The Stories of Yvonne Sinclair
The Story Of T
The Sacred Feminine
The Weight Loss
A Caning By Miss Spiteful
Always On The Bare
A Visit To Greenwich
At My Lady's Pleasure
Ball Shackle Story
I Met Claire In A Coffee Shop
Long Weekend Conclusion
Robin's Electrical Torture
Slave To The Cane
The Escape Artist
The Huntress Caning
The Language School
The Worm's View
The Bossy Bank Women
It all starts when I summon the courage to dial Miss Spiteful’s number. The phone rings at the other end. I half hope that there will be no answer. Then the receiver is lifted and I hear her voice. All that I intended to say, and have rehearsed a hundred times, is immediately forgotten. Instead, I mumble my request to be allowed to go and see her.
“Of course you can”, Miss Spiteful will probably say, “When were you thinking of?”
A time is agreed.
“A damn good thrashing it will be for you. Says Miss Spiteful.
“Yes Mistress.” I mumble.
“And, remember, don’t dare be late.” She will add with menace.
The tension and excitement begin to build as I set out for my appointment. I tell myself that I could still phone Miss Spiteful, give some pathetic excuse and cancel the session. But I know that I won’t.
It always gives me a particular thrill to turn in at Miss Spiteful’s gate and walk up to the door. I know as my finger reaches for the bell push that my last chance to turn and flee is about to be lost. I allow myself no hesitation and press the button. My heart is thumping as I wait. I hear a noise behind the door, then it opens just sufficiently for me to enter.
“Come in Blake.”
I enter. Mistress stands hands on hips and surveys me with unbridled contempt.
“You know where to go.” She says. “And be quick about it.”
I scuttle up the stairs and into the dungeon room. I hear Mistress coming up behind me.
“Clothes off.” She demands.
I fumble and struggle to get out of my clothes. Suddenly buttons seem to snag, zips seem to be stuck and my shoelaces have gotten themselves into totally undoable knots.
“Come on! Come on,” exhorts Miss Spiteful. “I haven’t got all day.”
At last I am naked. Miss Spiteful sits on a chair placed in the middle of the floor. I know why that’s there.
“Come here and stand in front of me.” She orders.
I stand in front of her. She looks me up and down and starts to question me about my misdeeds. I can’t seem to think of any appropriate answers.
“Over you go!” She says at last, indicating that I must place myself across her lap. She kneads my conveniently exposed buttocks for a while, then with a resounding slap, her hand comes down and my punishment has begun.
Miss Spiteful spanks hard, indeed very hard at times. Her hand rises and falls rhythmically, again and again. Occasionally she will pause, knead and stroke my rapidly warming buttocks and run her hand down the crease between them and then up between my legs, forcing them apart. Then the spanking starts again, if anything, harder than before. Sometimes Mistress will reach for her hairbrush and add some painful blows with that. I would say that while the spanking is humiliating, lying there across Miss Spiteful’s lap, head hanging down and with my bottom stuck up in the air, the sensation is one of stinging and of a growing warmth, rather than of intense pain. It bears absolutely no relation to what is to follow.
At last the pounding of Miss Spiteful’s hand on my bottom stops.
“Up!” She orders.
“Over here!” Mistress commands, and I scuttle behind her as she strides purposefully across the room to stand in front of her rack of canes and beside the red leather upholstered caning bench.
“Up you go!” I clamber up into position on the bench, my head to one end my bottom invitingly presented at the other. Mistress quickly secures my wrists and ankles, all the while haranguing me with my misdeeds and telling me what a miserable specimen I am.
There is now absolutely no going back. I am securely fastened to the bench in the ideal position for Mistress to administer my punishment.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Good, for you are going to be there for a long time.”
Miss Spiteful now begins the process of selecting her cane. She takes one from the rack. She swishes it experimentally and expertly through the air. She taps it against my exposed buttocks. She raises her arm and brings it down, but only to gently, even sensuously, kiss my cheeks. Mistress may well then place that particular cane across the crook of my knees and take another from the rack and go through a similar process as with the first. She may well experiment with three or four different implements, all the while conversationally explaining to me their relative characteristics and, in her opinion, virtues and merits. At last the final selection is made. Mistress places the rejected canes back in the rack and proceeds to tap the chosen one against my buttocks, shuffling her feet, raising her arm, bringing the cane down swiftly but without power until she has found a comfortable stance and is satisfied with her aim. All of this time the tension and excitement within me has grown, until I am almost yearning for the first stroke to come. But still Miss Spiteful lets me stew. More practice strokes ensue. Some with a sharp intake of breath and a rapid raising of the cane to its striking height, only for it to come down gently to simply rest against my expectant bottom. Sometimes Mistress will probe the folds and creases of my bottom and rather worryingly exposed testicles with the tip of the cane. Again a rather pleasant and sensual experience. And then, at last, the sharp intake of breath, the cane raised on high, but this time to descend with an evil sibilance as it cuts through the air to land squarely across my waiting cheeks with the unmistakable thwack as it meets my flesh.
The pain is incredible. It rushes screaming down the pathways of my nervous system to explode in my brain. It leaves me feeling nauseous and gasping for breath. If it is the first stroke Mistress has ever bestowed upon you, it is worse than you could ever have imagined. If you have been there before, as have I, it is much worse than you ever remembered.
Miss Spiteful is the absolute expert with the cane. She canes at a measured and leisurely pace. It gives enough time for the pain and throb of each stroke to subside, thus making each one a separate and unique experience.
As I lie there panting, recovering from the first stroke, I am confronted by the realisation that even if Mistress is in her most benign of moods, here are at least thirty-five more to come, for thirty-six strokes is her minimum quota. However, failure to thank Mistress quickly enough for each stroke after it is delivered, or failure to satisfactorily answer one of the many questions that will be fired at you between strokes, can so easily lead to additional strokes being awarded, in multiples of six..
Mistress now goes through her practice and aiming ritual again, with the gentle tap tapping of her cane against my bottom making me jump in false expectancy. Then the second stroke lands. Because I now know what to expect, it is worse than the first. I feel like crying out for mercy, but I know that it will be to no avail. However much I plead and entreaty, the strokes will continue to land and I have no choice but to accept my punishment and endure. As Mistress has told me, I know that I deserve all she is kind enough to give me.
After about the fifth or sixth stroke I am convinced that I will not be able to take any more. But still they come and still the pain of each one is as immense as that of its predecessors. Somewhere around the tenth or twelfth stroke however, a strange phenomenon occurs. My brain and body adopt a form of acceptance. The first stroke is now too far in the past while the last too far in the future to be of any consequence. My world now only consists of Mistress, her voice and her cane. I live for each stroke, the practice ones, the gradual building of the tension to an almost unbearable level, to such a point that the intake of breath, the hiss of the cane through the air the sound of it contacting with my flesh and the inevitable pain come as a welcome relief.
Inevitably, the final allotted stroke approaches. As I call out my gratitude to Mistress together with the count of the number of strokes I have received, I anticipate its arrival with a strange mixture of relief and regret. Also oddly ambivalent is my reaction if I am told that Mistress has decided to award me six or twelve more strokes, for often no other reason than because she feels like it. Although my poor bottom is throbbing and burning terribly from Mistresses administrations, I feel only genuine love for Mistress and gratitude for the punishment I have already received and for any additional strokes awarded.
After maybe some additional humiliations and more verbal haranguing, Mistress finally allows me to dress and go. As I make my way painfully home, I resolve that this was definitely the last time. From now on I will behave myself so that I will not need to make that phone call and ask Miss Spiteful to take me to task. That resolution usually last no longer than it takes the marks on my bottom to fade.