I Joined the Club

Well, I did it. I joined the club of women who've been caned. I'm not considering myself a card-carrying member, however, because it was only one stroke. Still, it feels like I have accomplished something.

I actually went back and counted how long it has been since my last disciplinary spanking. February 19th. Nineteen days! I think that might be a world record and I was starting to feel pretty cocky, to be honest, that I could keep out of trouble indefinitely.

I was trying extra hard, you see, and with good reason. Knowing my fear of the cane, Gaelin has always respected that fear and refrained for using it on me. But recently, he took it into his head that he might coax me to relent on that issue, since we have been married more than seven years and I know that I can trust him not to hurt me seriously.

I understand his point, that I should be able to trust him based on the fact that in the entire time I have known him he has never hurt me or frightened me in any way that wasn't consensual. (It's hard to explain how some kinds of hurt and fear are good and others are bad, but for me this is how it works.) But my fear of the cane is much deeper and definitely crossed the line into BAD FEAR. The kind of fear that makes you sick to your stomach. That's how scared I am of that thing. So I wasn't even ready to consider the thought of changing my mind.

Then he came up with an offer that was really really really tempting.

He said that I could trade in my next spanking, all of it, the whole thing! in exchange for just one cane stroke.

At the time he made the offer, I wasn't going to accept it. Instead, I resolved never to earn another spanking again as long as I lived. By taking that approach I could avoid having to make this terrible decision. And I was successful for nineteen days!

However, yesterday it all fell apart. He had left for work much earlier than usual, and somehow with him gone, I managed to oversleep for work. I woke up late and ran around like a lunatic to get out of the house and not be late for work, and in the process I left my curling iron on, the coffee pot on, AND forgot to lock the door.

Each of these, alone, is a problem, worthy of a lecture at the least and perhaps even a few swats. Combined altogether, there was no way I was getting away without a spanking.

So, when I arrived home from work, he was waiting for me. He told me what I had done and said that I was going to be punished before bed. He said nothing about the cane, just served up dinner and we sat and ate.

I think I ate about three bites, I was so nervous. By the time dinner was done, he still hadn't said anything about the cane and I was starting to relax a little, seeing that he wasn't going to pressure me.

After dinner, we watched a movie on tv and cuddled on the couch. He put his arm around me and I rested my head on his chest while we watched, and I felt totally warm and safe.

At bedtime, he asked me to go and get into my pajamas and then wait for him on the bed.

I got changed and waited. There was no way I was going to let him use the cane. I chewed my lip nervously and wondered whether he would use the paddle, or the slipper, or the hairbrush, or what.

He made me wait for what seemed like forever, and when he finally turned up he had the wooden spoon in his hand. I don't know if anything else would have been any better, honestly, but when I saw that spoon my resolve to avoid the cane started to leave me.

Still, he said nothing about it, and I could tell that he was just going to go ahead with the wooden spoon unless I asked him to let me do the trade he had offered me.

He said down on the bed beside me and took my hands and looked in my eyes and started talking to me, the way he does, before a punishment. He talked about what I had done and why it was important not to forget these important details, and about getting up on time so I am not rushed, etc.., and all I could think about while he was talking was the cane versus the spoon. Weighing a fullscale wooden spooning against one cane stroke.

For anyone who hasn't experienced a wooden spoon spanking, let me assure you, it is horrendous. A wooden spoon has such a small point of impact that each swat with it is so sharp and intense that you cannot help but scream bloody blue murder. And, sometimes it leaves welts.

When he was finished talking to me, he moved to the chair and told me to come to him. I did. He pulled me across his lap and pulled up my nightie. He took my two hands in his and pinned them behind me, which is a normal part of a spanking for me because if he doesn't do that I can't stop myself from putting my hands in the way and getting them hurt.

That was the point when I changed my mind, if you can imagine. Face down, my forehead nearly touching the floor, bare bottom up in the air, and hands pinned behind me. In this undignified position, I suddenly screamed, "Wait wait wait wait! I changed my mind! Please wait!!"

He did wait. I held my breath, but no spoon came down on my bottom, hallelujah.

"You changed your mind?" he asked me, as I hung there upside down.

"Yes," I said.

"Tell me what you want, then."

"I want you to give me the one cane stroke instead, please," I told him.

And then, I think for the first time in my entire disciplinary career, I was released spank-free after a spanking had (almost) begun.

I stood up, my nightgown falling back down to my knees and blissfully covering me up again. My heart was racing. The mix of feelings, relief at having avoided the spoon, was quickly washed over with waves of terror at the thought of the cane cutting a deep bloody welt across my bottom.

He took my hand and led me to the office. Usually spankings happen in bedroom, so this was new. In the office, he made me stand at the side of his desk, leaning across it and clutching the opposite side. The clutching wasn't his requirement; it was my white-knuckled way of keeping myself from falling down and becoming a sobbing puddle on the floor.

Usually, when I am spanked, it is over his knee. He does it this way for many reasons. There is an emotional intensity to this kind of contact, lying across his lap. It allows him to control my movements, by pinning my arms behind my back. And mostly, it makes me feel about two years old, which is rather the point.

Stretching out across a wooden desk is a completely different feeling. I felt alone. I felt truly scared. The bad kind of scared. And my legs were shaking so hard I actually needed the support of that desk or I think I might have fallen. I felt completely disconnected from him until I felt him touch the top of my head.

He came around the desk to my head and made me look up at him. He reminded me that he loved me. He promised that he wouldn't hurt me more than I could handle. He promised I was safe. He touched my hair.

I tried to breathe normally and stop hyperventilating.

"Anna," he said. "I need you to pay attention to me, darling. Listen. I am giving you one stroke, only one stroke. A regular stroke. It's going to sting but it isn't going to cut you. I promise. Do you hear me?"

"Yes sir," I whispered.

Then he went back around the desk. His hands pulled my nightie up gently, slowly, and tucked it under me so it wouldn't fall back down. I felt his hand touch my bottom lightly. Then I felt him lie the cane across my bottom. My knees shook and I grasped the edge of the desk as tightly as I could.

He did three practice strokes first, lifting the cane up quickly and bringing it down quickly, stopping just short of my bottom, and then finishing by tapping it ever-so-lightly. I think he was making sure he would land the stroke in exactly the right spot, across the sit-place, but it felt like I was being tortured, waiting for him to deliver the "real" stroke.

"Anna. Anna. Anna."

I heard him say my name three times but it took until the third time before I was coherent enough to reply. I was truly getting lost in my fear.

I felt his hand on my back, focusing me, bringing me back to the room where I was safe with him and not floating alone in the fear. "Yes."

"Anna, I want you to close your eyes now and take a very deep slow breath. Don't stop breathing in until I tell you. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir."

I started the breath, slow as I could, through my nose. About four seconds into that breath, I heard the sound of the cane. I heard it before I felt it. It made a whip-crack sound and I kept breathing in even after I heard it, until a split second later when I felt it.

It's an odd thing, hearing the crack first and then not registering the pain for another moment.

I actually had time to think, I've survived, I'm alive, and keep still, before I became aware of the pain. Then, it hit. A searing hot line of fire across my bottom, right across the middle of the sit-spot, suddenly became blazingly intense and the breath I was taking turned into a gasp and then I stood up and did one of those involuntary little dances, while my hands flew back to grab my bottom (and make sure it was still there!).

After I settled down, he took me back to the bedroom. He helped me into bed, and rubbed my back and my bottom while I relaxed and prepared to sleep. Kissed my hair and told me that he loves he. He asked me if I was okay, and I told him that I was. I told him the truth, that I was more scared than I needed to be. He said he was proud of me for facing my fear and he held me tightly and kissed me and told me that it was still my decision whether or not the cane becomes part of our disciplinary repertoire or not.

So that was it. That was my first experience. It was painful, yes. But I have to admit that one cane stroke, as painful as it was, is NOT worse than a full spanking with the wooden spoon. I still don't know if I couldn't handle six strokes, though, a full caning. I'm going to think about that some more. It really wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, in actuality. But the fear was intense.

Daddy was right, though. The cane didn't cut me. There was no blood. Just one fine fiery red line. And although he took me somewhere that was very scary to me, he proved yet again that I can trust him, even when I'm afraid.