The
more perceptive amongst you may have noticed that I have not posted on here for
some time. I do not wish to go into the details as to why but suffice to say a
traumatic family illness, sudden and unexpected, expunged all desire to blog.
Either here or elsewhere. (Yes, I do have interests other than of the whacking
bottoms variety.) All peripheral interests for a while ceased, whether as
participant or blogger. My only concern was for a beloved, fighting, literally,
for breath in intensive care. Such are,
to mangle Shakespeare, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. That was
all of three months ago and amazing recoveries and long summer days in glorious
Devon put life back on an even keel. And make one thankful. And as that life
returns to normal one thinks again on the little pleasures that make it all
worthwhile. Pleasures that are trivial and unimportant when all goes pear
shaped but help to spice up the normality of one’s usual existence. And
dropping your pants to be whacked is a pleasure that should not be denied too
long. The fact that I am back here blogging is testament to that. I got whacked
last week and it was long overdue. I emerged from a much needed session of the
sore behind variety and, smiling, waved goodbye to my personal, unexpected and
unwanted, trauma. We all cope in our own ways I said, ruefully rubbing my
backside.
And
that, of course, got me thinking of this long overdue blog. The question of
having your backside whacked as a form of stress relief often crops on CP site
forums and chat rooms. It is frequently couched in the form of being a rather
strange thing to do. Is it? I don’t think so. To those of our ilk there cannot
be anything nicer than having a cane or strap connect with your willing bottom,
especially when your pants are around your ankles and that bottom is as bare
and naked as when your mother first saw it. All your responsibilities and
burdens in an increasingly chaotic world are gone in a flash. For a few
minutes, or if you are lucky an hour or so, all that matters is the naked
freedom of disciplinary pleasure. And it is not strange. Guilt for some misdeed
was often assuaged in childhood by a wrathful parent or vengeful teacher. I
still remember those long gone days when a smarting and burning backside,
painfully earned, relieved all the stresses of a heady situation. Is it so
unusual that, in adulthood, its recreation can have a similar effect? I reckon
submissives of the CP scene, I cannot speak for those who wield the weapons,
are lucky to have such a simple and ready release at their disposal.
When
I readied myself for last week’s caning, heavily delivered by an enthusiastic
headmaster type, I blessed my particular kink. As I bent over the punishment
bench dressed only in shorts and vest I felt a surge of long delayed anticipation.
And when those shorts were lowered and the eager cane touched my bare buttocks
I almost cried in relief that my much desired cleansing was about to commence.
And each time that cane lashed into my bare backside I cried again in a strange
mixture of pleasure, pain, and thankfulness. Next week I shall visit my
favourite mistress for a more prolonged and sensuous reprise. I am fortunate
that I care not who canes me, male or female, so long as they are good and
enthusiastic. In fact mixing the gender adds to the spice of my life. And that
life, after a much stressful period, is now back on an even keel. And being
caned on my bare bottom has played no small part in it. But I doubt if I shall
tell my doctor that. There are some things best left to this blog. Alfred Roy