[This blog post has been written twice. The first draft got eaten by TypePad (boo!). I thought maybe this was a sign that this story wasn't meant to be shared, but Zille and Paul convinced me that if I didn't share the story here, pictures of my bottom and its cane marks could end up on Twitter. Since the last thing I want to do is show my bottom to the world for being caned for not going to the gym enough, and thus prove why I need to go to the gym more often, I'm busy re-typing this on the bus.]
As those of you who read here and / or Spanking Blog know, I've asked Paul to help me make better use of my gym membership by giving me 49 strokes of the cane, that's one for every dollar my membership costs, any week I don't make it to the gym at least three times. Paul gets to pick everything about the caning except the number of strokes. He can choose the cane he wants, what I wear and what position I'm caned in. This week I only went to the gym once. My reckoning was last night (Sunday).
Now I wasn't entirely sure I would really get caned for missing the gym this week. I had some very good excuses. First, my gym isn't air conditioned and last week it was very hot several days. So I didn't go to the gym for fear of getting over-heated. Then my mother showed up with all her loveliness and drama. I spent one whole day running errands with her. So I didn't go to the gym that day either. Saturday was taken up with a family party. I couldn't go to the gym Saturday. And Sunday I had to go out to brunch with a friend of my parents. And then I had to come home and get my writing sample ready. I couldn't go to the gym on Sunday. Suddenly all the days were gone and a week had past with only one gym trip. But of course Paul would understand.
He understood and even agreed I had very good reasons for not having gone to the gym. But that didn't matter. I hadn't gone and I'd asked him to punish me, to cane me, if I didn't go. I think if he had made the rule, he might have let me off this week. Maybe not. But because I asked for this and didn't say "except for weeks when it's really hot or I'm really busy" he followed through. And that's right. My gym opens at 5:30 AM and is open until 11:00 PM. We make time for things that are important and getting good use out of my gym membership and spending some time on my body is important. Truth be told, for all that my excuses are good, I could have gone.
Paul let me know yesterday afternoon that I was going to be caned. I struggled a bit with the knowledge. I was in the midst of wrestling with the text of my writing sample and couldn't quite make room in my head for the idea of being caned. So I buried myself in my work and didn't think about it. Even as evening progressed (with me still working away) I was in denial. You see, not only is my dad with us this week, my mom is here as well. They sleep in the bedroom next to ours. And unlike my dad, my mom is a light sleeper.
When I came out of the bathroom after doing all those evening things, the nursery cane was at the end of the bed. He was going to go through with it.
I thought about calling safeword on the caning. I mean, my mom.
But the thing is, part of me didn't want to. I want to be held accountable. I asked for this. So I cowardly tried to slide into bed with the vague hope that if I fell asleep fast (all that writing and editing had made me tired) Paul wouldn't cane me. After all, he's always trying to get me to sleep. He sternly told me not to get into bed.
So I took a deep breath and stood next to the bed, after closing the door, and, rather sadly, pushing my bed stool up against it. I hoped that like last week, this week he'd be using the cane over the knee (thats' what the nursery cane, which is short and thin, is made for). Sure enough, he sat down on the bed and had me pull down my pjs. I took them down and climbed over his lap. He spent a good amount of time adjusting my position, turning the top of my body closer to the head of the bed and my bottom further down his leg. What he was doing wasn't clear to me until the first stroke landed.
He was giving himself more room to swing so the tip of the cane would land harder.
The first stroke landed like a cut. The thing is, the nursery cane is very very thin and really really stings. That was true last week, but from the start it was clear this caning was a lot harder than the one the week before before. But, my brain cried, as I considered screaming, my parents are in the next room. So I pulled my hands forward (my arms had been folded behind my back) and started counting off the strokes on my right fingers, one at a time, while on my left I kept track in groups of twelve.
The thing about the thin cane is that it really stings. When Paul used it on me it felt more like a switch than a cane. By the time he reached twelve I could feel the tip marks crossing. The sting was terrible and I fought with myself to lie still. Paul will probably say I wasn't still, but I'm sure I mostly was. As I counted each one off it seemed an impossible number was left. When he reached twenty-four I started to panic and tears welled up in my eyes. I tried to keep my breathing slow and even because I knew if I started crying I might make noise. And making noise, being heard by my parents seemed much worse than even the hurt the cane was doing.
Strange as it may seem, at thirty-six I felt a sense of relief because it meant there were only twelve left. However much they might hurt, I could get through twelve more. Paul sped up and the strokes landed harder still and faster, making me gasp into the sheets. My feet fluttered as I tried hard not to kick. After quite a build-up of pain, it ended in a rush — an almost "is that all there is?" moment. Then the burn started to soak in.
Paul kept me over his lap as he rubbed some LUSH dream cream into my bottom. It stings, but in a soothing sort of way. It hurt enough that I teared a bit as we snuggled close but I expected all signs to be gone by morning. This is so not the case. Almost 24 hours later and I'm still sitting tenderly, the right side of my bottom is still hot to the touch. Yes, this is me pouting a bit.
But not too much. I did, after all, ask for this. And I'm sure this week I will make it to the gym at least three times. Why am I sure? First because I want to. Second because my bottom really hurts. And third, my parents will not be here next weekend. Paul has let it be known that should he have to cane me next week, I won't be getting off with the nursery cane.
I'm going to be such a good girl. No, really.