As promised, to myself at least, I made a visit to this lady last month. It was a heavenly experience I have every intention of repeating. Assuming she will accept me. I hope so. Her sense of humour is only matched, and exceeded, by her expertise with a cane. As the following illustrates, I revelled in both. Alfred Roy
The Leicester Governess
I had arranged it methodically. A
slight and secretive diversion from my intended destination. Arriving an hour
late, traffic problems, would cause no suspicion. And the anticipation of a
snatched hour to fulfil a need, strong held, made deception worthwhile. I was
practised in such arts. Opportunities spotted, carefully planned, meticulously
undertaken. Bizarre practices carried out, separately and clandestinely, under
a cloak of normality. Bizarre? Not really. But inexplicable to all but oneself.
So do not explain, do not tell. Just lead an ordinary life and, joyously, when
the need arises and can be met, succumb. Plan your journey. Make your
diversion. And live your constant dream.
I first got the incipient idea
when I saw her name, or her soubriquet. The Leicester Governess. Lived not far
from family and friends I occasionally visited. Obtained her map reference and
the possibilities crystallised. She offered pure caning therapy as one of her
services. The more I thought of it the more I desired it. No fuss, no frills,
no nonsense. Sixty hard cane strokes to your bottom, preferably bared, for a
lot of pain and a small fee. Over and done with in less than an hour. A small
diversion on my travels and I could experience that heavenly desire which, throughout
my life, has surfaced as regularly as spring flowers and autumn sunsets. I made
an appointment and the familiar anticipatory excitement kicked in. As I said,
you cannot explain it.
It was all so well managed. So
civilised. She drove to a selected location and, introductions made, I followed
her car along country roads to her place of residence. Splendid detached house
with large gardens to both front and rear. No danger of overheard swishing cane
thwacks and cries of anguish. I relaxed, more so when she stepped out of her
car and the pleasant redhead I had met smiled and beckoned me to her front
door. I could have been arriving for afternoon tea and discussions on the
village hall flower show or bring and buy sale. All so well mannered and polite.
By both of us. But the underlying frisson was evident to those privileged to
take a closer look. She was tall, pleasantly slim, and with a firm manner of
speaking touched by a soft South African accent. I drank all this in as I
approached her door and it was her height that registered most. I am not small,
being of medium height, but at over six foot she towered above me. Immediately
I was a small boy, transported to my childhood days. The knowledge of what was
to come no doubt helped and as I stepped inside her house I knew that I was in
the presence of a woman who would dominate me. This snatched hour of strange
pleasure was going to be good.
There was little initial chat.
Just an outline of my therapy. Sixty hard strokes of a suitable cane, she
assessed me as being capable of absorbing a sturdy medium one, delivered in
sets of ten. I would be tied down to her bench, as yet unseen, and once
commenced there would be no relenting until all sixty were struck across my
behind. It was as I had fervently wished, as I had feverishly hoped. This
diversion would be worthwhile. She approved of my wish to report to the small
room indicated attired in short cotton top and underpants, a real naughty boy
she said, as I had no desire to be totally naked. It was not that sort of
scene. She gave me a glass of water and I went to her bathroom and prepared.
When I nervously knocked on the door of the small therapy room, clad only in
those pants and top, little more than ten minutes had passed. Ten minutes since
she had got out of her car and towered over me. Ten minutes since uneasy equals
transformed to performers in a special dance. The one to wield a cane, the
other to sigh at its stinging kiss.
I stood by her small desk, a
variety of canes displayed, and at her instruction placed my hands on my head.
A beautiful submissive pose. The therapy ritual was repeated. There was no
going back. Once bared, bent, and tied I would take all sixty of some pretty
heavy strokes across my small behind. However much I cried. However much I begged
to be let off. I nodded and she smiled and, quickly and efficiently, whipped my
underpants down to my ankles. On the bare she said, step out of them. I did so
and just as quickly put my hands back on my head. And here I closed my eyes. I
was naked from the waist down, exposed, showing my bottom and everything else.
And in front of me was this tall and firm, but kindly, dominant woman reaching
for her cane. Her words were strict, her actions were precise, but all had a
hint of gentle humour. In a few bewildering moments I was spread over the small
bench, hands and legs firmly tied down, and my willing bare behind was raised
in the air. This was it, there was no going back. My little, secretive,
diversion from family visits would now have its payoff. As the cane touched my
bottom I knew I would not have it any other way. Such moments were worth a
thousand deceptions.
To be so vulnerable is exquisite
to those of such a nature. To have one’s bottom naked and raised and awaiting
the kiss of a savage cane sends a surge through the whole being of those so
inclined. It spreads from the loins in waves of molten lava and creates sensuous
enveloping warmth that engulfs. And the anticipation, the joy and fear, is
enhanced when one knows or senses that the one wielding that cane is filled
with similar sensations. And I had sensed that in her, my South African
therapist. This was a woman who enjoyed caning bottoms. No, relished it. I
could tell. She relished taking down a boy’s, or a man’s or a woman’s, pants
and thrashing their backside. Thrashing them across their bare behinds with a
sturdy cane. Bringing up pain, and howls, and weals that would last and last.
Seeing their squirms as her cane whacked into the vulnerable behinds. I knew,
or sensed all this, and I embraced it. Embraced it because I knew, or equally
sensed, that this woman was not a sadist. Not a person who would lose control.
But someone who loved what she did and would do it thoroughly. Beating behinds
was her vocation. And she joyfully threw herself into it. And the behind she
was about to beat, the naked bending behind she was about to thrash, was mine.
And I welcomed it. To be caned is heaven, to be caned by an expert is beyond
compare. Even before the first stroke struck me I knew this would be good.
My Leicester Governess did not
disappoint. Each individual swoop of her cane laid a savage stinging kiss
across my naked behind. Each set of ten strokes induced a collective burning
pain of fire that was both excruciating in intensity and pleasurable in its
effect. I gasped and squirmed at the relentless attack on my bottom but never,
not once, did I beg for release. This was intensifying joy and could not be
denied. After thirty of my strokes, bottom involuntarily throbbing with
increasing heat, she released my hands to allow my head to rise and my senses
to clear. A small and welcome respite, and a subtle indication of her consideration.
You will not cover yourself with your hands, she said, so I shall not tie you
down again. It was an observation, not request. Such kindness was not followed
through to the rest of my caning. Three more sets of ten, each more savage and
painful than the last, completed my special therapy. By the end I was
whimpering and sobbing, tears of both pain and joy. I had taken all sixty
strokes, sixty strokes of a serious cane across my naked backside, and not once
had I begged to be let off. She released the ties and allowed me to rise. I did
so, vigorously rubbing my hardened and burning bottom, and smiled a small
apology. My genitalia, politely flaccid, nevertheless indicated leakage. A
small manifestation of the pleasure within. She did not mind. When I went to
the bathroom and saw the results of her ministrations in the mirror I think we
were both pleased. She was, is, an artist and had painted on my behind the
picture that I had desperately desired. And no one, neither her nor I, could
ever explain it.
We chatted over a pleasant cup of
tea in her kitchen and I warmed to her personality. In spite of all I had
suffered she induced the desire to be punished again. Some folks bring out the
worst in you and the worst in me is a wish to be whacked. So I was pleased, if
nervous, when before I left she unexpectedly ordered me back into her study. No
fees involved here, the account had been settled, merely the settling of some
small thing that had irked her. An intrusive question, an inconsiderate remark.
Whatever, I had transgressed. And she was a true disciplinarian. So jeans were
lowered and pants pulled down and, over that dreaded bench, ten more wicked
strokes of an equally wicked cane lashed into my bruised and battered behind. I
loved it and said so as I gingerly pulled my garments back on. I loved the
reality, if not the pain, and I drove to my onward destination with a light and
happy heart. I shall go again, especially as she said that next time she would
not hold back as she did this time. You may have a small bottom, she said, but
it is well versed in this art. That is what she said. Or something like it. I
should be fearful, especially as my therapeutic session was pretty severe, but
I am not. I am always willing to drop my pants for an expert. Not that I tell
many folks. Certainly not my brother. You are late, he said, traffic problems?
No, I said, but I did have to take a small diversion. Alfred Roy