Thursday 18 June 2015

Sometimes, only a caning will do.


The more perceptive amongst you may have noticed that I have not posted on here for some time. I do not wish to go into the details as to why but suffice to say a traumatic family illness, sudden and unexpected, expunged all desire to blog. Either here or elsewhere. (Yes, I do have interests other than of the whacking bottoms variety.) All peripheral interests for a while ceased, whether as participant or blogger. My only concern was for a beloved, fighting, literally, for breath in intensive care.  Such are, to mangle Shakespeare, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. That was all of three months ago and amazing recoveries and long summer days in glorious Devon put life back on an even keel. And make one thankful. And as that life returns to normal one thinks again on the little pleasures that make it all worthwhile. Pleasures that are trivial and unimportant when all goes pear shaped but help to spice up the normality of one’s usual existence. And dropping your pants to be whacked is a pleasure that should not be denied too long. The fact that I am back here blogging is testament to that. I got whacked last week and it was long overdue. I emerged from a much needed session of the sore behind variety and, smiling, waved goodbye to my personal, unexpected and unwanted, trauma. We all cope in our own ways I said, ruefully rubbing my backside.

 
And that, of course, got me thinking of this long overdue blog. The question of having your backside whacked as a form of stress relief often crops on CP site forums and chat rooms. It is frequently couched in the form of being a rather strange thing to do. Is it? I don’t think so. To those of our ilk there cannot be anything nicer than having a cane or strap connect with your willing bottom, especially when your pants are around your ankles and that bottom is as bare and naked as when your mother first saw it. All your responsibilities and burdens in an increasingly chaotic world are gone in a flash. For a few minutes, or if you are lucky an hour or so, all that matters is the naked freedom of disciplinary pleasure. And it is not strange. Guilt for some misdeed was often assuaged in childhood by a wrathful parent or vengeful teacher. I still remember those long gone days when a smarting and burning backside, painfully earned, relieved all the stresses of a heady situation. Is it so unusual that, in adulthood, its recreation can have a similar effect? I reckon submissives of the CP scene, I cannot speak for those who wield the weapons, are lucky to have such a simple and ready release at their disposal.

 
When I readied myself for last week’s caning, heavily delivered by an enthusiastic headmaster type, I blessed my particular kink. As I bent over the punishment bench dressed only in shorts and vest I felt a surge of long delayed anticipation. And when those shorts were lowered and the eager cane touched my bare buttocks I almost cried in relief that my much desired cleansing was about to commence. And each time that cane lashed into my bare backside I cried again in a strange mixture of pleasure, pain, and thankfulness. Next week I shall visit my favourite mistress for a more prolonged and sensuous reprise. I am fortunate that I care not who canes me, male or female, so long as they are good and enthusiastic. In fact mixing the gender adds to the spice of my life. And that life, after a much stressful period, is now back on an even keel. And being caned on my bare bottom has played no small part in it. But I doubt if I shall tell my doctor that. There are some things best left to this blog. Alfred Roy