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.