Rikki Caned

"Kindly remove your drawers, and mount up on the chair," he directed, pointing to the large leather armchair with the wicked rod he held, "I shall start by giving two dozen cuts, after which we shall decide if more should be called for. Your comportment under correction will of course have some bearing on my decision."

  Two dozen, and mounted on the punishment chair! This was a stiff sentence indeed, but no more than my guilty person deserved. Was I not female, and responsible for leading the groom, and who knows whom else into those sinful temptations that stir the opposite sex, when the female cannot control her evil influence. But I hated that chair, as much as I feared that whippy rod. One had to climb up on it, with one knee on each of the padded arms. Since it was a chair of normal width, suitable for a gentleman's library, a mere woman had to spread her thighs to splitting distance to span them and then, still stretched wide open, he insisted that we put our heads right down on the cushions of the seat, putting our arms around the chair back to support our position. It was a most testing posture, not least because it exposed all one's most intimate parts to the gaze of the chastiser and, we feared, the rod itself might even penetrate to those secret depths of our persons, now humiliatingly displayed, and wreak havoc in our soft tissues. Perhaps, in view of the dangerous nature of those parts of our female bodies to the male at this time, he had already decided that they should be included in the portions our anatomy to be whipped into righteousness.

 With trembling hands, I reached under my skirts to draw down, and discard discreetly, the thin cotton garment in which the offending parts were cased. Then I advanced to the brooding chair on equally trembling legs, climbing first onto the seat, and hoisting my skirts clear up to my waist, He was very particular about this, and would award extra strokes if even one fold of cloth fell below one's narrowest portion, before swinging each knee in turn up onto the corresponding arm.

  I could feel the tendons at my fork stretching with the extreme parting of my thighs, and knew that my inner secrets were now visible to him. Marion and I are rather above average height for women, but despite our long lower limbs, we are only just able to spread our legs enough to place our knees in the required position, without straining the tendons in our crotches to the point where we feel the damage when we come to walk away from the place of chastisement. Charlotte has great difficulty with the position. While her limbs are well proportioned and shapely, she lacks the long thigh bones which enable Marion and I to bridge the gap between the arms, and even without the additional handicap of a bruised buttock, can only walk with a clumsy, and painful, wide-legged waddle, immediately after her correction.

I bent my head, and lowered it to the leather cushion that formed the seat of the dreaded chair, a process not without difficulties of it's own, for we had been used to the beneficial restriction of tight lacing from the advent of our womanhood, He contending that a woman without stays was too easily led into riotous behaviour, whilst firm bones, and strong laces, provided a restriction on too free movement of the body that would be reflected in a similar brake on our otherwise all too weak and wandering natures. The devices he prescribed, of whalebone, steel, buckram cloth and unyielding linen lacing, extended from just below our breasts, to rest on the outward jut of our buttocks, behind, with a stiffened busk flattening our bellies before, and reaching down to almost the tops of our thighs, and, bending to attain the required position for this form of whipping, sent the bottom edge digging into the pad of flesh above one's pubic bone.

  And now I could feel the air on those parts, and knew that the position I had assumed, had opened up not only my nether cheeks, exposing my rear opening - my anus - to the light, but also had made those fleshy lips that guarded my female entrance, to part, and leave all that tender tissue unprotected from either eye or rod. With my head on the seat, my shoulders were near level with my knees, and I was able to put my arms round the back of the chair, digging my fingers into the leather near the bottom of the back. Now I was positioned correctly for the rod to have the maximum effect. My buttocks were spread and stretched, so that the flesh was at its most vulnerable, while the confines of my position, meant that I could not move one inch to avoid the worst ravages of the cane, but must hold myself steadily to absorb it. The only way I could avoid its dreadful bite would be to let my knees come off the arms, and that was unthinkable. To do so meant extra strokes, or even to take the whole punishment again the next day. On one memorable occasion, Marion had slipped, I am sure it was not a voluntary movement, after twenty three of a two dozen sentence. She was made to take the remaining stroke, then report, before breakfast, the next morning, to take the full two dozen over again. This was the only time I ever remember Marion weeping openly after a correction, and I had no wish to follow her example. I would cling to that chair, and keep my knees planted like the roots of an oak, though hell itself was loosed in my buttocks.

He approached, and checked that my posture was correct. His hands explored my bent cheeks, probing and squeezing, to assess their resilience, and fitness for the cuts to come. Ordinarily he would probe my previous welts with his finger, to assess what degree of bruising remained, but on this occasion I had been left so long that only brown and green traces remained on the surface, and the swellings had all subsided to such an extent that bruising was patently absent. His hands pressed in further, to explore the fleshy parts around my 'fig', while his thumb pressed against the dimple set behind. I believe he did this to assess my general state of health, with a view to deciding how much punishment it would be reasonable to inflict.

I heard a rattle as he picked up the cane from the desk, where he had laid it while he inspected my person, and, looking through the arch of my parted thighs, saw him come into my line of vision. As he raised the yellow length, I closed my eyes, and waited, bracing my body for the first shocking blow, praying that the coming agony would help me suppress those parts of my nature that had such a harmful effect on the male sex, driving out the evil inherent in all womankind, or at least rendering it harmless. My teeth grated, as I clenched them tightly, to trap my screams before they could rise, and my fingers dug even more deeply into the leather of the chair back. I was set now. The cane touched my nether cheeks, though only to mark where he would set the first line of fire, but, to my shame, my flesh cringed of its own volition. He growled that I was clenching, and to open up. Desperately I forced my buttocks to relax, leaving them open for the rod to do its best work in between the soft folds. My heart beating wildly I waited.

 I had already forgotten just how deep that testing cane could bite. One might have been forgiven for thinking that with so painful an experience, the memory would remain for ever sharp, but I think the mind must soften the outlines of the blazing agony it raised in one's buttocks. Perhaps it was just the female mind that could perform this insidious treachery, evading thereby the lessons so assiduously imprinted in her nether parts, and intended by her master, to guide her out of the paths of wrongdoing, into the way of grace. We are unruly creatures, untrustworthy, even in our own minds, and I think it quite likely that we are guilty of this evasion of our duty as of so much else.

  Be that as it may, the first blow shocked me. My breath went out in a sharp cry, bitten off almost as soon as started, then returned hissing between my teeth, as I felt the full flow of that throbbing agony that floods into the welt with the returning blood. Burning with shame at being so nearly undone at the first cut, I tightened my grip on the chair back, put my head even more firmly into the cushion, thrusting my spread buttocks up and back to greet the rod, and resolved to take the next stroke with better grace.

But it was impossible. If I had Marion's stoicism and bravery, I might have done it, though even she had cried out last night, but I was not made of such stern stuff and, though I clung to my position, nor let an outright scream pass my lips, I flinched with every cut, choked on guttural cries, and by the seventh or eighth stroke, blubbered like a child, rather than the full grown woman that I was. He paused in his measured flogging of my bottom and, to my shame, admonished me for my lack of composure.

 "Not only are you snivelling like a babe," declared he, "but you are clenching your buttocks against the rod. Loose them at once, and let the rod in. How can your soul be saved, if your body will not submit?"

  Mortified, I stifled my sobs, and let my buttocks relax as ordered, knowing that in this fashion I would receive the utmost benefit from each stroke. Desperately I clung to the chair through ten, through twelve, through sixteen, an Andromeda clinging to her rock, but there was no Perseus with his Gorgon's head to turn the Kraken into stone, instead the monster was in my buttocks, tearing and rending, inflicting on me the very pains of hell.

  At eighteen I screamed, and nineteen too, as the cane dropped just a little, to strike, not on the painful crease between buttock and thigh, but on the thigh top itself. He growled his condemnation, and I choked into silence, or as near to as my gasping breath would allow, plus the creaking of the leather as my body writhed on its perch, seemingly of its own volition, and quite outside my ability to control it, nor did this meet with his approval either, and he gave me another cut to my thighs to still me. By now I had received twenty of the two dozen cuts I had been promised, And I was conscious that a desperate effort was needed to restore my credit, if further strokes, on top of my present account, were not to be incurred.

I dug my nails into the leather, forcing some stillness into my rebellious flesh, and set my teeth in my lip. How often had my sisters and I cling to this doleful mount in this fashion, driving our nails into the thick cowhide! So many times, in truth, that the tough skin had been all but worn through. It was only by dint of our assiduous attention, several times a week, working the best saddle soap into the hide for half an hour at a time, that we had managed to make it sustain our agonized assaults thus far. We tried not to think what would happen when, inevitably, one of us, in extremis, burst the thinning membrane. Now I was in that same extremis, literally clinging on by my finger nails to my position, and my consciousness, through the last four terrible cuts. I knew I was

clenching again, for he barked at me to make myself open again, and I tried desperately to meet his requirement, and then it was done. The cane fell no more, and I could only lie there sobbing, conscious of how I had failed to live up to the standards I had set myself, and that he would have wished.

  I was surprised to hear the rattle of the cane, as it was set down on the desk, for I was convinced that my comportment under correction had fallen far short of satisfactory, and then I was aware of him behind me, and something hard pressing against the little dimple set behind my softly fleeced 'fig'. I opened my eyes, that had remained fast shut throughout, and looked through my spread thighs to see that his breeches were round his ankles, and he held a great throbbing member, redder than his flushed visage, directing it in between my cheeks.

More of this lovely but naughty girl here.