One of the other real advantages of this particular weekend cottage is the placement of the well-curtained main bedroom on the western side so there is no real hint of sunlight until late into the morning. Once outside of our normal home environment, it’s not unusual that we sleep soundly until 10:00 or even 11:00am – perhaps a symptom that our normal daily routine leaves us somewhat sleep deprived. When we do awaken, the lack of any pressure to get on with the business of the day leaves us free to relax and simply enjoy the warmth of the big double bed … and of each other. The intermingling of our scents from the lovemaking of the night before is also a special, shared and intimate reminder that is often a prelude to a repeat performance … and once again drifting back to sleep.
Eventually the mutual desire for coffee and brunch stirred us from our fits of dozing – and yes, once I sat up on the side of the bed, I received a strong reminder that my butt had that definite, freshly spanked feel to it. The panties that DW had imposed the day before had been shed during the course of the evening somewhere back in the lounge room and as I stood up and turned my back towards the mirror in the wardrobe door, I could readily observe the rosy-cheeked legacy left behind the hairbrush. At least the swollen, welted area that I had felt by hand immediately after the completion of DW’s handiwork seemed to have subsided. Much to DW’s approval, showering further enhanced the sting and rosiness of my butt cheeks – helped along by a few of her playful grabs and mock surprise at my discomfort. I then returned to the bedroom to find a fresh pair of panties awaiting me on the bed. Being one of the first pairs that DW had employed for panty discipline, they were quite familiar – their most distinctive feature being a front panel composed entirely of flowery lace material that left virtually nothing to the imagination and offered no compromises to assist the comfort of a male wearer. DW watched as I did my best to adjust them while she made a comment that no male underwear seemed to be amongst the clothes that had been packed for the weekend.
Once both dressed, we enjoyed a leisurely brunch of bacon and eggs on the outdoor table and (hard wooden) chairs on the verandah. To the best of our recollection, the rest of the Saturday was spent reading, relaxing, walking and perhaps watching some TV. It’s also typical that we venture to the nearest town and bring back something special for the evening meal – about an hour’s round trip. But after we had eaten, and as evening was falling, I found myself again sitting on the lounge at DW’s behest, clad in nothing but “my” panties, glancing periodically at that large station clock on the wall as the minutes ticked by toward 7:00pm – the hairbrush and Spencer Paddle still placed strategically on the coffee table.
An “Ok Mister!” from DW signified that 7:00pm had arrived. I raised myself from the lounge and assumed the same position at the front of the lounge chair as the previous evening, while DW grabbed the paddle. My panties were not tight and DW grabbed the elastic at my hips on each side and peeled them slowly down my legs and let them fall to my ankles. At that point in our DW lifestyle, I seem to recall that the Spencer Paddle was relatively a new acquisition (perhaps made in anticipation of that weekend), and this was to be my first real taste of it for a serious spanking.
My first impression was of the seemingly deafening noise from that first impact across both sides of the fleshiest part of my backside. This was almost immediately replaced by an alarmingly painful sensation that was, as best I can describe it, a combination of intense sting and burn. Although made of relatively light pine, I came to realise that this paddle engenders a very different variety of pain to the almost pure sting of the hairbrush. The second stroke arrived while I was still in the process of digesting the first but this time, it left me with a more deep seated impression, suggesting that this was also likely to be a rather bruising encounter.
“You had better count!”
“Twoooo Ma’am”, I responded. To my relief, DW didn’t correct me so as to exclude her first stroke from the total.
Nevertheless, to my escalating concern, it seemed DW had resolved that strokes with this paddle should be administered at about the same pace as those from the hairbrush, but to both sides of my backside simultaneously. As a consequence, I found it necessary to re-assert my grip on each arm of the chair and become mentally resigned to what was shaping up to be the most severe spanking that I had received. As the stroke count advanced through the thirties and into the forties, the only sign of relief was that the pain induced by each stroke was beginning to plateau, or even reducing slightly – in a manner that had never been apparent with the hairbrush.
At fifty, DW stopped to inspect the progress of her efforts. After gently running her hand over each butt-cheek, she must have determined that a slight change in technique was called for if both were to receive their fair share of the punishment. So from the 51st stroke onwards, it became clear that DW had decided to apply the end of the paddle alternately to each side. The much more localised and intense pain from each swat immediately banished my previous slight sense of relief that the pain-level seemed to have stabilised. Perhaps from my reactions with each stroke, the tone of my counting, or the developing appearance of my backside, DW must have detected the re-invigorated effect from each stroke, and gave a slight murmur of satisfaction.
Finally, after the 100th stroke had been delivered, and I was perspiring and breathing much more heavily than from any previous spanking, DW called a halt, and gently placed the paddle back onto the coffee table.
“That will do for this hour, pull up your panties, and come and sit down.”
I was not in a position to do either of these with any degree of urgency. I felt somewhat light headed as I straightened and gingerly reached around for my butt with both hands to make some assessment of the damage. I could feel a large area of swollen, welted flesh as I gently ran my fingers over each cheek – and at one particular spot on the right hand side, could feel a sign that the skin was slightly broken and had started to weep – just noticeably. I reached down for the panties and eased them carefully over my fiery backside, spread out my dressing gown over the lounge and very tentatively, sat down. Progressively I lifted myself toward the back of the seat to get into a somewhat more comfortable position against the backrest. When I was able to sit still, the stinging of my butt would subside somewhat and enable me to transfer a little more of my weight to it – however, any slight movement tended to result in an acute, throbbing reminder.
After I had been more than content to sit still for the rest of the hour, I rose carefully for my 8:00pm spanking. As I started to lower my panties, I received confirmation that the welted area of my right butt-cheek was indeed weeping a little. This time it was to be the hairbrush and DW laid on another 100 strongly delivered, alternating strokes, working her way over the previously spanked area, plus a little more I suspect. By the end of it, I was well into new territory in terms of the pain that could be induced from a spanking, having never before experienced the repeat of such severe medicine after such a short interval – and as ever, the sting from that brush never let up, from the first stroke to the last. By the end of it I was almost gasping from the pain and my eyes were definitely starting to water.
This time as I gradually recovered some composure, it was readily apparent that an area of skin on both sides was now broken. DW bade me bend over, this time to apply a little antiseptic – that also stung like hell – before I raised my panties. Assuming and maintaining a comfortable sitting position had now become a much more problematic endeavour.
Any doubts I may have had that DW would follow through with a 9:00pm spanking were soon dispelled. Once again I was bent over facing the lounge chair, panties at ankle level apprehensively contemplating how I would cope with another round of Spencer Paddle strokes on the still very fresh feeling results from an hour before. I’d say it was this round that had the greatest effect in terms of the longer lasting physical and mental reminders that would persist from the weekend. By the time that DW had completed another 100 hundred alternated strokes with the paddle, apart from the agonising ordeal of the strokes themselves, I knew that the now raw areas of my backside that had started to weep quite noticeably, would provide a consistent remembrance until they had fully healed.
This weekend was to prove a watershed in terms of commitment to our Disciplinary Agreement and the development of our disciplinary relationship. It left me in no doubt that if my behaviour was sufficiently aberrant, DW would follow through with the application of spanking punishments that would make me seriously reconsider before I indulged in it. I suspect for DW, it was a real test of whether I meant to standby my commitment to fully submit to her discipline. Although the most severe spankings that I’ve since received have not quite rivaled the regime of that weekend (although some have approached it), I can be assured that if my behaviour warrants it, spanking punishments at that level, and perhaps even beyond, will await me.
The 9:00pm spanking proved to be the last for the evening and we retired to bed not long afterwards. Interestingly, despite the care required to minimise the pain and discomfort from my comprehensively blistered backside, it was not long before my panties had again been slipped down for some rather extraordinary lovemaking – but as I was to find out in the morning, the disciplinary component of the weekend was not quite complete.