{ASSTR 08} An Adulterer
Takes the Chop {Big Billie} (sex, circ,
cane, spank, F/M, sc)
An Adulterer Takes the Chop
or Cut and Caned
By Big Billie
© Big Billie 2003. Not to be distributed or sold for monetary
gain.
Author's Statement: Big Billie is opposed to circumcision and
spanking except for consenting adults. However, circumcision
and spanking sexually excite him, so he writes about them.
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Author’s Prologue
This is the first of my stories to be posted on ASSTR in which
the main theme is circumcision.
I am an Englishman officially categorised as old by the World
Health Organisation. When I was 13 days old my mother took me
to the doctor for a routine post-natal check-up. He claimed
that my foreskin and/or penis were not right, and an attendant
nurse endorsed his opinion. So he circumcised me then and
there. My mother told me that when he had finished he inserted
3 stitches around the wound to hold the skin in place.
I once had a girlfriend from the USA who told me that my
circumcision was “a messy job.” Her statement was correct. As
a result of the surgery my shaft skin is rotated anticlockwise
around my shaft. It is positioned about 2 centimetres to the
left of where it should be and is badly out of alignment with
what remains of my frenulum, etc. My circumcision scar is
thick, brown and ugly. There are nodules on it, and what look
to be stitch flaps. There are also two stitch tunnels, a large
one on the upper left hand side, and a smaller one on the
lower left hand side, of my scar tissue. Periodically, these
fill with puss that has to be squeezed out. My glans penis is
almost the same colour and texture as my shaft skin. My whole
cock looks battered, scarred, beat-up and ugly; it has lost a
lot of skin, nerves and blood vessels, and I am convinced
that, in ways that are many and various, my sexual pleasure
has been sharply cut.
And yet, incredibly, I am actually grateful to my foreskin’s
nemesis, the doctor who cut me. He left, you see, a small
patch of frenulum, together with a narrow cuff of skin around
my scar. There is not much, but it is just enough for me to be
able to pull my shaft skin over my corona while my cock is
erect. Oh, wow! That is so nice! How much nicer must it be
when you can pull your entire foreskin right up your stiff
shaft, and tug it completely over your engorged, purple-
coloured knob? Yet although I know that I have only a fraction
of the pleasure that is the uncut man’s birthright, the doctor
who chopped me could have been meaner and more vindictive
still, and I rejoice that he was not.
In contrast, I remember one of my schoolfellows. When we were
about 12 or 13 he got an erection in the showers after a
gymnastics lesson. To this day, I still remember it vividly.
He had clearly been circumcised very tightly, and the skin on
his erect shaft was pulled as tight as a drum skin, so
tightly, indeed, that it gleamed and glistened. At the same
time, his shaft could scarcely be contained within its denuded
housing and was bent every which way, like a corkscrew. I was
stunned. I stared, intently but not lewdly, at my colleague’s
mutilated member, and thanked a benevolent fortune that I had
been spared the chopping that had been inflicted upon him.
(Even at the time, however, I did not fully realise the awful
truth; but in retrospect I can see that his frenulum [the
small, deliciously sensitive flap of stringy, twangy skin that
harnesses the foreskin to the underside of the cockhead] had
been more or less completely severed and excavated.)
I am firmly opposed to circumcision. I support the anti-
circumcision lobby, and I greatly admire the various pioneers
who are campaigning on its behalf. I rejoice that
circumcision, unlike in my day, is now comparatively rare in
the UK, and that the generations of Englishmen that follow me,
together with their wives, girlfriends and daughters, will
have more pleasure in bed than I have managed to achieve. Oh,
wow! Our present generation of young ladies in the UK, like
well-fertilised roses, have been excellently tended and
nourished. Many of them are fit, well-developed, and
stunningly beautiful; I envy the young men with uncut
foreskins and a full set of nerves, tissues and blood vessels
up their stiffened cock shafts who are lucky enough to enjoy
such fair and excellent ladies perfectly, and as nature
intended. Would that many of my generation had been lucky
enough to luxuriate in such pleasures.
And yet... Despite my best efforts at maintaining a civilised
opinion on this barbarous practice, I find that, in my
perverse, lewd, and filthy imaginings, the mutilation of
circumcision sexually excites me. The information and the
images of circumcision that I collect from the Internet and
elsewhere actually turn me on. I write anecdotes, musings and
stories (such as this one) about it, and these also excite me.
But I operate solely at the level of kinky fantasy. In my
stories some of the characters are prolific and enthusiastic
circumcisers, but their opinions and mindsets are not mine. My
advice to citizens of the USA is to remember the fox in Aesop’s
fable who lost his tail in a trap. He wanted all the other
foxes to have their tails chopped off too so that his
mutilation would appear normal. By the same token I ask you: is
it right to have your sons cut just so that they will “look
like dad”?
Anyway, whether you agree with me or not, I am hoping that at
least some of you will enjoy my stories on this theme; let the
first of them begin!
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Story
My name is Maggie Phillips, and despite everything I am still
married to my husband, Jim. Eighteen months after our wedding,
however, Jim, who was 25 at the time, got involved with a
sixteen year old girl at his office. For all her tender years,
she was a brazen hussy and she wanted my husband for herself.
To be fair to poor old Jim, what man can resist a beautiful,
scheming vixen when she throws herself at him, especially if
she is nine years his junior? Jim did not know what had hit him
and the bimbo in question, who was called Jane, soon had him
locked into an adulterous relationship.
For about six months I knew nothing about all this, but then I
went out on a hen night with a group of ladies from Jim’s
office (I used to work there myself once). My God, women can be
real bitches! During that night on the town, when the booze
began to flow, a gang of my old “friends” made it perfectly
plain to me, by their sexy innuendoes and suggestive remarks,
exactly what my husband was up to with Jane. They seemed to
delight in stirring up trouble and, wow, did they rub my nose
in it and make me feel a fool! They were all most amused at my
discomfiture, and seemed to think that the whole thing was one
big laugh. They did not tell me exactly what was going on, but
for most of the night they kept making nudge, nudge, wink, wink
type in-jokes to each other designed to tease and torment me. I
was furious, and determined to have it out with my disloyal
spouse as soon as I got home.
When confronted, Jim made a clean breast of things and told me
the whole story. He said he was sorry, swore that I was the
only one that really mattered to him, promised not to screw the
bimbo again (a likely story, I thought), and pleaded with me to
forgive him. But I was not taken in, and told him in no
uncertain terms that there was no question of forgiveness. Then
I balled him out, insisted that I wanted a divorce, and let him
stew in his own juice for a few days by banishing him to
another bedroom and refusing to speak to him.
Meanwhile a plan was forming in my mind. I was deeply hurt at
what Jim had done, and I concluded that there could be no
excuse for his conduct. I agonised over just how sharply he
must have enjoyed the intimacies of Jane the bimbo’s exquisite
and sexy body for the last half year. I bet he had had an
enormous amount of pleasure at my expense, and I was
determined, if I could, to get my revenge and to make him pay
for it with interest. And yet I was torn. The reason that I was
so unhappy was because I loved my husband, and I did not want
our marriage to break up.
So I decided to offer Jim a choice. The first option, I told
him, would be much the easier for him. He could have a divorce,
and that would be the end of the matter. This, I added, was
what I would do if I were him. The effect of this suggestion on
my husband was dramatic. He fell to his knees, clasped my hands
in his, and begged me not to throw him out. He would do
anything, he said, anything, if I would only take him back. I
pretended to be unimpressed. “You have made your solemn vows
and promises to me before,” I told him, “only to break them at
the wiggle of a bimbo’s bottom. How can I ever trust you
again?”
Then Jim asked me what the other option was. This, I told him,
was to agree to be punished for what he had done. Only if he
promised that, for the rest of his life, he would allow me to
discipline him whenever, and in whatever way, I saw fit would
he stand any chance at all of getting me into bed with him
again. At this, Jim grabbed a Bible from the nearby bookcase,
and swore on it solemnly that he would take whatever
chastisement I had in store for him, until the day of his death
if that was what I wanted. I looked him square in the eyes. But
hang on, I replied, he had no idea as yet of what I was going
to do to him. Whatever it was, he cried, it would be better
than having to live without me. He could not bear that. He had
chosen his option, he concluded, and it was now up to me to say
what I had decided for him. “I will tell you that tomorrow
night,” I said. “Be in your office alone at 6 p.m.” Jim used to
stay at work after hours quite often, even before he started
putting in overtime with the bimbo. A big advantage, from my
point of view, of a meeting at 6 o’clock was that by that hour
my sniggering “friends,” and the voluptuous Jane, would have
gone home.
At our meeting the first thing I explained was that there would
be no more nooky until I was satisfied that Jim had expiated
his sins. Unless or until I instructed him otherwise, he would
be sleeping in one of the spare bedrooms, and would only enter
our usual bedroom when I was there, and with my permission. Jim
took this in silence. “Now,” I said, “You will not like the
fate I have in store for you, so I am offering you your last
chance for a divorce. You have had an opportunity to ponder
things overnight, and now I want your final answer. I am
prepared, if you say so now, to release you from your solemn
promise of yesterday. If you decide to go on, however, I swear
that I will never let you wriggle out of it, and that I will
never divorce you unless forced by law.
Jim was clearly having slight doubts. “I think I should know
what I am letting myself in for,” he replied. “Request denied,”
I answered brusquely. “I think a divorce is the best solution
in any case.” I turned to go, as if the matter was settled. But
Jim yelled out at me to stay. What the hell, whatever I had in
store for him, he would rather take it than live without me. I
was touched, but still as determined as ever to sweat him and
to make him sorry for what he had done. “OK, then,” I
concluded. “That’s settled. I will see you here again at six
o’clock tomorrow evening.”
At our second meeting at Jim’s office the next day, I laid out
the first part of my programme of discipline. His, I said, had
been a physical transgression, and he must pay for it
physically. The Bible told us that if our hand offended, we
should cut it off. In his case it was his cock that had sinned,
and it was his cock that must be punished. Except that I was
treating him leniently. I did not want it cut off. I just
wanted it circumcised. I was therefore going to arrange a
little operation for him. “Oh, yes, my boy,” I added, “I am
going to punish you at the point of pleasure. No more will your
sensitive and lascivious foreskin be sliding deliciously up and
down young ladies’ pussies. It will be pressed between two
pieces of glass in a jar of formaldehyde on the dresser at my
side of the bed.” Jim was stunned by this revelation, so I told
him that I would be back at 6 o’clock tomorrow with more,
turned on my heels, and abruptly left.
Jim did not come home that night, but I did not really care. I
was in a vindictive and dangerous mood, and it did not concern
me much what he did. I did not think that he would be prepared
to go through with my proposal, and therefore, as far as I was
concerned, our marriage was over. I went along to his office at
six o’clock the next evening, expecting to find it deserted and
closed. When I arrived, however, Jim was sitting there behind
his desk. “I thought you would be gone by now,” I said. “I gave
you my word, didn’t I?” he replied. “You can do to me whatever
you want.” “Well,” I said, “if I do, my boy, I must warn you
that it will be a lot more than just a circumcision that you
will be getting.” “So be it,” answered my spouse. “You’re the
boss.”
Soon the arrangements were made for the first part of my
revenge. My best friend is called Jillian Hayes. I have known
her since we were at primary school. She also went to the same
girls’ grammar school that I did, and, being very bright,
continued on to do medicine at university. She was now training
to be a surgeon. Well, I told my whole story to Jill, and then
asked her for a favour. I was half expecting her to reject my
plea as kinky. But no, she came up trumps. We have always been
very loyal to each other, and Jill was appalled and outraged at
how Jim had treated me. Nothing would give her greater
pleasure, she assured me, than to see him taught a sharp,
embarrassing and painful lesson. She would gladly circumcise
him for me, and as soon as I liked. We arranged it for 8 a.m.,
at our house, on the next Saturday morning.
On the Friday night I decided to have a little fun with Jim. I
told him in advance that he could sleep with me if he liked. I
wanted him, I said, to have one last evening of passion with
his foreskin on. And who was to know, I suggested. If he was
very nice to me, gave me a good time, and pleaded with me very
long and very eloquently, it was just possible that I might
relent, and that he might get a reprieve. I would give him my
final decision, I said, on the first stroke of midnight.
That night Jim came home to a beautiful and romantic candlelit
supper that I had prepared for him. He found me dressed in a
stunning, low cut evening gown and wearing a beautiful necklace
and other adornments. I had been to the hairdresser for a sexy,
short cut style that showed off my bare neck to full effect. My
armpits were new shaven, and I was wearing lashings of my most
expensive perfume. My gown was the length of a very short mini-
skirt, and it showed off my bare legs and thighs (which were
also newly shaved) to full effect. I was not wearing knickers,
and when I bent over or sat down my naked quim was on display.
I had shaved my cunt meat completely bare and then rubbed it
generously with perfumed oil. Jim was stunned. After being
banished from my bedroom for the best part of a week he was
very frustrated, and I think that he was finding me distinctly
over-stimulating. “I’ve only cut the hairs off my pudenda,” I
teased, as I caressed him coquettishly. “Soon I’ll have the
skin off yours.”
After our meal I took Jim to the bedroom. “Well, go on, then” I
urged as I lay invitingly on the bed, hoiked my skirt up over
my waist and pushed my moist, oiled quim towards him. “Get on
with it, and it had better be good.” In fact, it was good, very
good. Jim took me three times before midnight, and I could tell
that he was really trying to please me. By midnight I was a
very well fucked woman. Also egged on by me Jim gave me a lot
of bleat about how sorry he was, how he would never wrong me
again, how he was throwing himself on my mercy, how he did not
want to have his foreskin chopped off, etc., etc. I pretended
to listen carefully, even sympathetically, to everything he
said. Wow, was I setting him up!
At twelve o’clock I gave Jim my final decision. I cuddled in
closely to him as we lay naked in bed and giggled as I
affectionately tweaked his foreskin. Then I moved my lips up to
his ear, and gently nibbled the lobe while blowing down the
hole. Then, after keeping him guessing until the last moment, I
let him have the punch line. It was whispered in such a gentle
and seductive way that it took a few moments for it to sink in.
“The verdict,” I murmured, “Is that this cock is guilty as
charged. It is sentenced to circumcision at 8 a.m. Right of
appeal is denied.”
After I had finished saying these words, I felt the cock in
question going rock hard in my hands. This was the first
indication that I had ever had that Jim was a masochist, and
that he was being turned on by what I going to do to him.
“Ooooh!” he breathed in ecstasy. “You bitch! You absolute
bitch!” My riposte was to yank his foreskin tight back down his
shaft, as firmly and as roughly as I could, and to flick his
naked, engorged, sensitive purple prick tip, hard, with the
nail of my forefinger. I did this several times, with a pause
between each flick to give the recipient plenty of time to feel
it. “Bitch, bitch, bitch” repeated Jim in a low voice. “My God,
that hurts!” “I bet it does,” I giggled saucily as I gave him
another hard flick, “but not as much as it’s about to.” Then my
tone changed to that of stern dominatrix. “Tomorrow, young man,
you will be severely punished for those words. Bitch, indeed!
I’ll make you so sorry for yourself that you will never, ever,
dare to address me in such terms again.” Then I told him to get
out. He was banished again from my bedroom. By 7 a.m. the next
morning he must be in the shower, and by 7.45 I expected him to
report to my bedroom for the chop. If he were so much as a
second late he would suffer additional punishment.
Jill arrived at 8 a.m. sharp the next morning to find Jim in
bed with his pyjamas on. Her manner was brusque and official.
Jim was made to sign the consent form for the surgery, and, as
had been previously arranged, to hand over to her an enormous
fee of £1,000 for the operation, in cash. When we had arranged
this, Jill had assured me that she was doing this for pleasure,
not for profit, and that I would not be out of pocket. Now I
found out exactly what she meant by this. She put the cash safe
in her handbag and at the same time drew out a £1,000 cheque,
payable to me and only to me. She told me to put this in my own
personal account, where Jim could not touch it, and to be sure
that he never saw a penny of it. “Treat yourself to a few
little luxuries with it,” she said gaily. “Some Chanel No. 5,
perhaps, and an expensive hairdo. And how about a designer
bikini to overexcite your admirers on the beach? You could even
take yourself off alone on a package cheapy to show it off. I
want you to spend this money luxuriously and extravagantly upon
yourself alone. And I want you to swear that you will do this,
and the adulterer to swear that he will let you.” Impromptu
vows were then taken, more enthusiastically by me than by Jim,
and Jill proceeded with her work.
Jill explained that circumcising a fully-grown man was a much
bigger job than circumcising a baby. Often a general
anaesthetic was used, but she was going to use a local one. Oh,
she added, and she thought Jim might like to know that she had
never performed a circumcision before. She badly needed the
practice, but she was quite likely to botch it up. Without
further ado, Jill then pulled from her medical bag a large
disposable syringe and injected Jim’s prick with about 5 or 6
jabs all around its base and its circumference. Meanwhile the
victim was taken aback by the speedy development of this
surgical initiative. He looked shocked, and winced visibly in
pain.
Soon, Jill had opened her surgical textbook to the appropriate
page. Then she marked Jim’s cock for the surgery. “I’m taking
off rather more than is recommended in the medical textbooks,
including the whole of the deliciously sensitive frenulum” she
said, in an _ex cathedra_ matter of fact tone that left
absolutely no doubt that this was not a question for democratic
debate. “Bitch,” muttered Jim gloomily. “What was that?” asked
Jill sharply. “Oh, nothing,” replied Jim quickly, obviously
thinking better of his complaint. Jill stopped what she was
doing, put her face a few inches from Jim’s and eyeballed him
out truculently. “Oh yes it was something!” she fumed. “I
heard that, young man.” Then she took her surgical marker in
her hand again and drew another line around Jim’s cock just
below the first one. Then she eyeballed her victim again. “You
have just earned yourself a five millimetre surcharge,” she
continued. “What have you got to say about that then?” “Bitch!”
muttered Jim again, defiantly. Without uttering another word,
Jill promptly took her marker and briskly drew a third line
just below the other two. Then she eyeballed Jim yet again.
“Ten millimetre surcharge” she added pertly. “If this goes on
young man, your cock will have more rings around it than a
hornet’s arse.” This threat at last reduced Jim to silent
compliance, and he said nothing.
Jill, however, decided to rub Jim's nose in it. "That ten
millimetre surcharge," she explained, "is a whole extra
centimetre of skin off your cock! The circumference of your
cock shaft is about 5 centimetres, so the price of those two
words, those two 'bitches' of yours, is 5 square centimetres of
skin missing from off your cock shaft for the rest of your
life! Just think! All that just because you couldn't button
your lip! Oh, yes! I'm going to teach you not to be sassy with
_me_, young man! I'm going to make you very, very sorry for
yourself! Oh, and yes! If it's any consolation, you are right!
I _am_ a bitch!"
Ten minutes later the local anaesthetic had taken effect and
Jill had removed her surgical knife from the sterilising dish.
Meanwhile, I prepared my camcorder and my high quality Japanese
digital camera and flashgun for action, since I was determined
to catch all this on film.
The actual operation was over quickly since Jill was very brisk
and free with her knife. Within seconds (or so it seemed), and
almost before I had time to focus my camcorder, she had cut
around the lowest of the three lines on Jim’s cock. Soon there
was an open wound about 5 inches long around the cock shaft,
and Jim’s bloodied foreskin was lying in a stainless steel
dish. Jill had threaded her surgeon’s needle in advance, and
now she quickly stitched around the cut. “I suppose I should be
taking more care, and doing a neater job” she remarked
insouciantly. “As it is the scar will heal up all ugly, pitted
and pockmarked, and the cock will look beat up, battered and
victimised. It’s a messy job. There will probably be skin flaps
and stitch tunnels. But then, like most surgeons, my time is
valuable and I cannot concern myself with purely cosmetic
considerations.” Jill was clearly enjoying herself enormously,
and had concocted in advance some superb wind-ups! When she had
finished the stitching, she cut off the thread. Then, as I had
previously requested her, she carefully stretched the severed
foreskin between two glass plates, clamped the plates together,
put them into a large, old fashioned pickling jar filled with
formaldehyde, sealed the jar and presented it to me. “There you
go,” she said triumphantly. “There must be more than 17 or 18
square inches of adulterous foreskin there. Then she pointed at
the foreskin in the jar. “There,” she commented. “There is the
frenulum. I have excavated it completely. And just behind it,
look. Do you see that flap of wrinkled skin? Well that is the
ridged band. I was particularly careful to chop that off in its
entirety. I have been reading up on all the latest research on
foreskins in preparation. I discovered that the ridged band
plays a crucial role in sexual pleasure and enjoyment, and that
its excision leads to a significantly less ecstatic sexual
experience. Well, all I can say is that after what he has done
to you the bastard deserves it. I came here this morning
determined to make him pay, and I think that I have just
succeeded.”
Well, this was the last straw that broke the camel’s back.
“Aaagh!” Jim let out a piteous yell and then, feeling angry,
frustrated and very, very sorry for himself, he broke down into
helpless sobs and tears. “It’s too late for that now, young
man,” said his tormentor impassively. “If you can’t do the
time, then you shouldn’t do the crime. You’ve had your
pleasure. Now you are going to pay for it, every single day of
your life. Anyway, I will be back next week, same time, same
place, for a post-op inspection. And I warn you, young man,
that if this cock offends again, I will re-circumcise it for
you by cutting off even more shaft skin from around the scar.”
Then Jill took Jim’s newly chopped cock into her hands and
inspected it carefully. She was clearly transfixed and
fascinated by her handiwork. Her eyes shone brightly as she ran
her fingers all around the scar, smiling in delight and
satisfaction. “Yes,” she said smugly. “I’ve punished him for
his adultery to you and his insolence to me. I’ve circumcised
him very tightly indeed. I enjoyed doing that. The bastard had
it coming to him.” Then she gently pulled all around the thread
with which she had sewn up the cut and meticulously scrutinised
her needlework. Jim felt nothing (yet!), of course, because of
the effects of the local anaesthetic. But, temporarily
abandoning his helpless sobs and tears, he surely yelped at the
sexy verbals when Jill unleashed her parting shot. “My word,
young man” she exclaimed pertly. “I’ve stitched you up good and
proper, haven’t I?” “Ayeeee!” howled the victim, and the cry
was somewhere between a howl and a sob. Jill then biffed off
quickly out of the house. Within seconds, the roar off her car
engine signalled that she was gone. In all, she had been with
us for less than half an hour. But she had played her part
superbly, and after 8.30 a.m. Jim’s cock was never the same
again, and his sex life had been changed forever!
I instructed Jim to stay in bed for the rest of the day to
recuperate from the operation. The next stage of his
comeuppance, I told him, would commence at 8.30 p.m., when the
effects of his local anaesthetic had worn off and he was
feeling nice and sore. I then tended and looked after my spouse
for the rest of the day.
At 8.30 p.m. sharp I abruptly entered our bedroom. I had just
showered and perfumed myself and fixed my hair. I was wearing a
lacy, cutaway black bra designed for use with low cut evening
gowns, skimpy, frilly black knickers, black suspender belt,
black fish net stockings and black stiletto heeled shoes. I had
never dressed kinky for Jim before, and he was stunned. He
gazed transfixed for a long time. Then he grinned lasciviously
as he sniffed my expensive perfume. “Right, my boy,” I said
sternly, “I will soon wipe that smirk off your face. Get out of
bed.”
I then told Jim to strip, put on a jock strap and close his
eyes. Jim did as he was told, wincing ruefully as the tight
fitting athletic support rubbed and pressed against his sore,
newly cut prick. I then came at him with a plastic jar of
finely ground table salt, to which I had added just a tiny bit
of water to make it moist and sloppy. I pulled open the pouch
of his jock strap and pushed his freshly chopped cock firmly
into the jar, completely submerging it in wet, sticky salt. I
then released the tight fitting jock strap pouch so that it
held the salt jar in position.
Wow! As soon as Jim’s cut cock hit that wet salt, he gave out a
tremendous yell of pain and fury, leapt onto the bed and lay
there on his back writhing and cursing helplessly. “Oh, you
bitch, you bitch!” he yelled over and over again. “You cruel,
spiteful bitch!”
“Right,” I said brusquely when Jim’s curses had subsided into
whimpers of pain. “In that bottom drawer, you will find a cane.
Fetch it for me please.” And I stood there with my hands on my
hips, bold and uncompromising. To my slight surprise, the
victim complied. Then I barked out another order: “Stand on
that mat, please, and face the window. Now touch your toes,
keeping your legs straight. Go on. Right down. Stretch hard.
No, not good enough.” I followed these words with a wicked
little flick from the cane straight across the bare meat of
Jim’s bum. Crack! The blow was like a slap from a riding crop
rather than a fierce cut, but it was still hard enough to make
the buttocks shudder. The recipient let out a shrill,
involuntary, howl of pain. “Go on,” I urged, “You can do better
than that.” And I gave the bare bum another, slightly harder,
little flick, to exactly the same place as the first one had
landed. Whack! Howl! I then stretched out the palm of my left
hand and gently pushed the back of Jim’s head towards the
floor. “Come on!” I said, “You’re beginning to annoy me.” I
then administered a third stroke, slightly harder again, onto
meat that was by now all red and tingly. Wallop! Yell! These
three preparatory flicks were not particularly hard, but Jim
was quite obviously of the opinion that he did not want to take
a fourth one like that! He was pushing and grunting madly to
comply with my orders. Thus, by now, Jim was reaching and
straining until the tendons at the back of his straightened
knees ached, and he was gasping from the effort of stretching.
I always do this before I cane Jim. It stops him from flexing,
hardening and tightening the muscles of his buttocks against
the strokes of the cane. I like his rump to be soft,
unprotected and vulnerable when the cane starts to bite into it
in earnest.
For the next part of his punishment, Jim took 12 strokes of the
cane across his bare bottom. I had purchased the thinnest,
whippiest rattan cane that I could get from an Internet sex
shop. It was less, I should think, than the diameter of a
pencil. For several days I had immersed it in linseed oil to
make it even more supple and springy. I really laid into Jim
with it, whacking him as hard as I could. The only concession
that I made was that after stroke number one (which I brought
down right onto the red weal created by my preparatory flicks)
I spread the strokes over the full area of his buttocks, rather
than concentrating them in one part. I took my time and waited
several seconds between strokes, to give the bare bum plenty of
time to sting and smart. By the time I had finished with him,
Jim had 12 deep, red, livid ridges, already beginning to turn
blue, cut into the fleshy meat of his backside. Again, I was
amazed that Jim stood in position and took his caning like a
man. But he did. Swish, crack, swish, crack went the cane and
at every cut Jim howled piteously in his agony. Afterwards, I
monitored the 12 stripes. Much to Jill’s amusement, they were
still clearly observable when she came for her post-op
inspection a week later.
Then I kept Jim bent over for 20 minutes, with his cock
smarting in the salt and his bum stinging from the cane, while
he was forbidden to rub himself or regain his composure.
This, I then told Jim, was the “punishment of the 13 cuts, 1
with the knife and 12 with the cane.” Thirteen, I added, was
unlucky for some, and, in this case, particularly unlucky for
him! He had been punished fore and aft, and there was plenty
more to come! I then peremptorily ordered Jim to the spare
bedroom, telling him to return for the next stage of his
punishment at 8.30 p.m. the next evening.
As Jim left I allowed my stern dominatrix mask to slip. I
embraced him tenderly and puckered up my lips. Then, as we were
about to kiss, I relaxed my pucker and pushed my moist,
yielding lips full against my lover’s. Then I gave him a
deliciously teasing French kiss, darting my tongue quickly and
lightly all around the inside of his mouth.
Despite his throbbing cock and his smarting rump Jim returned
my kiss with passion. “Go on, be off with you,” I said
coquettishly, and I gave him a sharp, playful slap with the
flat of my hand across the bare meat of his buttocks.
“Agh,” yelled the victim in agony.
I grinned again. “Does it hurt when I slap you across your
cuts?” I asked innocently.
“What do you bloody well think?” howled the victim.
“Oh, oh!” I replied. “Naughty! We must learn to show madam
proper respect.” And I delivered another sharp, playful slap to
exactly the same place.
“Bitch” muttered Jim involuntarily.
This time the smack I delivered was sharp and disciplinary
rather than playful, and my tone was angry.
Slap! “What did you say?”
“Bitch!”
Slap! “I beg your pardon?”
“Bitch!”
Slap!
This went on until Jim had taken six hard hand spanks, at which
point I had broken him. He apologised humbly and begged me for
mercy.
But he did not get it. I sat down on the edge of the bed and
ordered him across my knee for extra chastisement. It took some
time to get him there since I had to manoeuvre the salt jar
between my open thighs. But eventually Jim was in the classic
spanking position just as if he were a naughty little boy, and
his bare, upturned rump was perfectly positioned for my
descending right hand.
“Right!” I said. “I’ll teach you to be cheeky. It’s hard hand
on soft bottom for you, my boy! You’re going to get another six
of the best!”
Slap! Silence.
“That’s better. Take it quietly or you will be feeling even
sorrier for yourself.”
Slap!! Slap!!! SLAP! SLAP!! SLAP!!!
“Now get out!”
As my husband left he was indeed feeling and looking very sorry
for himself. As for me, I could see the funny side. I giggled
saucily and advised him to sleep on his side. I also told him
that this was only the beginning of his punishment, and
reminded him to report for more in 24 hours time.