George Got the Cane

Tonight when Paul got home from work I was wearing schoolboy shorts. Even before we sat down to dinner, which in a burst of domesticity I had ready (cottage pie), he had me bend over the back of one of our dining chairs — I can just grasp the seat standing on tiptoe — so he could smack the seat of my short pants hard.  I was surprised at how much the hand spanks stung through the layers of fabric but was bravely uncomplaining.

That’s the thing about being a boy for me, as I said below, I tend not to fuss or complain during spankings or thrashings, something which I do quite a bit of as a girl. It’s not something I really think about; it’s just my reaction to being dressed as a uniformed schoolboy.

Anyway, after we had dinner, Paul did the dishes and I retreated to the bedroom to work on my calligraphy homework. After an hour or so, I was done with my lettering for the night. He came in and I switched off my audiobook (In the Woods by Tana French for those who must know the details). Up until that moment I’d harbored a secret hope that I might get off with just the handspanking tonight. After all, Paul had done a hard day’s work (well, he’d been gone all day anyway) and it was getting late. But he took me by the ear and led me into the living room where the caning block was set up. Dread and the leftover cottage pie made my stomach rumble.

Paul had me put myself over the block. As I stood, bent far over and standing on my toes, I heard him fetch the canes. I gripped the metal bar of the table tightly. After making a few swishing noises, he then came over to me. At first I thought he was going to take down my shorts, but no. He was pulling them up. He was going to cane my thighs.  I quailed a bit, trying to find the words to complain but none would come. My school shorts, already quite short, were pushed further up my legs.  As I struggled to hold my position, the cane came down. Yes, it stung an insane amount, on the right side especially. I had no idea how I was going to bear even one more stroke, let alone the at least five more I was sure were coming. The caning was slow, with Paul stopping every other stroke to check the weals I could feel developing. By halfway I lost count, my only focus on staying in place. I thought there must still be one more, but it was over.

I took a deep breath, not having realized I’d been holding it to keep from crying out. But the caning wasn’t over. Over my school shorts, Paul gave me another six with the junior cane and, on top of those, six with the heavy cane. Because I was clothed he didn’t hold back at all. In fact, at one point my legs started trembling, partly from the pain, partly from holding the position on my toes. To get me to be still he tapped the back of my calves, promising to whack them if I kept moving. I was still, I was quiet and the caning seemed to hurt more than other heavier ones when I’ve cried, moved, complained and tried to cover up. But I kept repeating to myself “You’re George. George is brave. You’re brave.”

Like me, George may be untidy and need to be thrashed. But George was braver than me — able to take a caning with some stoicism. Except I’m George. Sometimes anyway.

5 thoughts on “George Got the Cane

  1. Erica

    George is incredibly brave. Cold canings are freaking AGONY!
    Amazing how you can talk/think yourself into taking just about anything, when your head space goes elsewhere (in your case, into an alter ego).

  2. Mija

    The mind is a strange thing, isn’t it. And yes, it was agony.
    I feel I don’t know Paul well as a boy — that he’d somehow think less of me if I made a fuss. Crazy but good serious fun.

  3. Pandora

    Maybe it makes me mean, but I’m glad George got the cane. I’d have been disappointed if he hadn’t. Thanks for writing about it, and well done for being such a tough cookie. I completely know what you mean about the boy clothes inspiring stoicism (although for me they aren’t the only thing that do).
    It must be nice to have an actual boy alter ego whom you can revisit again and develop. Not something I’ve ever played with, but then, my long-term partners aren’t interested in me being a boy. I suspect Jacq could cope with it, but boy-top-me would be different from boy-bottom-me. Clearly this is a case of film shoots to the rescue!

  4. Mija

    It’s a head game I play with myself — Paul isn’t a roleplayer but he does refer to me as “boy” when I’m dressed as one and seems to be sterner / stricter with me. But in my head I tell myself I’m a boy (though I haven’t created much backstory for my boy-self yet) and that boys have to be brave.
    It’s really a very sexist world my poor George self lives in. 😉

  5. Indy

    Boys get the cane across the thighs?Thank goodness I’m not one of them!
    Ok, actually, it sounds like a very hot scene, even if I’m a bit green around the gills at the thought of Paul’s not holding back at all!


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