches) wide. The width ranges from 1.5cm (0.59 inches) at the edges to 2.8cm (1.10 inches) at the ridge.

This past Wednesday, I was reacquainted to it again, to the unfeeling hardness of it, being punished for not reaching a goal. I was to receive twelve strokes that thankfully were reduced from the original eighteen, due to meeting the new target that was set down on late Friday. When he rested the cold wood against my bared skin, coldness overtook my heart. I knew that apart from the light tapping, I would not be hearing the paddle descending on my bottom. It took every bit of self-control to stay in position, to keep my hands where they were, while at the same time trying to listen to his movements in an attempt to know when the strike will be. However, fear has an odd way to reduce hearing abilities, and I only heard was my heart racing in my ears, and all I could do was press my face into the pillow I was holding.

When the first thud resounded in the room, an immediate deep, bruising burn descended on my bottom that kept on echoing in my body. Unlike the cane, that carves its song so delicately and specifically, the roughness of the paddle engulfed my whole bottom in pain. Shame, humiliation and a great degree of stubbornness will normally have me whisper about the agony of enduring the cane, but with the paddle, that is all strewn to the wind. From the first impact against my defenceless flesh, I started voicing my objections. At the third whack, all I could think of was how many was left, whilst trying to control the urge to move my bottom away even though I could not predict when the next stroke would be. Common sense prevailed, knowing that movement can cause greater harm, but dear gods, I so badly wanted to move my bottom away from that bruising burn that was descending relentlessly.

 

At the fifth stroke, I was desperately wondering what he would do if I jumped up, whilst my right hand was clutching at the pillow as I was trying to control the desire to put my hand in front of my bottom. As the strokes continued, the pain I felt was white hot, and I could feel the perspiration running down my back. It was with a feeling of relief when he announced that it was the last stroke, but after it was delivered, even with the overwhelming urge that I had to move away, to remove myself from a position of vulnerability, I remained in position, unable to move, fighting for composure. Tears were stinging the back of my eyes, my breathing was erratic and oh gods, how my bottom was burning.

I remember him rubbing my bottom, and I was idly wondering how my skin can feel so numb, whilst that deep pain was continuing to burn. My bottom was shaded in an angry red, swollen and the touch of my panties covering it, made me wince. I also knew that for the next couple of days, the burn would remain; my skin will be stinging as if it was exposed to a nest of wasps, and that I will be battling to remain seated for long periods. I was once asked if I find the paddle worse than the cane. My immediate response was "Yes!" but thinking about it a bit more, that was not quite true.

Between these two implements, I am normally overcome with an intense desire to build the hugest fire and making sure that they are the first sacrifices to the god of Fire, although I am not sure whether Vulcan would be impressed by my offerings. The pain and discomfort both these implements yield are different to each other, but I do know that my fear for the paddle definitely outweighs my fear for the cane. I am due to report in this morning again and I have thousands of butterflies in my stomach – for I can still feel the consequences of giving the incorrect response, burning away on my bottom.