My Saturday Morning

I am bent over a footstool in the living room, my bottom further raised by three cushions. My trousers and pants have been lowered and meticulously arranged by Miss Iceni, always a  stickler for detail. My hands are clasped together on the sofa, and to the left of them is the school cane. The sentence has been pronounced in that calm casual manner which always puts the fear of God into me. Eight strokes. I am waiting.

Miss Iceni is washing up, carrying on with her normal daily routine in the full knowledge that this just makes things worse for me. 

I just want this to be over. I desperately want her to start. The waiting is horrible. To make matters worse my nose is beginning to run, and the consequences of letting that happen on Miss Iceni's sofa are too terrifying to imagine. I am going to have to speak up but I am scared to do so, an appalling dilemma. But, thankfully at this point, she goes into the study, and I risk a comprehensive sniff which she does not hear. Phew. Now, that WOULD have meant extra strokes. But it does the trick.  Now she's back, good let's get this over with. The pattern on that sofa is already imprinted on my mind and I am a bag of nerves.

No. More pottering. Why let a 'boy' waiting to be thrashed get in the way of your normal Saturday morning routine? My mind is going haywire. The problem for me is I never know how long the wait is going to be. I have had waits of two or three minutes. On the other hand I once spent over half an hour kneeling naked, with a heavy lochgelly tawse proffered in my outstretched palms waiting for the 'good sound dozen' I had been promised (and subsequently got!)

More minutes pass. I stay as still as I possibly can, part of a corporal punishment still life tableau. I cannot see what Miss Iceni is doing, only speculate. Perhaps she is sketching me.

She has now put the kettle on! Is she seriously going to sit there and have a cup of tea? Oh please Miss, please just deal with me! But no, that would be too fair, too  easy. As far as Miss Iceni is concerned, waiting is good. Waiting lets me contemplate my errors and my behaviour, and  think about the consequences that are soon to be realised.  That last bit is easy, the dreaded school cane in my direct line of sight. Deliberate, of course.

I try to stay calm and focussed. I try to look on the bright side. It is not the dragon cane, eight hard strokes in quick succession over the desk , a punishment I will remember for the rest of my days. It is not me stripped naked in front of her mother for ten sound strokes of the school cane (it was supposed to be eight, but I got extras) and then made to stand in front of both of them, hands on head and apologise. That was absolutely mortifying! But then, it is not a soft sensual spanking over her lap with the furry slipper.I have never been over Miss Iceni's lap, it is always the strap or the cane for me and besides I don't think she ever does soft and sensual. But I can dream. No - this is going to hurt, I  have been told it is going to hurt, and of course, it does! 

She has suddenly and very quietly appeared beside me and picks up the cane.I almost jump. After the usual quietly spoken instructions to count and thank her, the cane is rested across my bottom for what seems an eternity before the first stroke is delivered. 

Aaargh! Oh boy that is like a red hot poker across my backside. I always (thankfully) forget between times just how painful it is. She never, never holds back with me. My interlocked hands clench together, and I remember to count (breathlessly and very nervously, the stuffing has just been knocked out of me). I am allowed a short time to recover before the next stroke - just enough for the pain to subside before  the agony is repeated. Oh God, it hurts! But it carries on, controlled, measured and merciless. After the sixth stroke Miss Iceni forewarns me of her intention to lay on the last two strokes harder. I want to speak up, I want to say no, I am not brave enough, or stupid enough to do so, I have had extra strokes before for doing just that. This is too much. 

Somehow, I manage the eight, and I think it is over, a welcome relief and pride in myself for taking it, but then the dreaded instruction comes to 'stay there!'. Oh no, no, please, please Miss not extras. I think I took it well, or at least as well as I possibly could. But sometimes it can just depend on Miss Iceni's mood. I wait - again! More time passes.

Finally and mercifully, the instruction comes to stand up. It is over. I am allowed to pull my trousers and pants back up.

I coped. I have not let down my governess. And it was only eight, which was a result! But I know there will be some serious purple stripes that will change colour and take over a week to disappear, and it will hurt to sit down. My governess has realised her objective. I really really will try harder for her.

I am sent on my way but not before Miss Iceni admits that she loves caning me because I hate it so much and always have trouble coping with it. One day, I may not. I dread the consequences.