A Fun Five Hundred

A Fun Five Hundred

Ever wondered what it’s like to session with a Disciplinarian? More specifically, with me?  Maybe you’ve read the testimonials, seen the pictures and been enticed by Twitter feeds and comments.  Maybe you’ve created scenarios in your mind, pictured yourself bending over to receive due punishment and pondered what may pass through your mind in those final moments before the pain comes crashing down on your upturned bottom.

 

 

 

In this – my series of Session Stories – I will describe just a few of the journeys my clients undergo when attending session with me.  Unlike client testimonials, these will be written by me and from my perspective.  I hope they will offer a real insight into the work I do and open your eyes to the sheer variety of possibilities available.

 

 

 

___________________________________________________________

 

 

Not all of my sessions are structured towards punishment. Not everyone wants to be scolded. Some people visit me purely to experience the cathartic nature of CP with someone who truly enjoys administering it. Dean is one of these people.

 

On a Saturday afternoon in mid-September, I find myself in a wonderfully sadistic mood whilst preparing for Dean’s arrival. He has been reporting to me each week via email with updates on his personal targets and has truly excelled himself. The targets were set earlier in the year and Corporal Punishment is offered to him as a reward for achieving his goals.

 

Dean’s goals have been immensely challenging for him and he relishes in this. As my eyes drifted slowly over my vast collection of punishing implements, a plan began forming in my mind.

 

 

 

‘He needs to be challenged’, I thought.

 

Methodically and deliberately, I set about selecting twenty pieces from my collection to display on the chair in the playroom. My choices were well considered and with each one I became more excited for the session ahead.

 

 

  • Thick based, heavy wooden spoon.
  • Long handled, flat based wooden spoon.
  • Dense ebony hairbrush with concave bottom.
  • Lightweight, oval wooden bath brush.
  • Flat round bath brush with heavy head.
  • Lollypop shaped dark wooden paddle.
  • Thick, heavy cheeseboard style paddle.
  • Long handled, flat spoon shaped paddle.
  • Thin, stingy teak paddle with varnished finish.
  • Slim, holed dark wooden paddle.
  • Varnished, lightweight paddle with holes.
  • Ruler shaped wooden paddle with metal studs.
  • Quarter inch, silicone bat shaped paddle.
  • Heavy rubber soled gent’s plimsoll.
  • ‘Hand of God’ – holed, broad leather paddle.
  • Metre long, heavy leather tawse.
  • Straight dragon cane – junior with leather handle.
  • Straight dragon cane – senior with leather handle.
  • Crooked handled senior dragon cane.
  • Sinister black whangee cane.

A deliciously devious and varied selection for an experienced bottom.

 

 

The implements were laid out in all their glory and, after a brief catch up over hot tea, Dean was invited to join me in my playroom where his fate had already been sealed.

 

No sooner had I opened the playroom door than I heard a gasp escape Dean’s lips. He had spotted the overwhelming array instantly and turned to me with a glimmer of real fear in his eyes. How splendid.

 

I closed the door behind me and made my way over to the couch in silence. Dean’s eyes flicked back and forth from me to the chair, searching for answers. There were none to be found. Yet.

 

I fired an evil grin I his direction, enjoying every moment of his confusion and terror. Eventually, when I was ready, I began explaining my intentions to him.

 

Five hundred strokes, twenty implements and three choices to be made.

 

 

 

Choice 1 – Decide if you would rather take 25 strokes from each implement here, or 20 from each plus an additional 20 from my hand as a brief warm up.

 

Choice 2 – Carefully look through the implements and decide if any of them are ‘hard limits’.

 

Choice 3 – You are permitted to make one implement swap for another piece in my collection.

 

 

 

A lot to think about. Dean mused slowly and I could tell he was struggling to come to terms with what he was presented with.

 

After a short stutter, he began to reveal his choices. He wanted to forego a warm up with my hand. He advised that none of the implements were outside of his limits and, on that basis, he chose not to swap any of them. Very wise decisions indeed, and ones that pleased me. I had time to play with and I intended very much to ‘play’. I talked through some of the implements with Dean, prolonging his anticipation. Experienced or not, he knew this was going to hurt. He also knew that I would enjoy every moment of it.

 

I chose the thick wooden spoon to begin and had been striding around the room for some time with it in my hand. Ever ready to strike. Dean knew it could come at any moment. Was he prepared? Once we began, he knew it wouldn’t stop until the chair was clear of all implements.

 

I picked the precise moment to begin. By this point Dean was nervously giggling at his imminent demise. He wondered if he could cope. I’ve no doubt he had received more than 500 strokes in previous sessions but having it all laid out in front of him made the challenge devastatingly real.

 

SLAP!

 

As if out of nowhere Dean’s left buttock absorbed the first strike. The nervous laughter stopped suddenly as his body processed the shock of the impact. A neat oval shaped redness formed quickly. It was time for business.

 

Another equally intense thwack met with his right buttock. Another deep exhale.

 

Only two strokes in and Dean knew already that this session would be a testing one.

 

Varying in intensity and speed, the twenty-five strokes made their way onto Dean’s bottom one by one, slowly decorating the blank canvas with vivid hues of pink and red.

After I was finished with each implement, I told Dean, I would place them along the wall next to him. We could both see what had gone before and, therefore, what was left to come. The visual impact of the implements was proving to be difficult for Dean. As he often does, he chuckled at the ridiculousness of his situation. I met him with an evil chuckle of my own, before moving toward the chair to select my next implement.

 

The ritualistic nature of the selection process was beautifully powerful. I took my time deliberating over the collection before me and could hear Dean’s heavy breathing behind me as he watched the process out of the corner of his eye. With each piece, I saw an opportunity. I wanted to paint with varied and exciting brush strokes across his bottom. Rather than merely start with the lowest in intensity and work our way through, I interspersed more severe implements with those easier to handle. An irregularity to my selections fuelled Dean’s fear throughout the scene. He couldn’t predict what was coming. I made sure of it.

 

After the first fifty strokes, I let him stand up to stretch and drink a little. I laughed when I pointed out we were only 10% of the way through. Remorseful acceptance.

Back over the bench and I continued with my masterpiece. Flashes of purple and hot white crept through from behind the crimson surface.

Quick fire sections at lighter intensity to maximise the sting were followed with rhythmically slow, hard, deep thuds.

 

We took another break at the half way point and Dean sat for the first time on his already sore bottom. A breath-taking silence passed between us as I watched Dean’s eyes move from the implements against the wall – the ones he was now safe from – to the ones still adorning the chair – the ones he has yet to face.

 

 

Time passes. Intensity grows. Soreness fades. Anticipation rises.

 

He’s bent over the pommel horse before he has a chance to plead for any mercy. We have some serious pieces left and it’s only going to get worse from here.

 

Dean is made to count some of the sets, while he is still able.

 

SMACK. THUD. WHACK. SLAP.

 

 

Stroke after stroke. A crescendo of pain. Absurdity causing giggles. Both of us enjoying the moment together.

 

He’d been caned. He’d been paddled. He’d been strapped. He’d been tawsed.

 

It was time for the final pieces – a thick rubber paddle and the ‘Hand of God’.

 

So far away from that break after the first 10%. We now only had that far left to go. He was exhausted but ready to finish it. These fifty strokes from both implements were mixed together. The heavy thud of the rubber paddle packed a punch while the ‘Hand of God’ attacked his upper thighs relentlessly.

 

As the five hundredth stroke loomed, I glanced at Dean’s face. He eyes showed promise of glazing over though I knew instantly he wasn’t quite there. It fell and we both knew we needed just that little bit more.

 

Aiming at his upper thighs, I proceeded to beat the ‘Hand of God’ across them at a quickening speed. He watched my fury through the mirror in front of him – a mix of pain and pleasure on his face.

 

Sharp, sudden strokes slamming against him. Whack after whack. Pain reigning down. Speed hastening. The fire grew. Until…

 

CRACK!

 

The last stroke fell across his badly bruised legs and bottom. We were both spent.

 

My breathing was as heavy as his and, for a moment, we allowed the sound of it to occupy the room fully. I casually tossed the leather paddle aside and slumped into the settee behind Dean. After a short time, our eyes met through the mirror and a smile crept across both of our faces. It erupted into laughter and the intense weight of the atmosphere created in session lifted.

 

 

 

Slowly, Dean pulled himself off the pommel horse and we shared an embrace. As usual, we headed back down to safety and comfort for a cheery conversation.

 

 

 

 

 

Dean took on the Fun Five Hundred Challenge and excelled himself. Do you think you could handle the same?

 

 

 

 ___________________________________________________________

 

These sessions are tailored to the individuals I am playing with.  No session will be repeated like for like and, indeed, cannot be due to the nature of the relationships I have with the persons in question.

 

Names have been changed to protect identity. Consent has been granted for photographs and blog entries to be published.

 

If you would like your session to be included in a future Session Stories update, feel free to mention this to me in person or via email.

 

 

I welcome your comments and thoughts on these posts. 

 

 

 

 

Miss Kendal

A Severe Lesson for Scott

A Severe Lesson for Scott

Ever wondered what it’s like to session with a Disciplinarian? More specifically, with me?  Maybe you’ve read the testimonials, seen the pictures and been enticed by Twitter feeds and comments.  Maybe you’ve created scenarios in your mind, pictured yourself bending over to receive due punishment and pondered what may pass through your mind in those final moments before the pain comes crashing down on your upturned bottom.

 

In this – my series of Session Stories – I will describe just a few of the journeys my clients undergo when attending session with me.  Unlike client testimonials, these will be written by me and from my perspective.  I hope they will offer a real insight into the work I do and open your eyes to the sheer variety of possibilities available.

___________________________________________________________

Scott visits me for correctional Discipline. He uses an online diary to record his progress after devising a set of measurable personal targets. The focus of this particular session was weight and alcohol consumption.

As usual we chatted briefly over coffee and, as usual, I could sense Scott’s nerves already. He had informed me ahead of session that he was concerned he may not achieve his weight loss target – a recurrent theme from our previous meetings. I was unimpressed at this, as he knew only too well. Before long he found himself in the corner of my playroom, an air of vulnerability emanating from him.

I had explained to him that he would be required to strip, before being brought to the weighing scales. His disrobing process was slow and excruciating. Deliberately so. Trembling and clumsy, he removed each item of clothing as instructed. I handed him a towel to briefly cover his modesty then proceeded to lead him through to the bathroom where we would discover if he had achieved his goal.

The silence was deadening as he lifted his feet on to the scales. First one, then the other. The numbers flickered upwards before settling. We both looked down.

His chest, that had been full and tight with anticipation, dropped swiftly as he let out a sigh.

On target.

“Lucky”

I aimed a deliberate sneer in his direction before handing him the towel and guiding him back to the playroom.

It was luck. He had weighed himself before commencing his journey that same morning and had come in two pounds over target. He had expected the same result upon arrival with me though perhaps the stress and anxiety of the imminent session had somehow aided his weight loss. Nervous sweat, I wonder?

This unexpected victory didn’t seem to settle Scott as much as he desired. All of a sudden he found himself in unchartered territory – he had achieved all of his personal goals for the first time since we began our sessions together. But, what did this mean for him?

It was time to talk.

Stood before me, naked and facing the unknown, Scott knew the worst was yet to come.

I wanted to discuss the subject of alcohol consumption; something the two of us had agreed was a major contributing factor with his weight loss goals. Over the time we had sessioned together, we had noticed a pattern emerging for his preference of weekend drinking and subsequent weight gain. Of course, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work this out, but having physical evidence to support this was beginning to take it’s toll on Scott. He knew his alcohol intake was higher than necessary and was affecting not only himself, but his partner too.

A shiver of guilt ran across his body as I began explaining, in lowered tones, the consequences of his actions in real terms. At the very mention of his partner’s wellbeing, he crumbled. No longer able to contain his emotion, his hands fell from atop his head in a feeble attempt to stifle the flow of tears from his eyes. Ashamed and embarrassed, he turned away from me and fell to his knees to sob.

Loud and deeply emotional guttural sounds escaped his throat. He wept. I waited, cross legged and unaffected by his whimpering. It was what he needed to hear.

After a minute or two, he gathered enough strength to stand back up. As his hands moved back to his head, he murmured an apology.

I was ready. I instructed Scott to place himself over one knee and I wrapped my other leg around his to prevent any struggle. With such a strong response to the scolding, our physical connection in that moment was heightened and absolutely necessary. It allowed Scott to feel both a sense of comfort and safety as well as an inescapable hold.

He was there for some time, a volley of stingy pain beating down on his bottom relentlessly. It swiftly became a deep shade of pink and his twitching indicated his soreness was increasing rapidly.

Good.

He stood as I released him from the leg lock, and he took in a sip of water. His face, now reddened with both shame and discomfort, turned briefly towards the bench. He knew that was only the beginning.

I left him alone in the playroom to contemplate his fate while I selected my arsenal. I mused over my implements slowly, taking my time to ensure their suitability. This was a serious punishment and Scott needed a harsh release from the emotional hell I had placed him in during the chastisement.

Suitably terrifying and as yet unused on Scott’s bottom, I presented the chosen pieces to him. I lay them carefully in his eye line and gave him a moment to deliberate. All the while I warned that this would be severe. He would not enjoy a moment of this but, as he knew, it was absolutely necessary.

I was not responsible for his current situation. It was his own actions that had led to this point. He had only himself to blame for what was about to come.

The number of strokes assigned and first implement selected, I watched as Scott wound his fingers tightly around the metal hooks on the end of my bench. He was preparing himself for the worst. And it was coming at an alarming speed.

Beginning at one and working our way through in sets of ten, Scott’s bottom absorbed the impact of punishing stroke after punishing stroke. Flashes of fear in his eyes at certain stages told me his was unsure if he could make it through to the end.

Tough. 

He had no choice. I had no choice. I couldn’t go back on my word now. A punishment assigned is exactly that. No pleas. No bargaining. No leniency.

I gripped his shoulder to help him process this. To come to terms with what he already knew. I was there for him and I would guide him through each stroke, but I would not hold back nor lessen the punishment, for both of our sakes

In the moments surrounding the last few strokes, Scott’s eyes became distant. His body slumped and a quietness took him. He suffered the last and hardest strokes with minimal fuss and was ready for it to end. It was enough.

By then he was spent and unable to lift himself up through fatigue. I moved towards him and held his shoulders tightly in an embrace. He breathed loudly and with sobs of relief. A tenderness swept through the room and our emotional journey brought itself to a natural close.

He lay peacefully as I applied heavy cream to his ravaged bottom. We shared another embrace after he was able to bring himself to a standing position. I invited him to redress as we chatted lightly before heading downstairs for a bite to eat and a hot drink.

Our conversation was full of laughs and happiness. Now relaxed and feeling positive, Scott was coming out of his heady subspace and determined to face another month of proactive behaviour.

 

Scott commented on a Twitter photo following his session;

 

“Quite simply the most intensely real, severe, emotional cp I have received in 20 years of trying. Thank you.”

 

The alcohol consumption goal now realigned, can he achieve his goals again this time or will he teeter on the edge and risk falling into another mound of shame before me…?

 

___________________________________________________________

These sessions are tailored to the individuals I am playing with.  No session will be repeated like for like and, indeed, cannot be due to the nature of the relationships I have with the persons in question.

 

Names have been changed to protect identity. Consent has been granted for photographs and blog entries to be published.

 

If you would like your session to be included in a future Session Stories update, feel free to mention this to me in person or via email.

 

I welcome your comments and thoughts on these posts. 

 

Miss Kendal

Triple Detention

Triple Detention

Ever wondered what it’s like to session with a Disciplinarian? More specifically, with me?  Maybe you’ve read the testimonials, seen the pictures and been enticed by Twitter feeds and comments.  Maybe you’ve created scenarios in your mind, pictured yourself bending over to receive due punishment and pondered what thoughts may pass through your mind in those final moments before the pain comes crashing down on your upturned bottom.
In this – my series of Session Stories – I will describe just a few of the journeys my clients undergo when attending session with me.  Unlike client testimonials, these will be written by me and from my perspective.  I hope they will offer a real insight into the work I do and open your eyes to the sheer variety of possibilities available.
___________________________________________________________

For longer role play sessions, it can be extremely exciting to split the play into different parts or even cover different roles throughout. On Monday of last week, I had a triple lunch time detention booked in my classroom for three very unruly boys…

 

Little Tristan was the first boy in the detention book. At only nine years old, he had never experienced a school punishment before. Things were about to change very quickly.

He sat nervously waiting at the school desk, having been summoned to a detention with the Deputy Head, Miss Kelly (played by me). She was a sweet and gentle lady, with boys of her own a similar age to Tristan. Miss Kelly’s sweet nature was not to be mistaken for leniency though. There were numerous reports of Tristan’s general untidiness with his school uniform and P.E kit. It had gone unpunished for some weeks but now was the time to put a stop to this childish trait.

 

Tristan was lucky that it was Miss Kelly dealing with him today, and not Miss Kendal. He was given the opportunity to rectify the situation by writing lines on the blackboard – “I promise to be tidy”.

 

Unable to stop his silly whimpering, Tristan found it difficult to focus and quickly his handwriting slipped and spelling errors began to occur. He was only required to write a total of ten lines but barely managed seven before Miss Kelly decided enough was enough. Clearly this form of punishment wasn’t having the desired effect. More drastic measures would need to be taken…

 

After the age of ten, boys at this school would be subject to traditional punishment methods. Tristan knew of the rumours and dreaded the day he was dragged before Miss Kendal to bare his bottom. What he didn’t realise is that day was today! With his tenth birthday looming, Miss Kelly decided she would show him just what was in store for him if he continued in his untidy ways much longer.

 

Moments later, he found himself across Miss Kelly’s knee. Despite all his wailing and complaining, she proceeded to smack his bottom like the naughty boy he was.

Back into the corner with a warm bottom to await the arrival of the Headmistress, Miss Kendal. She was in no mood to deal with silly, whimpering boys today. After he had filled two pages of his exercise book with more lines, he was instructed to read them out aloud. A sharp smack after each one ensured the message was driven home.

 

Tristan was sent on his way and Miss Kendal was ready to deal with the older boys on her detention list…

“Michael”. Her voice boomed into the corridor where he waited.

Into the classroom he slumped, shirt half untucked and eyes already rolling at the prospect of detention. Week after week of late homework submissions, some pieces yet to be submitted. Numerous reports from the teaching staff that Michael didn’t care for their homework tasks.

 

“Well, you certainly won’t care for this one”.

A line of tatty old encyclopaedias sat collecting dust on a shelf in the classroom. Miss Kendal pulled out the volume entitled ‘English’ and opened at a random chapter.

“Begin copying!”

After around ten minutes of mindless activity, Michael’s hand began to ache and he pleaded to be let off. It wasn’t to be.

The infamous school ‘Naughty Stick’ was placed on the desk next to the text book, to remind him that he was yet to experience his real punishment. Once he had completed the page he was currently on he would be bending over, as well he knew.

The Naughty Stick came crashing down over his shorts twelve times. Miss Kendal noticed it was having the desired effect on Michael; he was yet to show any sign of remorse.

“Not a problem, young man. I have just the thing for boys like you.”

 

Off she went to the school store cupboard to collect a large plimsol with a very stingy rubber sole. Michael soon found his shorts around his ankles and it wasn’t long before his underpants followed too. Miss Kendal had exposed his bare bottom and reminded him just how fortunate he was that no other members of the teaching staff were here to witness his predicament.

 

Well timed whacks soon had Michael feeling sorry he had not completed the homework tasks set for him. Miss Kendal was satisfied this young man understood the error of his ways and, after he had scruffily pulled his shorts back up, dismissed him without a moments pause for solace.

 

There were worse pupils in her school and one of them was on the detention list for today – Ernest, a very bright but incredibly wayward young man in his final year. He and Miss Kendal were well acquainted; the boy simply could not stay out of trouble!

 

A wry smile crossed her face as she called Ernest into the classroom.

“What have we done this time, Ernest?” she asked with a sigh.

 

Checking through her detention report cards, a look of sheer disappointment crossed her face. He’d excelled himself this time.

“Bringing alcohol on to school property?”

Silence fell. Ernest’s eyes scoured the floor for excuses. Several moments passed before he began his tirade of reasoning, brought to an abrupt halt by a stern glare and a raised finger from the Head.

 

He knew this meant trouble.

“But Miss…” he began. She silenced him again. She was in no mood.

 

“Up to my private study, young man. GO!”

 

This wasn’t his first trip to Miss Kendal’s study, and it was unlikely to be his last. As he climbed the stairs Ernest breathed deeply and knowingly. Her patience with him was wearing thin. This boy needed corrective discipline, and fast. With no time wasted, she directed him to bare his bottom and assume the position over the bench.

A thin, whippy junior cane was swished and tested behind him. The scolding began. With his bottom exposed to the fresh air, he was vulnerable. He tried to hide his fear and sank his head into the bench in an attempt to drown out her cutting words. He wished she would just cane him and have it over with, but he was well aware Miss Kendal took great pleasure in prolonging the agony. He had no choice but to lie there and accept his fate. After all, as she periodically reminded him, he had no one to blame but himself.

 

The scolding trailed off and she readied herself. Out of the corner of his eye, Ernest could see her roll up her right sleeve. He braced himself. It was time.

 

A ritualistic three taps on his left cheek before WHACK, WHACK, WHACK.

 

No number of strokes, no counting. She really meant business today. How he howled and wailed.

Frustrated by his incessant noise, she paused. The sound of heavy breathing filled the room. Ernest was sent to stand in the corner, underpants barely hanging on as he shuffled over.

“Stand up straight. I’m not done with you.”

She left the room to find something more appropriate for the final part of his punishment. Minutes later she re-entered with a large, holed wooden paddle from the woodwork department. Of course, Ernest was slouching against the wall which infuriated her further.

Awarded twelve hard strokes with the threat of another twelve if he miscounted or complained. With such a walloping, he was unable to stop complaining! After the first set, Miss Kendal could see that Ernest hadn’t quite learned his lesson and decided to award the second set instantly.

 

This was enough to seal the deal and, after the final stroke was administered, Ernest slumped down with a huge sigh of relief.

 

A comforting hand on his shoulder and roles were dropped to allow aftercare to begin.

 

After such an intense and exciting session, it was lovely to sit chatting with Ernest afterwards, exchanging stories and sharing favourite moments from our play.

 

Let’s hope these three very different but equally naughty boys can stay out of trouble, at least for the time being!

 

___________________________________________________________
These sessions are tailored to the individuals I am playing with.  No session will be repeated like for like and, indeed, cannot be due to the nature of the relationships I have with the persons in question.
Names have been changed to protect identity. Consent has been granted for photographs and blog entries to be published.
If you would like your session to be included in a future Session Stories update, feel free to mention this to me in person or via email.
I welcome your comments and thoughts on these posts.

 

Miss Kendal

Sobbing in the Schoolroom – sarah’s lesson

Sobbing in the Schoolroom – sarah’s lesson

Ever wondered what it’s like to session with a Disciplinarian? More specifically, with me?  Maybe you’ve read the testimonials, seen the pictures and been enticed by Twitter feeds and comments.  Maybe you’ve created scenarios in your mind, pictured yourself bending over to receive due punishment and pondered what thoughts may pass through your mind in those final moments before the pain comes crashing down on your upturned bottom.
In this – my new series of Session Stories – I will describe just a few of the journeys my clients undergo when attending session with me.  Unlike client testimonials, these will be written by me and from my perspective.  I hope they will offer a real insight into the work I do and open your eyes to the sheer variety of possibilities available.
___________________________________________________________

 

An prompt start to my day today with class commencing at 10am sharp.  A wide eyed, eager school girl (male) presented herself to me ready to begin her lessons – there are many for her to learn.  She sat waiting in the corner, hands on her head.  The air was filled with anticipation and fear as I entered the classroom.

A previous homework assignment had been submitted via Twitter update – some of you may have seen the submission on my feed.  While sarah sat at her desk with her eyes lowered, I paced back and forth examining the homework.  The only sound coming from a ticking clock and my heels against the cold, wooden floorboards.  The scrutiny began.

 

 

A total of 500 lines written – “I wear Miss Kendal’s marks with pride.”

A total of six errors throughout:

– Scruffy paper, torn from a book.

– Punctuation missed.

– Messy margins, with none on some pages.

– Titles not centered or underlined.

– Early submission, evidence of rushing.

– Cigarettes in clear view on submission photo.

 

Together we identified each error and listed them on the blackboard.  I could sense sarah’s growing disappointment in herself and her attempts.  As instructed, she opened her new school exercise book and wrote the date at the top of the page.  The pencil shook in her hand.  She was well aware that this was only the beginning for her.  

Her homework was unacceptable and she knew it.  Silly excuses and childish outbursts earned her a rap across the knuckles and six from a junior cane over her school skirt.  My low tolerance for improper behaviour was quickly becoming apparent to sarah.  Dictated ‘Homework Rules’ were taken down and a re-submission date was set.

With her homework torn up before her, sarah was placed back in the corner to await uniform inspection.

She found herself earning a silver star, with only one minor adjustment required.  A target was set to achieve a gold star for uniform in her follow up inspection during our next session.

Any feelings of joy from this achievement were short lived; sarah was informed she would be attending a private detention in my study immediately after our lesson was concluded.  She knew exactly what this meant – the cane.

Shaking with dread at what was to come, sarah lay across the school bench.  She hadn’t been far from tears during lesson time and it wasn’t long before they began to flow.  Her punishment was absolutely necessary, loathed as she was to admit that.

After placing a junior and senior crook handled cane in her view, I left her for a time so she could weigh up exactly what was about to happen to her.

Awarded ten strokes of the cane for each error made on her homework, a total of sixty strokes, delivered cold.

I tested my canes behind her, rolled up my right sleeve and exposed her bottom ready.  Faint marks already showed from the six she had received during lesson time.  These lenient strokes were about to become a distant memory – no more protection afforded by her school skirt and knickers.

To my pleasure, the tears continued to fall throughout the caning.  Strokes were delivered with increasing intensity, using both junior and senior cane.

A short break and switch of cane after each set of twenty; a chance for me to admire the stripes as they begin to layer.

The incessant sobbing and wailing managed to earn sarah additional strokes towards the end of her punishment.

A very broken and sorry young lady lay across my bench by the time her caning was over.  Her faced drenched in her own tears.  Murmurs of ‘thank you Ma’am’ barely able to cross her lips.

Once her punishment was complete and our roles had been dropped, we shared a long cuddle.  A tear or two make it’s way on to my shoulder and I felt her breathe a huge sigh of relief.

She had made it.

A six week long wait since her last session.  Countless time spent thinking about what was coming, knowing she would get the release she truly needed.  

She sat dazed for a time and we shared a wonderful moment of quiet together.

When she was ready, she changed back into her street clothes and joined me for tea and laughter-filled conversation.

Targets for her next lesson are re-addressed briefly and, once back into a safe head space, she leaves my premises with her head held very high.

 

 

sarah’s school journey is only just beginning…

 

 

 

___________________________________________________________
These sessions are tailored to the individuals I am playing with.  No session will be repeated like for like and, indeed, cannot be due to the nature of the relationships I have with the persons in question.
Names have been changed to protect identity. Consent has been granted for photographs and blog entries to be published.
If you would like your session to be included in a future Session Stories update, feel free to mention this to me in person or via email.
I welcome your comments and thoughts on these posts.

 

Miss Kendal