I have previously written about an event in the 1970s that I believe triggered my long term interest in corporal punishment. As a young girl, I felt very unusual, alone and somewhat ashamed of the warm feelings these thoughts aroused. I went to an all-girl, independent senior school that did retain corporal punishment, but it was almost never used, and I was never on the receiving end.

My best friend at school had a younger brother, and one day I recall her telling me how they had both been in the dog house at home because he had been caned at school, and how unfair that was from her perspective. My interest of course peaked, and I managed wrangle an invitation to stay with her after school that evening. When her brother appeared, we both started to tease him about his caning, “bet you cried” etc. I asked him how many strokes he had been given. He said four, to which we both replied: “Don’t believe you.”

This went on for some time until we said he needed to show us. He was having none of it until my friend volunteered that I would show him my boobs! I was stunned as, whilst I was ahead of my year with respect to developing, I was very self-conscious of the size of my chest. However, he turned around, had his trousers and pants pulled down in a flash and we could indeed see the outline of four strokes, but they were now black and purple with bruising. They looked very sore and angry, but he insisted it didn’t hurt that much. He had been caned over his trousers, bending over, so I asked him to show us how far he had to bend over.

When he did this, we could better make out each stroke, but also copped a huge glimpse of his testicles which shocked us, but then made us both burst out in fits of laughter. I did keep to my side of the bargain, it took me a while to get my blouse undone and bra off, and then he got the quickest flash in history. I think he probably felt a bit cheated, although we both noticed a little point in his trousers, his sister shouted he was revolting, but then we again both burst in to teen hysterics. I suspect the brother and I both indulged ourselves later that night with what we had seen. I certainly did, and again was massively turned on by the thought of being bent over and caned.

The feelings stayed with me, and whilst I met one guy at University who was happy to recount the occasions he was caned at school, I had little other first-hand experiences to enjoy. My ex-husband was educated in Scotland and I understand was frequently tawsed on the hands, but never caned. I never shared or even gave any inclination of my interest to him during our marriage as I was scared and embarrassed of any negative reaction.

Only recently, and with more time to myself, I eventually came to the conclusion that I needed to live out my fantasy. I researched endlessly on the internet, and had many false starts. After a number of calls, and some off-putting responses, I eventually came across C who is stunning, about 5’10”, meticulous in her planning and focussed wholly on CP. I had previously told C my story and what I was seeking. She listened patiently and then we set up an appointment.

On the day, I almost backed out on several occasions. I have always dressed stylishly and spend a lot of time on my appearance and make-up, and it was no different on this day, although I was a mess inside, and racked with guilt. I eventually convinced myself I would do this only once, and then it would be out of my system.

On arrival, C had a wonderfully inviting smile and was dressed immaculately, almost as you would expect a city lawyer. We chatted and had a soft drink to break the ice, calm my nerves and she also told me about the use of a safe word which would also bring the session to an end.

After this, C then took me through to a back room where there was a mini classroom, with a number of implements hanging from the wall and an umbrella stand with a dozen or so canes of different shapes and sizes. She told me to select a cane. I opted for a crook handled, slim cane and handed it to C. Whilst doing so, I told her I only wanted four strokes, exactly the same as the girls from before, and my friend’s brother. I wanted them hard, but not brutally so.

C smiled and said: “Were the classmates you described asked how many strokes they wanted? In court, do you get to tell the judge what sentence he should give you? I am indeed going to thrash your bottom, but I will decide your punishment. You have a safe word if you need it. That is all the input you have.”

She then placed the cane back in the umbrella stand and walked out of the room. She re-appeared almost instantly with another longer and thicker cane. It also was the old-fashioned crook handle version, but looked the genuine article and she was bending it in an arc. She took the low backed chair from the replica teachers desk and placed it in the middle of the room.

She smiled and said: “Earlier, I only wanted to know what type of implement you wanted to be punished with, not the exact item.” Then she continued: “Take your shoes off, then your tights and knickers. Once you have done that, I want you to bend right over the back of this chair and hold the underside of the seat.”

I was now doubting why I had done this. I was somewhat frightened but also nervously excited. Eventually, I bent over the chair and grabbed the underside of the seat in front, my hair falling down forward. I felt C pull up my skirt, over my hips and bunch it up at the small of my back. I could distinctly feel the cool air on my bottom and the backs of my legs. C softly, but clearly, asked me to place my feet further apart and to stick my bottom out. I was aware everything was now on show and strangely wished I had trimmed down below. I heard the cane being sliced through the air a couple of times and then knew I hadn’t long to wait.

C again said very slowly and softly: “I am now going to give you an authentic, bare-bottomed flogging. I intend giving you six of the best with the school cane, plus one more for insolence in asking for four, and one more for luck. I will stop after four at which point you may stand up and rub your bottom. This is the only time you can get up or move. Do you understand?”

I meekly replied that I did. I had forgotten I had the safe word and now was dreading taking eight strokes from this fearsome cane in the hands of this rather tall, fit woman. I felt the cane touch my bottom, move off and then heard the sound of the swish and felt the impact almost simultaneously. I jumped forward with the pain and let out an involuntary low shriek. The sting was worse than I had anticipated, but it was the hard and painful thud on my bottom that was the biggest surprise, almost as if I had fallen and landed on my bum.

The second followed shortly afterwards and was equally painful. I groaned loudly and my eyes started to water. I now just wanted this over, but for some reason, never considered using the safe word. Two more strokes really had my bottom aching and my legs started to shake. The initial sting of each stroke almost took my breath away, followed by the severe, aching, deep pain.

After the first four, C politely said: “You can now get up.”

I rose very gingerly. My bottom was aching, stinging, felt on fire and I touched it to see if it was bleeding as I could almost feel the lines. It wasn’t of course, but I could feel a couple of ridges where the cane had hit home. C praised me for not moving throughout, asked if I would like to be strapped down for the next four, which I declined, and then moved the chair in front of a long mirror.

She then disappeared again, only to return with a hair band. She told me to put my hair up as she wanted me to be able to watch the end of my beating. I was then placed over the chair again, bottom facing the wall with the long mirror, and C then brought a picture size mirror down near my face at an angle to the opposite wall. She manoeuvred it about asking me to tell her when I could see my bottom. When I did, I got a shock. I had some angry pink stripes across my bottom. It looked like two plus one large one where I guess two were close together.

Once the mirror position was all agreed and now with my hair tied up, I could watch the next part of the session. I really wanted this over now, and watched my bottom in the mirror and gritted my teeth. I couldn’t see C in the mirror, only one of her shoes and part of a leg, and then the cane as it rested on my bottom.

I watched the next strike which again was excruciatingly painful and stinging, seemed very low, almost at the top of my legs, but didn’t seem to leave a mark. I didn’t watch the next two strokes, just tried not to squeal too loudly, and cleared my eyes of tears before looking back and seeing the additional pink lines beginning to form. There was one to go and I couldn’t wait to get this over with.

C delayed for a time, then softly said: “Last one, stay down after until I tell you to get up.”

There was a long pause, then I could sense C taking a couple of steps back, followed by a quick skip  forward and she the unleashed the hardest stroke of all. I absolutely squealed out loud, gritted my teeth and closed my eyes whilst I waited for the initial pain to subside. My eyes were watering again and my bottom was a mixture of sharp stinging and deep aching pain.

After a moment I looked in the mirror. My bottom looked a pink and red mess, but with one stripe that seemed to go across the rest. C asked if I would like her to put some oil on to help with the bruising. I have been relatively active in sports, keep myself fit, and know I don’t bruise easily, but just wanted out quickly, so said: “No thanks.”

She said: “Wait there, don’t move.”

She lifted the mirror and started moving around so I could see all angles of my striped bottom. For almost the first time, I started to get a little excited by my position, stripes and the feeling of stinging in my bottom.

C put down the mirror and said: “You can get up and get dressed now.”

When dressed, she called me back to the room we had first met in, where she had a small tray and two coffee cups. We had a quick cup of coffee during which she asked me if I had enjoyed the session.

She laughed when I said I had very mixed feelings, and indicated that is what she had hoped for, but said: “I think there were signs you enjoyed it. Sleep on it, and see how you feel.”

C claimed she really enjoyed caning others, and also being caned by those who had a sincere interest in the subject. She saw a small number of women, but, surprisingly to me, they were of mixed ages, and in her view, you didn’t have to experience school CP to be fascinated by it.

I left shortly afterwards with a mix of strong feelings. At times, I felt disgusted with myself and had a sense of having done something immoral. I was uncomfortably sore, feeling ridiculous for allowing myself to be beaten, and with no desire to repeat the experience. The pain subsided later in the evening, and turned into a dull ache and light sting which I actually enjoyed and remained with me for a day or two. I looked at my bottom in the bathroom mirror a number of times, and before going to bed that first evening. The pink lines had turned very deep red, almost purple.

I lay in bed replaying the entire event in my mind, felt this wonderful feeling of excitement I had experienced all those years ago returning, and was then able to pleasure myself thinking about my first caning. C was correct about sleeping on it! The stripes turned to black, purple, green and yellow, before completely disappearing about two and half weeks later. Despite vowing never to return, I have, but very infrequently as I try to further understand what influences these desires.