{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.

