by Frank Martinet
I'm waiting to be caned. I'm naked in the corner of my room, my heart pounding and my bottom tingling, as I listen for the warning footsteps in the hall that signal my punishment is at hand.
God, I hate the cane so much! But I keep getting it. It's my stupid mouth. I just can't control it. I say whatever I think and I end up here, naked and waiting for one of Daddy's thin rods to draw purple lines on my poor bottom.
Mummy says I'm smug. She says that's typical of teenagers, who think they're grown up at eighteen and know everything. I'm not sure about that. I certainly don't feel smug waiting for the cane!
Oh God. Where is Uncle Dan? Waiting is terrible, almost worse than the cane itself. I've never had it from him and that has me really nervous. First off, I used to have a sort of crush on him. He's very tall and handsome, though rough. He's a farmer, used to hard labor, and he's very strong. I've seen him lift with ease huge bales of hay that I could scarcely budge. I can imagine how hard those muscles would swing a cane and I get weak in the knees. It'll be terrible, I know! He's always been my favorite uncle, but how will I bear to look at him after he's seen me bare and caned my poor bottom?
I know I'll fuss and weep like a baby. It'll be so humiliating. I want to be brave, a big girl nearly 19, but that cane hurts so much. I wish I could be spanked or even slippered like when I was younger. Those were painful, but quick and routine. Unfortunately, Daddy thinks that once you're a teen you're too old for hand smacking. I agree in principal - but he think that means you're old enough for the cane. Believe me, no one is old enough for the cane!
I remember my first caning vividly. I'd just turned 18 less than a fortnight earlier. Daddy had warned me that as a teenager of eighteen I was now subject to the cane. He'd even showed it to me on my birthday, flexing the thin rod and swishing it vilely through the air. I was so embarrassed. I didn't want to think of being punished - it was my birthday. I pretended I understood and made him put it away as fast as I could, but I really wasn't thinking about it. I suppose that's why it didn't really sink in until it was time for my first lesson with it.
I'd gotten a poor report from school. It wasn't just the marks, but my teacher had written a helpful note that said, "Jayne doesn't pay attention in class; her mind is always wandering." The poor mark I might have survived, but the note guaranteed me a sore bottom. Over supper Daddy said something about teaching me to pay attention, and I had a dismal feeling that a smacked bottom was in the offing.
I'd forgotten that I now was to get the cane, of course. I went to my room when ordered and prepared for my spanking. In our home that means stripping completely bare and waiting in the corner. I hate that, but I wasn't too worried about the smacking, which usually wasn't too bad. I was growing up fast with tits and hips and determined not to let Daddy make me cry. I was more annoyed and pissed, for I didn't think I deserved smacking. Mrs. Peach didn't like me and was always writing nasty notes about me. She probably knew I still got smacked and wanted to get me a sore bum!
When Daddy finally arrived, I was all set to argue my fate, but I forgot all my words when I saw him in the doorway holding a long, lean rod. My blood turned to ice and I forgot how to speak. I could say nothing as he closed the door behind him and bent that rod nearly in two, limbering up for a sound thrashing.
"I'm giving you six strokes," he intoned gravely, and I wanted to scream and run away. But I was naked and helpless, and I did nothing. He then explained to me the caning process. Unlike a spanking, where I lie across his strong lap and have my bottom smacked, for the cane I was to cooperate by bending well over and presenting my bare arse for the stick. I was to hold on to my ankles and not get up no matter how much it hurt. Getting up would mean extra strokes. God I hate extra strokes!
That first caning was terrible. I suppose Daddy didn't hit my all that hard, but every stroke felt like razor wire cutting through me. I got up three times. He let me off the first one with a warning, but the other two had to be repeated. So I got eight strokes instead of six. But I couldn't help it. That thin rod was utter agony.
After Daddy left, I stood gripping and squeezing my bottom cheeks as tears flowed down my face and onto my proud boobs. I was still in terrible pain, my arse crisscrossed with swollen red lines. They each throbbed in concert, a symphony of pain. Each line was hot and glowing, and so sensitive that I truly believed it would be weeks before I'd be able to sit again. I couldn't believe my kind-hearted father could be so cruel.
But Daddy and Mummy have always been strict. They love me, but they don't spare me when they believe I deserve a beating. Now that I get the cane, they do it more often, I think. It's simpler and more efficient than spanking, Daddy says. For most things I get one warning, and then it's the cane. If it's for something that I know is wrong, like breaking a major rule or repeating behavior I was punished for in the past, there is no warning: it's straight for the cane.
How often I get it varies. Sometimes I go through a phase when I get it every week, or at least it seems like that. Other times I go a whole month without it. I usually get at least nine strokes. Daddy likes to tease and tell me that my bottom is getting bigger so soon the minimum will be ten, but I don't think he knows how cruel his words are to me. I bet he's never had the cane. He has no idea how much just one extra stroke hurts!
My last caning was particularly terrible. It wasn't the worst I've ever gotten, but it was certainly memorable. I got 12 strokes, and since I can't take even six without wiggling out of position at least one, I earned three extras for a total of 15. I thought I was going to die it hurt so bad. I was certainly praying to die somewhere around stroke ten.
Daddy hits me harder now. I can't win with him. If I tell him I'm too old to be caned, he tells me that since I'm so big and grown up that means I can take an even harder caning! If I try the reverse and pretend to be young and vulnerable, he suggests that if I'm still a child, perhaps I shouldn't be allowed to go shopping with my girlfriends and that my bedtime should be seven o'clock!
God, that cane hurts so bad. I can almost feel it. You first hear that hissing sound as it cuts the air and then there's the awful crack as it snaps across your bum. The sound is a warning, like a dentist's drill, that worse is coming. The pain hits then, a violent stinging that just won't stop. It penetrates and burns.
When I was little I once watched Mummy as she unclogged a stopped sink with chemical stuff. It smoked and smelled terrible, but dissolved the matted hair and other material. When I started getting the cane, I often felt like those acids were on my skin, eating away at me in fine, burning lines.
The worst is not being permitted to touch. I can't get up, rub, or comfort my poor bum in any way. I have to stay awkwardly bent over and suffer, letting the burn seep into my whole being. It's awful.
Daddy always takes his time between strokes. He stands there while I shriek and moan and writhe, and waits until I'm still. This can be anywhere from 30 to 60 seconds, I guess. When I've recovered, he'll step behind me and line up another cut. This always makes me cringe and shake, delaying the next lash for a few more seconds. Only when I'm quiet and still does he whisk that vicious rod across my hindquarters. The pain is terrible, the entire anguishing process repeating.
Image a full dozen like that - over 15 minutes of constant suffering. And then come the extras, which seem twice as hard just because they're bonus strokes. Each is vile, whipped in hard across a bum already tender and striated with weals. Oh God, I'd rather have a hundred spankings than one of my Daddy's terrible canings!
I wonder how Uncle Dan will cane. Will it be the same as Daddy? Perhaps he'll go faster, and not draw it out so. But then he's making me wait for such a long time now, maybe he'll draw it out even longer. Where is he? It feels like I've been waiting for an hour, though I'm sure it's nothing like that. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty? Still no sign of him. Maybe he forgot.
That thought makes me laugh. I picture him downstairs watching the telly, thinking Where's Jayne got to? She should be watching this. She'd like this program. And all the while I'm upstairs naked, waiting for the promised punishment.
I dare not go exploring to remind him, however. Not just because I'm stark naked. I got out of the corner once with Daddy, and I got four extra strokes of the cane. No, better to wait here humbly. Anything else will just get my bottom thrashed harder.
It's an eternity, but then I hear a distant sound. My ears are so keen for it I half believe it's my imagination. The sound is closer, but still not something I can identify. It could be a footfall, but it could just as easily be a creak of the old house or a door closing somewhere or even the thump of a football being kicked outside by one of the neighbor boys.
Then it's there: pressure on the lowest stair, the scuff of boot against carpet, and I know it's Uncle Dan. Now I don't want him to come. The waiting has been torture, but the cane will be even worse. I start to panic, my breathing frantic. I even wish my parents were back home and Daddy could cane me instead of my favorite uncle.
Suddenly it occurs to me that Uncle Dan has no idea how many strokes my father usually gives me - what if he thinks I'm due a lot more? He won't believe me if I tell him it should just be eight or even ten. He'll have it in his head I deserve 18 or a ridiculous two dozen. I'll beg and plead, but he'll be intractable, and he'll insist I take them all stoically and he'll give me plenty of extras when I fail.
I'm in tears when Uncle Dan enters. I turn to face him, too afraid not to look, and my sobs fade away in confusion. He's not holding a cane. In his hand is a small wooden thing, like a hairbrush, only bigger.
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