He is testing me.
Usually I grasp the ornate metal bars that decorate the foot of the bedstead; the cold metal reassuringly solid and unyielding as I hug it to me. I know that the frame will help me. It will hold me steady as the strokes fall, checking the momentum of my body as the chosen implement finds its target. This inanimate object has been my companion for a while now; my fingers find the familiar chips in the paint, souvenirs from the clash of buckles, clips and chains. Positions and restraints may change but we remain a resolute pair; stoically facing the next chapter of our story in one another's embrace.
Tonight is different.
He is quite clear in His directions. There will be NO bedstead to support me tonight. He is wise to my wiles. He wishes to test me alone without my companion. He wishes to see whether His girl is able to absorb the impact of His toys alone. Will she be able to remain not only still but balanced as the cane finds its mark? He explains carefully what is required. From my position on my knees I listen attentively, I have already failed Him, I dare not risk doing so again.
I am ordered to my room.
He has sent me ahead. I am to be in position and ready when He enters the room. I am to remove all clothing except the nipple shields, collar and stockings. The stockings are one of my favourite pairs: fishnets with PVC tops and laces, chosen for the detail that is only visible from the rear. Quickly I make last minute adjustments then assume the required position. Feet hip width apart, I bend and place my hands on my knees.
I do not know for how long I wait. I know it is enough to have my heart beating in anticipation: enough to build pictures in my mind: enough to feel the moisture grow between my legs. Then He is there. Close. He takes my right hand and fastens a leather cuff firmly around it. The second follows soon afterwards. Further directions are issued: I am to clasp my hands behind my knees. The cuffs will not be locked in place to begin with. He will test my resoluteness and my balance. If I move my hands then the cuffs will be locked together until such time as I am able to control myself.
Today I am offered no choice of the implement of delivery; my corrector is long and firm and black. The number assigned is twelve. He considers it a well rounded number suited to a well rounded backside. He weighs the feel of the weight and length of the cane in His hand, flicking the tip lightly over my proffered posterior, sensitizing my rear and spreading a flush across my cheeks. The first stroke flies from His hand and bites hard into my flesh. The first is always the hardest to bear, not yet deeply grounded I fight to maintain my position, biting my lip and willing my hands to stay obediently clasped behind my knees.
He is careful in the placing of each stoke, the backhand stokes to the left cheek each finding a perfect partner in forehand strokes to the right. They are carefully ranged over the target area from the upper thighs to the fleshy globes. Each stroke must be clearly defined, if not, it is superseded by a better example. It is the strokes to the thighs that test me the most. My muscles scream as I will myself not to move. I do not wish to explore the consequences of doing so. Instead I grasp my wrists more firmly, hugging myself, taking strength from my own embrace.
I am counting.
My mind keeps count, but in reverse, counting down the strokes, each number more friendly than the last, they diminish not escalate. I am confident that I will past the test. Each burning stroke is one less to be endured: one stroke closer to the end: one stroke closer to having pleased Master: one stroke closer to His embrace. I am so absorbed in the counting, so ridiculously pleased with myself at not having moved, so chuffed that I have met the challenge set by Him ... that I forget...
"Did you forget something?" ... That heart leaping moment when I realise what I have done... or rather what I HAVEN'T done. It wasn't my hands that let me down, nor yet my tender derriere. My mouth has failed me, my manners, my common courtesy. Shame faced I mumble an apology, too late I offer Him my thanks. It is too late; I know it but I try. He turns the question round to me: What should He do? What way should His erring sub be corrected? With dry mouth and sinking heart I give the only answer that I know will be accepted...
... and the strokes begin again...