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[Posted to soc.sexuality.spanking,
13 July 1999]
Sound Sunday Thrashing
by Mija [& Pablo too]
This summer is different from
any I've had in my entire life. Better too, despite it being
without any sunshine. I'm spending it with Paul in his part
of the world - 6000 miles away from everything I've ever known.
I've been in Britain since late May and after going 'on holiday'
in London, Oxford and the North-East, Paul and I have settled
into a life together that could be permanent if I didn't need
to go back next month. :(
[Stop Press: We've had some sunshine! Actually,
we've had quite a bit, though it's come with the humid stickiness
that the British climate often uses to spoil the otherwise nicest
It's been wonderful to have Mija here for
so many reasons - apart, that is, from the obvious one. We've
spent some time at all of the places I've lived, and seeing
them through someone else's eyes - someone whose opinions and
feelings matter a whole lot to me, even if I don't necessarily
expect (or want) her to like what she sees - is very
rewarding. I've found myself remembering all the things I love
so much about my odd little country.]
Part of our coming together has been the establishing
of rituals. Some of them are simple, maybe even commonplace.
Those of you who've endured long-distance romances know the
joy that simply being there to greet your beloved (or having
them there to greet you) at the end of a day can create. My
life seems full of continual surges of joy.
[I'm someone who has spent pretty much all
his adult life living alone, which has had the effect of making
me somewhat self-indulgent about my time and my habits. I don't
give time and energy to other people easily. Yet living with
Mija feels very natural and simple - despite the trail of used
tissues she leaves behind. I won't go so far as to say that
I'm Felix to her Oscar, but we tend in that direction. <smiles
And lots of spankings.
I do mean lots too. Like everyday, more than
once a day. Spanking and smacks and pats. Hard and soft. And
I mostly love it.
[What can I say. Mija is impossible to resist,
and I agree with Wilde about temptation.]
But Sundays are different from other days.
You see, a long time ago when we first started talking about
actually living together, Paul decided I needed at least one
sound thrashing a week. Not for being naughty, or as a punishment
of some sort. Specifically because I'd been good, to keep me
being so. (And I have been really good too, believe
it or not!). It was, like the high stiff collar shirt and tie
I wear with my uniform, part of being disciplined.
[A couple of words about negotiating play:
mostly, Mija and I don't do a whole lot of talking and negotiating
beforehand about play and stuff. At least, it feels that way.
And mostly I prefer it that way. I'd rather launch into something,
extemporise like crazy (with clear safewords, natch), and then
talk through afterwards what worked and didn't work, and learn
for next time. The (perhaps) increased chances of the play not
working seem to me to be outweighed by the potential for surprise
and spontaneity. (Also, my bottoming side knows that, while
I want things to be a certain way, I want them to be that way
because someone else decided they'd be that way.)
But of course, what we do doesn't come from
the ether. It comes from more general talk about what we like
and dislike, what we'd like to try (even if it might be scary),
what we've read in stories, and all sorts of asides. Feels to
me like being a good play partner (or a partner of any
sort, for that matter) is mostly about listening.
And Mija always tells me a great deal about
what she wants - sometimes quite consciously, sometimes not.
And sometimes in a way that <watching Mija wrinkle her nose
as she reads this> isn't quite so unconscious as it might
seem. She might not be a top, but she tops from the bottom to
an Olympic standard.
And I say all of this to highlight the multi-layered
nature of an apparently straightforward phrase like 'Paul decided...'
So anyway, about the thrashing. There've been
a lot of them <blush>, but we'll focus on this past week.
Those of you who know him from the group probably have the impression
of Paul as being thorough. That would be a good way to describe
my thrashings in one word. But of course I'm writing this so
there's like 2000 more. ;)
First there's the implements. I have no idea
what the people at British customs are doing, but obviously
they don't have a problem with boxes labelled 'canes and tawse'
coming in from Adam and Gillian (hee! though I bet they gave
Paul's housemate something to think about!) Anyway, for those
of you who don't already know, Adam and Gillian make serious
toys that really hurt. They're always beautifully crafted
and unbelievably, air-suckingly painful - at least the hairbrush
paddle Paul had bought before he visited me last Christmas was.
So my heart thudded when I saw the new box.
[Sheesh. I'm all for truth in advertising,
but A&G put 'Toy' on the package containing the hairbrush
paddle. Yet they felt the need to spell it out this time. Though
at least customs didn't open the parcel to check it this time,
unlike the last.
A&G certainly come with my strongest endorsement,
though. Really nice people, friendly and helpful, and they make
What was in it? Three canes - one black nylon
and amazingly stingy, a 27 inch thin rattan and a 36 inch heavy
rattan. Also a leather tawse (more on that later <shudder>).
For the previous two weeks, Paul had been trying them out on
me, 'practising' with me struggling and resisting all the way.
But Sunday the 4th of July wasn't about resisting for either
of us. It was about him thrashing me and me accepting the thrashing.
[The play (for want of a better word) we did
that day was partly a reaction to the previous weeks, which
were much more adversarial: Mija had very much been the bratty
and uncontrolled girl who needs to be tamed. These were very
long and intense and draining. Not unenjoyable or unsatisfying,
but I think they pulled me further away from the core of my
kink than the play on the 4th, which was kinda driven more by
me. So 'Paul decided...' :-)
What I wanted, I think, was a scene stripped
of the emotional intensity that comes from conflict: that's
pretty stressful for me, even in a play context. I also don't
find it hard to admit that spanking someone for being good,
or at least spanking someone for some (in the play context)
misdemeanour, but who is good during the spanking,
is right there at the heart of my spanking kink. (IMO, there's
nothing quite so spankable as innocence.) That they
know or feel that they deserve the punishment, and do their
best to accept it, is powerful. (I also have a big problem with
using any sort of physical force, which probably goes along
I'd had a bath the night before and Paul had
helped me wash my hair so I was all clean and smelled nice.
For the thrashing I have to be in strict uniform: a stiff collared
shirt (really really stiff too!) that's mega snug around the
neck, a grey gymslip, red sash, grey knee socks, black oxfords,
white gym knickers, and a red tie. I have a boater now too <making
a face> but Paul forgot about it (I think) when he dressed
me so I wasn't wearing that. Standing still while being dressed
is hard for me 'cause I'm really embarrassed about him being
dressed and me not. Thank goodness he took my glasses so I couldn't
really see myself while he did it or I woulda died I think.
Anyway, I was finally ready and Paul said I looked adorable,
which is only true through his eyes but nice to hear anyway.
[My eyes are the only ones I have, of course,
but I do think that Mija looks totally adorable. Clothing seems
to have an important connection with spanking for me, and over
the past couple of years it's been a delight to buy pieces of
school uniform here and there for her, and then finally to see
it all come together.]
I promised to call him 'Sir' when I spoke
to him. My face burned.
[Hmmm. The 'sir' thing needs a little explanation.
Not so long ago, the idea of someone calling me this, even in
the most playful of play, would have felt ridiculous. I don't
mean to denigrate those for whom it has meaning, but 'Master',
'Sir', and other scenish titles often make me giggle at how
earnest they seem; how little ironic detachment there is. They
strike me as just silly and self-important.
I would never have asked Mija to call me 'Sir'.
The idea wasn't anywhere close to being on my mind. I'm not
'Sir' to anyone. I'm just plain old Paul. And yet when
she - inadvertently, I think - finally did, I can't pretend
that I didn't feel a frisson of some sort of pleasure, which
I can't really account for. It made me feel very protective;
I knew it signalled a state of mind that she'd reached, which
was calm and clear and, yes, submissive. I also think that it
felt good precisely because we'd never discussed it
- at least, if we had, we'd discussed how it wasn't
something I wanted - so it came naturally from Mija's head-space,
and not from some sort of expectation or imposition by me.]
He led me by the hand from our bedroom to
the front bedroom/study and told me to stand there while he
fetched a chair. The bratty part of me wanted to run away or
make a face or something to say "make me!" but I didn't.
I stood right there and listened to my heart beat and the sound
of him carrying a chair from the dining room. I wondered if
I could really be good, let him spank me hard and not struggle,
not make him force me to submit.
The straight-backed chair stood in the middle
of the room. In the empty space. We both looked at it and Paul
said, "just a chair, right?" I swallowed, trying to
nod as he continued, "but a powerful symbol." I promised
again not to struggle as he sat down on the chair and stood
me in front of him and told me to keep my hands at my sides.
Then he reached under my gymslip and pulled my knickers right
to my knees. It seemed to take forever for me to get from there
over his lap but I know it happened very fast as he pulled me
waaaaaay over, feet off the floor and my hands grabbed the leg
of the chair.
[I think I did say exactly that, but I'm not
sure it bears repeating. :-) I'm not much of a talker, really,
and sometimes during play I find myself dredging up the most
Being over someone's lap while they sit in
a chair is different from other spanking positions. For me,
it makes it hurt more. I feel restrained like I'm bound. The
blood rushes to my head and I gasp a bit. I always feel very
small, like a child. Usually I kick a lot, especially when he
whacks the back of my thighs. But not this time. This time I
was as still as I could be, holding onto the chair rungs and
crossing my ankles to keep from kicking.
Paul was just using his hand. But hard
and for longer than usual in this position. I tried to hold
very still as the hard smacks from his hand travelled from my
bottom to my thighs and back to my bottom again. And then again.
The effort of staying still, of not being able to kick made
tears drip from my eyes. Still, I held on tight and let him
paddle me with his hand. As he spanked, he spoke to me in a
low voice. Something about "over my knee, bare bottom getting
spanked, just like a naughty little girl gets... hmmm?"
and of course I had to answer. Except I could barely hear 'cause
of all the really loud smacks and besides, in case you haven't
noticed, it's hard to focus on a conversation when you're getting
whacked. That's my experience anyway.
The spanking seemed to last forever, but was
maybe five minutes. And then Paul helped me up and into the
corner of the living room. I was immediately embarrassed and
anxious because the shutters were still open (the house we're
renting is late 19th century and has huge front windows that
close with interior wooden shutters - closed even day feels
like night - open I feel like we're standing in the front garden.)
But he didn't close them right away. Instead he took two safety
pins from his pocket and pinned the hem of my gymslip up on
my shoulders (I mean, like to the fabric okay?). My knickers
were still down so I was bare from my waist to the tops of my
knee socks. Eeep!
Those of you who know me may be surprised
(or even shocked) but I was really good. Didn't argue, didn't
turn around or even slouch (I was pouting up a storm but Paul
couldn't see that so it was okay.) I just stood there with my
nose pressed into the crack in the wall. I could hear him move
chairs around and the sadist even whipped both the canes through
the air. I could tell the difference between the thin one and
the thicker longer one, but both sounded way scary and very
very loud. My eyes started to water a little and I was really
embarrassed at the idea of crying before the 'thrashing' part
of this even started.
[<smiling> What can I say, I just couldn't
help it. I think when you have crook-handled canes, it's kinda
obligatory to SWISH! them through the air like that, especially
when the intended recipient is standing in the corner or bent
over a chair and can't see what you're doing. It's some sort
of rule, I think. Like holding one end of the cane in each hand
and flexing it into the shape of one of the McDonald's arches.
Ya just gotta.]
The canes do sound and behave very differently,
and I like them both.]
Finally I heard the shutters closing (thank
God! thought maybe we were short on rent and Paul was gonna
sell tickets). Anyway, when Paul told me to turn around and
come over there I saw two chairs standing back to back in the
middle of the room. They have sort of high backs so he'd piled
pillows and a phone book on the seats. And on top of the pillows
he'd rested the two rattan canes. I stopped half way to them.
[Yes, as a caning horse/block/whatever it
was a little makeshift, but it managed to do the job. We're
still looking for the perfect school desk.]
"See the canes, Mija? I'm going to use
them to thrash you until you can't sit."
[Ooooooo! I sound really evil, don't I? <boooo!
I looked up trying to be a bit pathetic. Didn't
I want Paul to spank me? No, I decided I didn't.
"You need me to spank you, don't you?"
My head nodded ('course my head wasn't what
was gonna get whacked). He kept watch, expectantly. "Yes
sir." I heard my voice say.
"Come right over here." Paul indicated
a spot right in front of him. I stood there, skirt still up,
knickers still down, in the middle of the room. He looked me
in the eye and slowly unbuttoned then rolled up his cuffed sleeve.
I swallowed really hard. Then, watching me he reached down and
unbuckled his wide brown leather belt and started to pull it
slowly from the loops.
"What is this, Mija?"
"Do you remember when I bought it?"
Of course I remembered. How often in my life
have I gone to Macy's at Christmas to watch someone pick out
just the right belt to strap me with? I remembered how I'd tried
to get Paul to buy a cheaper (and lighter) one because the heavy
Calvin Klein one (see, I remember that too) he was now holding
was way over priced. I remember Paul doubling it in the crowded
store and smacking it hard against his hand.
[The belt has since <scowling a little>
started to split - from being used to whack such a recalcitrant
girl, no doubt. And I only just this afternoon broke a ping
pong paddle on Mija's backside. Honestly, sometimes
you might even get to thinking that the makers don't intend
belts and paddles to be used this way. Sheesh.]
"Yes." I said. I remembered.
"Why did I buy it?"
Not to hold up his jeans. No, that was for
sure. And that would be the wrong answer. For sure.
"To strap me with." My voice was
vanishing. And I suddenly wanted to go to the bathroom.
"Right, good girl. So now I'm going to
thrash you with it."
Paul moved the canes to a sofa across the
"One hundred strokes. Nice and slow.
And you'll count every one."
One hundred? One hundred?? Could I do that
without falling down or losing count (I'm really bad at counting)?
"Kneel up on the chair now like a good
girl. I'm going to tie your hands and feet."
He held up two school ties, one grey and maroon
stripes, the other grey and green. I knelt on the first chair,
took a deep breath and reached over until my hands rested on
the pillows. The cool air brushed over my bottom from some random
breeze and I felt so bare. I blushed as I imagined my bottom
looking like some giant mutant mushroom in the middle of the
room. The thought almost made me giggle. Almost.
Paul stood behind me and pressed my ankles
together, winding the tie in and out between them. I felt him
tie the knot. Not tight, but not something I was going to undo
easily either. He came around to face me and had me press my
wrists together so he could tie my hands. I was surprised to
feel a moment of pure panic as I thought "I won't be able
to get up on my own." It wasn't that I couldn't move, 'cause
I still could. It was that I wouldn't be able to move enough
to make any difference. Scary thought for "Little Miss
"How many did I say?"
[It's striking how much top dialogue is driven
by a kind of capricious amnesia.]
"One hundred," I replied, "Sir"
was a last minute add on.
"That's right. Miss your count and we
Hearing that, my level of panic started to
rise. I so rarely can count without mistakes. What can I say?
Really really bad at math?
The doubled leather belt brushed over my bottom
and I sort of got all tense. Then Paul brought it down with
a loud CRACK right across the middle. I didn't yell, but had
to breathe a few times really deep.
"One, and thank you sir."
Yes, I really really said that. (And not in
the tone Tasha used in her first video either!) I thanked Paul
and called him 'Sir'. For those of you who think maybe
I was kissing up, well, remember he had a belt and there were
two canes with my name all over them. So don't judge unless
you've been there.
The belt hurt (and a lot more a couple of
times when it sort of turned over so I got hit with the edges,
yowsers!), but the first 20 were the hardest (Paul broke it
up into five groups of 20). Then, as like three in a row landed
in that spot just where my bottom and thighs meet, I got all
floaty. It didn't hurt less, but I stopped pulling on the bonds,
just sort of well, floated with the pain.
I'm not sure how long the strapping took.
It seemed very long. And the last were so hard that my mind
took me back to my childhood and I heard myself start to cry
a little. But I never lost count and never missed replying.
<proud :) >
[The whole strapping and caning was perhaps
an hour long, including breaks of a couple of minutes in between
each group of 20 strokes for some rubbing and reassurance.]
"Good girl. I'm proud of you for being
[I was too. And Mija being so good made me
want to spank her ever so hard. What a terrible man I must be
<shaking head sadly at my own depravity>.]
Paul said that as he picked up the thin cane
and swished it through the air. I basked in the praise for a
split second until I heard the sound of that cane. And then
I felt my stomach turn a little. Canes can do that to me sometimes.
"Please Paul, I can't stand it."
"Of course you can. And you're going
to. Twelve of the best, with each."
[I didn't have any doubt. Mija has the most
amazing resilience. Even if she sounds as if she's being murdered,
she's only a few seconds away from bratty giggles. With a long
enough warm-up, she can take as long and hard a spanking as
I'm capable of giving her, and more besides. That feels very
liberating for me.]
Twenty-four? Twenty-four cane strokes with
me bent over like this? I heard my breathing go all ragged.
Paul used the cane on the air a few more times.
The swishing sounded so loud. This did not
calm me. Then I could feel it poking at my skin right across
the middle of my bottom.
The first one hurt so much that after I gave
the count I told him I couldn't bear it, that he'd have to stop.
I was almost sure that he would stop and felt disappointed in
[There was no chance of me stopping,
unless Mija safeworded. I knew this wasn't too much for her.
I took my time, gave her long enough between strokes that she
could feel secure that there were no surprises, and that she
could really feel each stroke to the full, really squeeze out
all of its juice (so to speak). And I made sure to tell her
when the next one was coming.]
"Please," I heard myself say.
"You don't have to bear it. You're not
in control." And with a loud swish the cane came down again,
harder. I heard myself cry out loud.
But I still counted. "Twoandthankyousir."
When I've been caned, the low numbers are
always really hard for me. Because it hurts so, but there's
still so many more to go. It makes me feel quite desperate.
I can't remember much of the caning, just that it really hurt,
that thin cane feels like a knife (though it hasn't cut me that
bad... yet. :( ). When the count reached twelve Paul stopped
and ran his hand over the welts. Even that hurt on the right
and I whimpered and whined at him.
[I'm really only just learning how to use
a cane properly. I'm getting a lot better at making sure the
thing lands where I want it to - which is good for those evil
low strokes - but it's still very hard for me to balance the
impact on the left and right cheeks. There just isn't a whole
lot you can do about the fact that the end of the cane travels
faster than the middle. And we didn't have room for me to try
to develop my backhand - which, if it's anything like my tennis
backhand, I'd want to test on some squashy pillows before Mija's
"Good girl. Twelve more now. Such a brave
Paul picked up the heavy cane and I heard
its deeper, louder swish. And broke down. I knew I couldn't
stand anymore. Not even one stroke, let alone twelve.
His hand stroked my bottom again. Paul didn't
answer me, just said, "Tell me when you're ready and we'll
[Mija only ever really needs time. And a reminder
to keep her breathing deep and slow and even.]
I gave another ragged sob. I knew, knew there
was just no way I could do this. Then I took a deep breath,
and then another. And suddenly I could. The cane hit with a
"One and thank you sir." Fast, before
the pain hit.
Paul measured the strokes out slowly, carefully.
Each one hurt a lot, but I felt a release as I counted them.
Like I could go on forever. Because, I thought as I pulled my
hands tight, I wasn't in control. All I could do was hear and
feel the strokes and count them off. So simple. A pure act.
[Something I've discovered from using the
cane is that - at least for me - it feels different in that
it's much harder to gauge how much pain the strokes are causing.
It's a much more indirect implement, and delivers intense pain
often with very little effort. It needs more concentration and
a greater awareness of the reactions of the recipient than any
other implement I've used.]
And then it was the last stroke. I felt relief,
knowing that I could indeed "bear" it, but knowing
it wouldn't matter if I couldn't. As the hardest stroke hit,
I felt both glad and disappointed that it was over.
"Twelve and thank you sir."
I heard Paul walk across and put the cane
down. He didn't untie me right away, but came over and stroked
my back, my face, my bottom. I couldn't really hear him, but
his voice was low and soft. I felt like an animal or small child
[The words probably don't matter at all at
this point. Only to make sure Mija knows that I'm there, and
that she's safe and that I'll take care of her for a while.
I actually like the lack of need for talk at this point; it's
a release of tension for both of us, a very simple time when
we can just snuggle together and feel the moment.]
Finally he untied me and helped me to my feet,
leading me over to the couch and holding me close. I couldn't
speak. I felt small and shaky -- as I often do after being spanked
And safe too. I remember feeling safe. The
calm I felt inside after this lasted more than two days.
All I can think is that I've got really weird
[That's okay. But 'Sir' will suffice, sweetie.
<running away fast> :-)]
to the treehouse