After this visit I returned with a friend for a dual session. I think she enjoyed it as much as we did. Regardless, she put a photo of our bottoms on her twitter account. Fame, of a sort, at last.
It
has taken a long time but I have finally got to drop my pants for this lovely lady
again. She is great fun and seriously awesome. The smile on her lips and the
fire in her eyes turns a willing but fearful oldie back to a trembling fifteen
year old long before the cane in her hands has swished. Bending over her bench
waiting for my underpants to be pulled down was sensory heaven. The sixty cane
strokes that followed on my shamefully bare bottom were painfully hell. But I
loved it all. Therapy at its finest. Why had I waited so long?
Not
my fault I told myself. For reasons I have no wish to elaborate, contact had
become elusive. Desire thwarted. But suddenly, following a lazy summer
afternoon text, she responded. I was staying with my brother and shortly to
return home. Idly I had mused on popping in to see my favourite Governess for
sixty of her finest. A forlorn muse I thought. Silence had reigned for months.
But now, following a positive response, fantasies regenerated and imagination
switched into overdrive. In summer heat a short drive on my way home would
culminate in longed for disciplinary heaven.
She
was everything I remembered. Tall, imposing, friendly and firm. The years on me
shed away as we talked. I morphed to fifteen from whatever. This lady canes
bums with aplomb and mine, after afternoon pleasantries, would be no exception.
The sixty stroke therapy she offers, for a very reasonable fee, is pure
disciplinary perfection. There is no touchy feely warm up, no suggestion of
unseemly sexual services, and no props or devices to enhance the senses. It is
pure get ready, suitably attired, and over her punishment bench for sixty
strokes across your bare behind. And you know that you deserve it. The
endorphins will kick and this therapy, writ large, will take you on a journey
that has no equals. The National Health never offers thus.
I
prepared, nervously, and stood before her in small vest and tight fitting
underpants. Very clean, very light blue, very complimentary. Or so I hoped. A
severe look, a quick order, and over her bench I went with bottom suitably
raised and hands steely gripping the rails. I was ready, especially when those
light blue pants were pulled off leaving me only in a small top covering my
upper half. My bare bottom was ready for my first ten of sixty, my mind
desperately trying to embrace the zone. It was a sturdy cane, thankfully neither
too thin nor thick, and my Governess expertly whacked it into my willing behind
with gentle force. Painful but pleasant and I relaxed. The first ten, or
twenty, or thirty would be well within my discomfort range. But I had no illusions;
I had been here before and knew that this sixty stroke therapy was a slow
build.
The
power increased and my bottom responded in burning sensitivity as that first
thirty were delivered in sets of more painful tens. Number twenty three was a
bit low and I raised my first howl but the rest, all twenty nine, whacked
pleasingly against the only target I wished to be hit. As I rose for a most
welcome hiatus I eagerly rubbed my disciplined backside, simultaneously
conscious of both the burning throb and hardness across both of my cheeks. In
classic schoolboy manner I looked in one of her many mirrors and was surprised
that the burning pain was merely reflected in gentle pinkness on my bum and the
odd reddish stripe. An expert had whacked causing distress but not destruction.
I
bent over the bench again. Thirty more therapy strokes to come and, at my
request, restraints were applied to arms, legs, and back. No crying off for
these as my upturned sensitive bum beckoned the avenging cane. And avenge it
did. I felt everyone, much harder than the first thirty and a few despairing
howls rang in the air. But I did not begrudge, it was what I wanted. A hard
cane across my naked bum. And I got it, all expertly applied to that central
cheek area which signals pain and induces emotions in equal proportions. Each
vicious stroke released a feeling in my being that I cannot explain. Nor need
to. But as the last few created a savage fire across my behind that could only
be assuaged by unseemly amplified gasps of anguish, I knew I had reached a
pinnacle of exquisite disciplinary pain. Released from my restraints I rose
with an inexplicable joy in my being and an invigorating throb in my behind.
The hardness on my cheeks was now enhanced and, helpful mirror, the gentle
pinkness had deepened to a pleasing red.
I had no desire to dress, no desire to cover up. For ten or fifteen
minutes the Governess and I chatted, her severely dressed and me merely in
short vest which covered nothing of importance. As it should be. She could
admire her handiwork and I could calmly float into that state of blissful
serenity such a severe caning evokes. And I could continue to rub my ever
burning bottom.
Eventually
I dressed and prepared to leave. Before I did I was given an unexpected leaving
present. Eyes blazing she said she was displeased with something I said. I know
not what; it did not matter as clearly I was due for a late disciplinary bonus.
And this I remember almost as much as what had gone before. I stood by the
bench like a naughty school boy as she undid my belt and roughly lowered my
jeans and underpants to my knees. Bent over and top lifted out of the way she
gave me ten extra hard strokes of the cane to my now familiar bare bottom. I
howled. But if the pain was high the pleasure was higher still. As I drove home
I vowed that her cane would, very soon, provide the same service again. My
bottom and the Governess’s cane may not be a match made in heaven but on that
lazy summer afternoon it was certainly one made in Leicestershire. As I have
said, an awesome experience.
Alfred
Roy