Copyright 1999 to <mijita@thetreehouse.net> and <pablo@thetreehouse.net>. Please respect this copyright. Don't distribute or archive this story in any way except for personal use without explicit permission. No, it's not in the public domain. Ask first, okay? Thanks.

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[Posted to soc.sexuality.spanking, 13 July 1999]

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[Image of Mr Impossible][Image of Little Miss Naughty]Mija's 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 of days.

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 at Mija>]

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 great stuff.]

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 with that.)]

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 awful hooey.]

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! hissssss!>]

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?"

"Your belt."

"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 room.

"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 Topping-From-the-Bottom."

"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 start again."

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 so brave."

[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 myself.

[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 sweet cheeks.]

"Good girl. Twelve more now. Such a brave girl."

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 begin."

[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 dull thud.

"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 being soothed.

[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 very hard.

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 wiring.

Thank God.

[That's okay. But 'Sir' will suffice, sweetie. <running away fast> :-)]

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