One look, could kill; my pain, your thrill…

“Nervous”, she asked. “Yes”, came my croaky reply with dry mouth, knotty stomach and pounding heart. “Well you should be!” Black pencil skirt, heels, grey top; formal, yet elegant. It was only tea and a chat, but already I knew this lady meant business.

A confession followed; honest and unfiltered. My selfish and destructive vice is online gambling, a thief of time, money and self-respect. The talking ceased and I was led upstairs where punishment was to be administered.

The mood changed. Instructions were given; clear and precise. I had to disrobe slowly and methodically. Hands behind my back and head bowed, there were questions that needed answers. Mesmerised by her icy blue eyes, I dare not avert my gaze. Then, there was the silence, loud and gut-wrenching; a timeless void where emotions cruelly betrayed any attempt at stoicism.

This was Miss Kendal’s domain. I had become a child. She was my favourite teacher or kindly aunt who I had let down badly. The disappointment was etched on her face. Things had to change. My errant behaviour was to be replaced with a new set of strategies, explained in detail and agreed to, with the sanction of the dreaded cane in the event of non-compliance.

Then it began, and she warned that it would be painful. Although this was a warm up, she spanked hard, first over her knee and then prone and bare over her bench. My breathing hastened and the sting intensified until the process came to a temporary halt. I was instructed to stand whilst my tormentor collected her implements.

With door closed, I could hear only wood, collated and stacked, unmistakeable and effective; the expectancy raised still higher. Spoon-shaped, but light, canvas shoe with textured rubber sole, heavy circular paddle and holed terror, were neatly displayed in front of me in order of use, increasing in intensity, the four courses on a menu of hurt. The canes were displayed too, vicious in appearance and exotic in name, not for use, but for visual effect and to aid with future focus.

Miss Kendal is an artist. Implements were applied with changes in tempo, with pauses, sometimes lengthy pauses for reflection. I had to beg for the slipper, a repeated mantra asking for a throbbing absolution, and all building slowly and inevitably to a crescendo, the final movement in a symphony of pain. I was on a journey, the destination somewhere between mild terror and breathless anticipation.

Twenty-four hard strokes to conclude, twelve with each of the heavy-duty implements. All to be counted aloud, with any errors resetting the count to zero. The pace was measured and deliberate; designed to allow the maximum time for contemplation and contrition. Each rifle-shot retort added to the incremental pain, a fusion of bee stings and branding iron. Throughout there were reminders that I was wholly responsible for my predicament and the absolute need to mend my ways. “Twenty-three, thank you, ….twenty-four, thank you”. It was over. I was genuinely grateful, but completely spent.

The slate was clean. Miss Kendal held my hand, reassuring and comforting. A gentle hand-spanking brought me gradually down to earth, cream was applied to my tender rear, and a kindly hug completed my transformation.

More tea and a friendly chat concluded a truly wonderful encounter. The dense fog that had been clouding my judgement had lifted, and throughout my journey home I felt a new sense of calm and confidence.

Four days later, I am sporting my bruises with pride. Miss Kendal is still in my head. Whilst the thought of the intense pain of the cane at our July session is a strong incentive to remain on track, the prospect of letting her down, weighs heaviest of all.