Nov 052013



It’s always a special treat for me when one of my favorite authors, UK Laureate, finds time in his hectic schedule to write and share his excellent spanking stories, prose, and poetry, and this time is no exception. 

‘The Ballad Of Emmeline Spankhurt’ is whimsical, which means that, naturally, I love it…and think you will, too.

–  Dana



The Ballad of Emmeline Spankhurt

This tale I’ll tell from years gone by, the early twentieth century,

In England’s land when males ruled and women were in drudgery,

Their lives bowed down with servitude, their status second-class,

Ambition low, they struggled on to earn a little brass.

But not all women were so meek, and change was in the offing;

Led by Emmeline Pankhurst there’d be no more cap doffing.

“Votes for women” was her cry, “No more we’ll be downtrodden,

We want a world where women have a role that’s strong and modern.”

Her call inspired much ire from those who liked the status quo,

But not so one young woman who was filled with bravado.

‘I’m going to change my life,’ she thought, ‘I want a better deal,

The world will be a better place if men are brought to heel.’

‘In honour of my heroine I’ll take her very name

But change the letters slightly ’cos it cannot be the same;

With s at one instead of eight to show my life intention

And make it clear that for my sex there is a new dimension!’

And so was born Miss Spankhurt, Edwardian disciplinarian.

Her aim was power over men, domestic not parliamentarian;

“With whips not votes” she emphasized “we’ll get emancipation –

The weaker sex will be no more, instead its domination!”

Now her husband was a man of means who owned the local mill;

To honour and obey she’d pledged, in church she’d said “I will”,

But now her will was different, ’twas time to turn the table,

No more would she bow down to him, his rule she’d disenable.

Next day she told him of her plans, no more she’d be subservient,

“From here on in what I say goes, to me you’ll be obedient.”

Her tone was firm, her manner stern, she left him in no doubt

That sins would mean her sexual charms he’d have to do without!

“What’s more,” she said, “I’ll punish you as though you were a child;

Across my knee you’ll swiftly go for spankings hard and wild.

And have no thought from shame and pain your feelings will be spared –

Oh yes indeed, I’ll tan your hide, your bottom duly bared.”

These words he heard with disbelief and not a little shock;

Could this be true or was it all just female poppycock?

He thought it best to humour her and let her notions fade,

And still be there as helpmate and his lover, cook and maid.

Was e’er a man so foolish, his judgement flawed and dated?

Within a week he found himself confronted and berated;

No longer meek and mild she soon hauled him ’cross her knee

And spanked him hard repeatedly, in line with her decree.

But even so he didn’t learn and made mistakes again;

Her punishments she strengthened with the use of birch and cane,

And over time he came to see that she was now the boss –

His actions he amended to avoid her getting cross.

Miss Spankhurt had a friend so dear, whose husband was uncouth,

A scoundrel he, philanderer, who rarely told the truth;

In league the women pondered, a plan him to repay –

A trap they set, temptation, with the promise of horseplay!

Oh what a shock this dastard had, ’twas not what he imagined;

Instead of hanky-panky he was spanked and disciplined.

The horseplay he encountered was designed to give him gyp,

His backside lashed repeatedly with crop and dressage whip.

This tale now moves on two years, our heroine’s fame had spread;

The suffragettes all cheered the way she turned men’s bottoms red.

No longer did she work for free, her fee was guineas three,

Presented to her graciously while down on bended knee.

From all across the land they came, all men with habits naughty –

Both Lords and men of humble birth, some young but most past forty –

To Emmeline it mattered not, she spanked them with vitality;

They left so sore, a recompense for all their life’s rascality.

In keeping with her assumed name she made the spankings hurt;

Not just her hand but whips she used, sjambok, chabouk and quirt.

In all her work she took delight, a smile upon her face;

It pleased her having full control, exposing men’s disgrace.

’Tis said with cane she was severe, and also with the birch;

Her clients spoke of angry welts – or so says my research.

Dear friends, I ask you honestly, can you believe it’s true

That men should seek such discipline and punishment pursue?

Indeed they did, and still today we seek out those who please,

A woman strong and feisty with a whip in her valise.

How good it is we know of one whose name befits her trade –

Ms Dana Kane we love you, please don’t let our spank-marks fade!

Jun 072012

Another fine original spanking story from one of our favorite writers (and past story writing contest winner), UK Laureate – enjoy this well-spun tale, titled ‘Mother-in-law’s Visit’.   – Dana


Mother-in-law’s visit

We’d been married a little under a year, long enough, sadly, for the initial euphoria to wear off. In truth the last few months had been tough. Rachel had become moody and withdrawn. I had a strong feeling that it was me who was upsetting her. It was clear she didn’t like my weekly night out with the boys even though this had been part of my routine both before and since I knew her. I’d also picked up a few comments about not pulling my weight around the house. So when she told me that her mother was coming to stay I had mixed feelings. On the one hand Sylvia, Mrs Johnson, was not my favourite person; on the other, it occurred to me that perhaps having her mother around and chatting to her might help Rachel cheer up and realise that it was she, not me, who was being a tad unreasonable.

On the day Mrs Johnson was due to arrive I was the butt of considerable humour from the guys at work, who, whilst sympathetic, also took great delight in reminding me of the reality of the situation. A lot of mother-in-law jokes – not exactly original but amusing nonetheless – were rolled out and that lightened my mood as I made my way home.

“Hello, Stephen,” Sylvia said somewhat coldly and in her usual formal manner. Everybody else knew me as Steve but Mrs Johnson insisted on using the name as written on my birth certificate. It had always been the case, but even so, I sensed that her manner was especially terse. Perhaps she was equally unenthusiastic about seeing me as I was to see her. However, we managed to get through dinner and the rest of the evening making uninspiring but polite small-talk.

“How was the old dragon?” my mate Tony asked me when I got to work the next day. “Didn’t eat you alive, then” he smirked. “Never mind, mate, there’s time yet for her to sort you out. She’s staying three more days yet isn’t she?”

Tony knew perfectly well how long she was staying, as I’d repeatedly bemoaned the fact of a four day visit, but he took great delight in reminding me of the fact. I didn’t realise at the time just how prophetic his words about her ‘sorting me out’ would prove to be.

That evening when I arrived home Rachel and her mother were sitting side by side on the sofa. Mrs Johnson had an especially sour look on her face and Rachel was distinctly cool. Immediately I sensed from the atmosphere that something had occurred between them. 

“I hope you two have had a nice day,” I said as cheerily as I could muster in an attempt to lighten the darkness. “What have you been up to?”

“We’ve been talking, Stephen,” Mrs Johnson replied crisply, “and I have to say I haven’t much liked what Rachel has been telling me. I’ll readily admit that I’ve always had doubts about you and whether you were a suitable husband for my daughter, and what I’ve heard today has confirmed my worst suspicions. It is clear you are an immature young man who has not begun to appreciate the responsibilities and behaviour conducive to being a good husband. Furthermore, it is clear from your selfish behaviour that you are entirely lacking in self-discipline, which I regard as highly reprehensible.”

“What?” I uttered in amazement as she paused for breath. “What’s all that about? That was quite a tirade. It’s also one-sided and unfair. There’s two sides to every story, you know.”

“How dare you answer me back,” Mrs Johnson snapped angrily. “The impertinence of that outburst simply proves how right I am. For your information, Stephen, I have heard Rachel’s side of the story and that’s quite sufficient for me. There is no reason to doubt what she has said. I’m telling you now, young man, that I will not stand by and let your self-centred and neglectful behaviour continue any longer. Rachel has had enough of it, and so have I.”

I looked at Rachel, who had sat silently during her mother’s tirade. “Come on, sweetheart, I know I’m not perfect, but you don’t believe what your mother has said, do you?”

“Actually, I’m afraid I do, Steve. I had high hopes for our marriage but the past year has been a big disappointment. I’ve tried to tell you but you haven’t seemed able to listen or understand. That’s why I needed to have a real heart-to-heart with my mother today. The fact is I simply can’t go on as we are.”

To say that her words were a disappointment to me would be an understatement. Although I knew she was unhappy, I hadn’t realised her disappointment in me had reached this level. “I’m really sorry you feel that way. I promise I’ll do better in future,” I ventured. “Now, what’s for dinner?”

There was a pregnant silence as the two women exchanged a knowing look.

“Dinner can wait, Steve,” said Rachel. “Mother has something more to say to you.”

“Indeed I have,” Mrs Johnson said firmly. “I’m not impressed by your casual promise to do better in future. In my experience these matters are not that simple. As I said before, it is clear that you are immature and lack the self-discipline required. When that is the case discipline has to be imposed by someone else – in this case, me. I know only too well from bringing up three children that when a boy – and essentially that is what you still are – misbehaves, the required course of action is that he receives a very sound spanking to make him realise the error of his ways and help pull him back in line.
Rachel and I have agreed that such a course of action is entirely appropriate for you. Get your pants down. I’m going to put you across my knee right here and now.”

“What!” I exclaimed in total amazement. “This is some kind of joke, isn’t it? Not exactly a funny one, but OK, you’ve both made your point. C’mon, Rachel, you and I can talk about this later.”

“Yes, we will talk about it later,” Rachel replied quietly, “but what mother said is not a joke, and I’m quite certain you will find you have nothing to laugh at. Do as mother says.”

I stood, gob-smacked, for several seconds, looking at Rachel and her mother. “Hurry up, Stephen,” Mrs Johnson rapped, “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

My mind now was becoming frozen with confusion. I could hardly believe it but it did seem as though both Rachel and her mother were deadly serious, that they had agreed that I should be spanked by my mother-in-law as though I were a naughty child. But the fact was, even as a child, I had never had a spanking. I knew of it happening to other kids, but it was not something my parents believed in. Now here I was, a grown man, facing the prospect of a bottom-warmer. It all seemed quite surreal.

“On second thoughts,” said Mrs Johnson, interrupting my wandering brain, “we won’t just have your pants down, we’ll have you stripped off entirely. Come along, get undressed.”

At last it dawned on me that there was no escape. The stern look on both women’s faces and the authoritarian tone of Mrs Johnson’s voice made it clear that my only choice was to submit to their wishes. Nervously, tentatively, I undid my belt and slowly removed my clothes until I was standing naked in front of them, feeling stupid and humiliated.

“That’s better,” said Mrs Johnson, “now, over my knee.” Before I had time to resist she grabbed my manhood roughly and pulled me towards her.

Helpless and shocked I arranged myself across her lap somewhat ungracefully.  Actually, while my body was draped across Mrs Johnson, my head was in Rachel’s lap, and I felt her put her hands on my head, holding it down firmly.

There was a moment’s pause and then… slap! I felt Mrs Johnson’s hand land sharply on my butt. But barely had I time to register the fact when another meaty smack landed. Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! The blows continued to rain down in quick succession.

The first few were not too bad, though it was clear Mrs Johnson had a hard hand and, as she had admitted earlier, was well practised in spanking boys’ backsides. Mostly the blows alternated, first the right cheek, then the left, but on other occasions she concentrated on walloping the same spot several times over, which caused the pain to rise more quickly.

She continued to smack briskly and as she continued it seemed as though the blows were landing with greater power. I could feel the heat in my butt and the smacks were becoming ever more painful. I had long lost count of how many she had given, concentrating solely on dealing with the pain. Every now and then she paused for a while and I thought she was finished, only for her to begin again with renewed gusto.

How long this went on I have no idea. Time seemed irrelevant. I was conscious only of my vulnerability as I lay with my wife holding my head while her mother walloped my bottom. In many ways it still felt surreal, but the increasing pain in my backside made it only too real!

Finally the spanking ended, and I heard Mrs Johnson telling me to get up. In a semi-daze I stumbled to my feet, covering my nakedness with one hand while using the other to rub my butt.

“Hands on your head,” Mrs Johnson bellowed. “If you rub your bottom any more I shall have you back over my knee for a second dose.”

By now my will to do anything other than she commanded had entirely gone, and without further thought I obeyed her instruction.

Then it was Rachel issuing the instructions. “Go and stand in the corner, Steve, where you will stay for the next half-hour or so while I get dinner. And keep your hands on your head. Mother will be staying in the room to make sure that you do. You can use the time to think about the error of your ways and what you need to do to save our marriage.”

During the rest of the evening nothing more was said about my behaviour. Rachel was still a bit cool, in a reserved sort of way, but somehow she seemed more confident and assured. When we went to bed, the first time we had had on our own, I tried speaking about the earlier events but she said it was too soon to discuss matters, put the light out and turned away from me.

Needless to say, when the mother-in-law comments and jokes were made at work the next day, I tried to ignore them as much as I could. It was just as well my mates didn’t know the truth – and I certainly wasn’t going to tell them! The shock of what had happened was still very much with me, and I couldn’t help wondering how things would pan out during the remainder of Mrs Johnson’s visit, and beyond.

In the event the evenings of days three and four passed fairly normally. Rachel was definitely more cheerful and even her mother’s demeanour and attitude towards me was somewhat lighter. I breathed a sigh of relief as I went to bed on day four, knowing that Mrs Johnson was returning home the next morning. Then another surprise happened.

Rachel waited until I had undressed, then told me that her mother wanted a word and disappeared out of the room. Next moment, in walked Mrs Johnson. To my amazement she was wearing a black cami-basque with suspenders and stockings. Not only had I never seen her in such attire, of course, but also it was suddenly apparent that she was – or could be – a highly attractive woman! The confusion caused by this revelation was quickly increased as I noticed she was carrying a hairbrush and two small paddles.

It seemed she had noticed the look of appreciation on my face at her attire. “Don’t get any silly ideas, Stephen,” she said firmly, “I’m certainly not here for a romantic assignation. Perish the very thought! No, what I am here for is to give you another spanking. As you know I’m going home tomorrow, and I want to be sure that my message about changing your ways has been thoroughly comprehended – though of course I can always return if that proves not to be the case. For more severe spankings I have always found the hairbrush and paddle to be rather effective, so it occurred to me I should give you a foretaste of what is in store if it should be necessary for me to visit you again for further instruction. I want you to kneel on the bed on all fours.” She placed the two paddles on the bedside cupboard, keeping hold of the hairbrush.

The experience of earlier in the week had taught me it was pointless to argue. Meekly I positioned myself as instructed. Standing at the side of the bed she proceeded to pummel my backside, counting aloud as she did so. Thirty-six was reached in double-quick, but very painful, time. 

Glancing to the side I saw her put down the hairbrush and pick up the small wooden paddle. Without further ado or any words being spoken, another thirty-six swats landed on my increasingly sore butt. By halfway through I was unable to absorb the pain without uttering grunts and some louder ‘aaghs’ and it was a huge relief when the allotted number was complete. But I was pretty certain that the third implement, a larger leather paddle, had not been brought simply for show – and I was not wrong. She picked it up and walked to the other side of the bed. Turning my head I watched as she knelt on the bed beside me.

“That’s better, I think I can spank a bit harder this way round. And this time you will count aloud. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mrs Johnson, quite clear,” I found myself saying.

Thwack! Her words about swatting harder had been no understatement. The force of the stroke and the intense pain it produced took me quite by surprise and I emitted a loud yell. In the shock of the moment I quite forgot what she had said about counting aloud.

She waited a few seconds before speaking. “Very well, since you cannot obey simple instructions, I shall start again. And be warned, every time you forget, I will begin again from the start.

Thwack! Another vicious swat landed, equally as painful as the first, but this time I was more ready for it. “One”, I said loudly.

Thwack! “Two”. Thwack! “Three”. Thwack! “Four”.

Despite what she thought of my behaviour, I’m not stupid and I can count to ten and beyond without any trouble. Or so I thought. When number ten landed on what I’m sure was the exactly same spot as numbers eight and nine, the pain was acute and I cried out, conscious only of how much my butt was hurting. Several seconds went by as I tried to deal with the pain.

“Very well, I did warn you. We shall have to begin again.”

Oh no! As soon as she spoke I realised my mistake. “I’m sorry,” I spluttered, “that one hurt so much I forgot.”

“No excuses,” she said curtly. “Nine to be repeated. You will begin counting again after number ten.”

It was soon apparent why I was not required to count the nine again – there was no time. Whereas previously the swats had been measured, with a few seconds gap between each, this time they rained down like machine-gun fire. How I stayed in position I don’t quite know – the pain was excruciating. A brief and welcome pause indicated that the punishment for my forgetfulness had been completed. Nonetheless, I was very conscious that there were still many more swats to come.

And come they did, every one as hard as before, every one increasing the burning pain in my now very tender bottom. Somehow I remembered to announce the appropriate number, though I must admit that many were uttered in a voice that also expressed the extreme discomfort I was feeling.

“I think you may feel it worth avoiding the requirement for me to come and stay again, don’t you, Stephen,” Mrs Johnson enquired after the final swat.

“Yes, Mrs Johnson,” I replied. For once she and I were in total agreement.

I was feeling distinctly contrite when Rachel came back to the room. She grimaced as she saw the state of my backside. “Wow,” she said, “I could hear from the next room that you were getting one of mother’s extra special wallopings but that is some colour. I think perhaps I should rub some cold cream on it.”

I was grateful, if slightly surprised, for her sympathy and practical remedy. And when she had finished we had the best cuddle I had known for many months. The warmth of her affection matched the warmth in my butt. 

“From now on we begin again,” she said softly. “Let’s make sure I don’t have to ask mother to come and stay again.”

UKL – 2012

This story was inspired by these photos I found on the net (

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Apr 042012
A prize spanking from Dana

I’m writing this post as a tribute and thanks to Dana following my session with her during her visit to London, and to share my experience with the readers and followers of her wonderful blog.

For the record, I discovered Dana’s blog last May and immediately sensed that I’d discovered someone special. Just how special I quickly learnt as she sent a lovely reply to my message, and invited me to send in some writings. I began entering her contests and she was kind enough to publish various stories & poems. Over the months, reading her blog and watching her videos it felt as though I was really getting to know her – her humour, generosity and genuineness just shone through. When I spoke to her by phone the day before she left for London – the first time we had spoken – she said to me that she felt she knew me already through our correspondence, echoing my own feelings. She also said she was looking forward to flipping me over her knee! The day arrived, and I set off for my appointment, both excited and a tad nervous about meeting her for real. Readers, as some of you will know already, she is even more wonderful in person.

Her kindness in awarding me the prize for my entry to her Bedtime Story contest, which finished with that play on words about Bear bottom spankings, left me in no doubt about what to expect. What an exquisite spanker she is! Not only do her smacks range from gentle to extremely hard, she covered every inch, nay, every centimetre, of my bottom with her hand. You know that advert, “reaches the parts other beers cannot reach”? Well, Dana is the spanker who reaches parts of the bottom other spankers cannot (or do not) reach! Of course all the time she was commenting, making the cute remarks that are her unique trademark, and the hands that spank were also used so skilfully to stroke, massage, soothe and tease – until she was ready to increase the heat again.

As thanks for her generosity, three of the items I gave her were a riding crop from Harrods, a Loopy Johnny from London Tanners, and a leather finger ruler from Quality Control. For US readers, Harrods is a large store in an upmarket area of London, somewhat akin to Bloomingdales in New York. I thought something from there was a suitable momento of London. I’d read some time back of her liking for London Tanners products – and for her visit to London I guess that was appropriate too!. Of course I knew that giving such gifts was dangerous, in that she’d want to try them out immediately – and that Loopy Johnny looked an evil beast! I was not wrong, on either count. The items were soon put to use on my backside, already delightfully sore from the spanking, and by the time the ruler, crop and LJ had done their work I was positively glowing. She also treated me to some swats with a small rattan rug-beater and a similar Delrin version from Cane-iac; if you’ve not felt the latter, take it from me, it’s fierce, and leaves its mark!

However, the session was not finished. In my stories and writings I’ve not made secret of the fact that the rattan cane is my particular fetish. In many ways it is the quintessential English cp instrument, so when in London …. Dana did not disappoint. She had a selection of canes with her and soon demonstrated her outstanding prowess in using them. First she used a two-rod spray-cane “for a gentle warm-up”, followed by a further warm up with a thin-ish whippy rattan. Our playtime finished with me bending over to receive a stouter rod. She acknowledged that we English were raised on “six of the best” but insisted that US people work only on the decimal system, so it was 10 strokes, spaced at varying intervals. Dana surprised and delighted me by delivering numbers 4, 5 & 6 in rapid succession, machine-gun style, something that always takes me to a higher plane. Then the final four, delivered full-force but with ample time to recover between each stroke. The ‘end result’ can be viewed below. 

Afterwards we talked a bit more until it was time for me to depart. Time goes so quickly when you’re having fun, and who could fail to have fun in Dana’s company? She told me it would amuse her to think of my sore bottom sitting on the train seat. In truth, the padded seats of the London Underground trains were quite comfortable but in central London I stopped to rest on a concrete bench-seat and definitely sat down too quickly – acute awareness of my rear-end came sharply to mind! And for the rest of the day, and beyond, I enjoyed that wonderful warm glow and the endorphin-induced high that only we spankophiles are privileged to know. It’s three days later now, I can still feel the after-effects of Dana’s hand and toys, and I still haven’t come fully down to earth.

I’m not a great lover of ‘management-speak’ but the phrase ‘win-win situation’ is just so apt for my spanking prize. I was treated to the warmest of welcomes and friendly conversation, my bottom was treated to Dana’s amazing skills, and my pleasure was all the greater because it was clear from her words and actions that Dana too was enjoying herself. That is the essence of a perfect play-session. To cap it all, this most wonderful lady also told me that she is hoping to come back to London later in the year, just as I have hopes of making it to Vegas at some future date. The thought that we can do it all again is music to my brain. Meanwhile, this chair is quite hard and I think I’ve been sitting on it a bit too long …..!

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Feb 232012

More fantastic writing from our very own UK Laureate: ‘Twelve Strokes of the Cane’. (I absolutely adore this boy’s imagination.)

For more from UKL click HERE.


Twelve Strokes of the Cane

One of the things I remember from my childhood was listening to the speaking clock. For non-UK people or perhaps younger people who are not aware of it, the speaking clock was, and is, a telephone service that gives out the time, accurate to within five thousandth of a second. It was started in 1936 and is still operational today, receiving over 30 million calls every year.
Its message was “At the third stroke it will be (e.g.) 10.07 and 50 seconds..bip..bip..bip… At the third stroke it will be 10.08 precisely.. bip…bip…bip” – and so on. 
That recorded phone message is the inspiration for this disciplinary rhyme.

At the first stroke
It will be difficult not to flinch as you feel that first line of fire …
At the second stroke
It will be evident the rod has landed an inch or so higher …
At the third stroke
It will be hard to keep position as you feel the growing pain …
At the fourth stroke
It will be clear she’s quite an expert in applying the school cane …
At the fifth stroke
It will be a test of your resolve to know there’s another seven more …
At the sixth stroke
It will only be half-time and already your bottom’s very sore …
At the seventh stroke
It will be tempting to yell loudly and emit an anguished “0w” …
At the eighth stroke
It will be clear she’s whipping harder but you bear the sting somehow …
At the ninth stroke
It will be scary as you sense her mood is getting more severe …
At the tenth stroke
It will be sure you’ll know those weals will take two weeks to disappear …
At the eleventh stroke
It will be impressed on you that for your crimes this is the price you’ll pay …
At the twelfth stroke
It will be time to put away that cane until another day.

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Feb 042012


Our UK Laureate has perfected the art of spanking verse, as evidenced here, once again, in ‘In Awe of the Cane’. Please take a moment to comment (or Love it) in appreciation for his talent and willingness to share it with us – without he and the other wonderful contributing authors, this blog would be much less colorful.    
 –  Dana


In Awe of the Cane

The slipper, hand and hairbrush are all good
For spanking bums when perched across the knee;
There’s leather whips and paddles made of wood,
But, best of all, the cane if you ask me.
The strap and crop can both be used with pride, 
And tawses too and birches that I’ve seen:
There’s instruments galore to tan our hide
But o’er them all the rattan cane’s the Queen.

That golden rod, a slender pliant wand,
It thrills my mind and makes my pulses race;
It may sound strange to say of it I’m fond
When, put to use, there’s anguish on my face.
But yet this fact I gladly here confess:
The rattan’s a magnet that just draws me in;
Its strokes may tease when given with finesse,
Or cause great hurt when used to punish sin.

It waits in the closet, hung on a hook,
Silent and brooding, an ominous tool;
Sharp and severe, be it straight or with crook,
Ideal equipment for women who rule.
In their hands that cane provides the best means
For ultimate pain and pleasure combined.
I oh so adore those correction scenes
Where both top and bottom fulfilment find.

I watch as she bends the cane to an arc, 
Stressing its menace now right at the start;
I know that rod will quite soon make its mark,
My body the canvas for inventive art.
Red is her colour, I know that for sure –
She paints lines and stripes with consummate skill;
Each stroke of the brush brings pain to endure
While holding my breath and (just) keeping still.

In flight the cane makes a high piercing whine –
With loud hissing swish it cuts through the air;
Whose bottom now will feel its effect? Mine!
And yes, of course, without a doubt, it’s bare;
That way I’ll feel its penetrating sting
That courses through my body like a storm
And takes me to heights, my mind on the wing,
Away from the humdrum, far from the norm.

She starts with aplomb, a salvo of strokes
That hurt my backside and startle my brain;
“A nice gentle start,” with laughter she jokes,
Then whips down that cane again and again.
The next strokes come now, all spread down my thighs,
And then she lands one right over the crease –
Ouch! That accurate swipe caught me by surprise,
Plumb on the sweet-spot – oh stinging, please cease!

But there is no pause, no time to reflect,
She’s now on a roll, in tune with my need,
Another stroke lands, I feel the effect
As it bites on my flesh with light’ning speed.
Four dozen the tariff initially set,
Her mind was made up my backside to burn,
A caning harsh I know I won’t forget
But savour in ways I can’t yet discern.

The final six strokes, the hardest of all,
Are given quite slowly, fuelling the fire
That burns so harshly but holds me in thrall –
A cryptic mélange of hate and desire.
My body recoils, an uncontrolled writhe,
A gasp of distress, a shout of acclaim;
That sensuous stem, so springy and lithe,
Takes me yet higher, my senses aflame.

She too is astir, she tells me she feels
Excitement and pleasure, seeing my pain;
Gently she touches those fiery weals
She’s made with such care – she too loves the cane;
The kiss of the rod is her special gift,
An offering of pain to scare and delight,
Delivered with strokes both measured and swift
To tease and torment and passion ignite.

I’m in awe of the cane, its power and grace,
Its curvaceous beauty, mystique and sound, 
Distinctive tramlines, its stinging embrace,
All serve to produce a penchant profound.
To some that is strange, to others it’s clear,
For they too have kinks for which they give thanks;
Whatever our bent, we all can hold dear
Discipline given with beatings and spanks.


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