It seemed only just after the last of our daughters had left the house, and as I was settling down at my computer, that DW decided that an opportunity is an opportunity, and was not to be missed on any account. Her instructions were very simple and to the point – in the bedroom right now, strip down to your panties, face the corner, arms folded behind your back, get ready for what you know you deserve, and is now coming.

My anticipation over almost the last week paled into insignificance compared to what I now felt. As ever the case, and despite my best efforts, the expectation of an imminent punishment made the removal of my clothing a less than graceful undertaking – almost tripping over my jeans as I pulled them off. This was all somewhat to DW’s amusement, who feigned not to understand why I should be in such an agitated state. So while I stood there in only Thursday’s purple panties, with a mix of vulnerability and foreboding growing by the minute, DW made ready.

First the wooden hairbrush was transferred from its pride of place on the dresser onto the bed. In terms of the amount of sting it can inflict for the full duration of a spanking, this is a truly fearsome instrument. While I see comments in blogs and websites about how the release of endorphins, progressive deadening of the butt nerves, or whatever, can reduce the sensation of pain over the course of a spanking – absolutely none of them apply to my experience on the receiving end of this particular hairbrush. Whether it’s ten, fifty, or a hundred strokes, I can attest that the last one stings just as much as the first – and although it’s NOT DW’s practice to tell me how many are coming, it’s my job to count every single one, irrespective of the speed of their delivery, or pauses for Q&A or lecturing. It fits exactly the descriptions I’ve read of a hairbrush designed for spanking – solid hardwood with an absolutely flat back – and came into our possession quite by accident (or fate), but that’s another story.

Meanwhile DW had place a pile of four pillows almost half way down the bed – “OK, do you know where I want you?”. I turned, nodded and somewhat awkwardly, placed myself facedown with my butt raised upwards over the pillows, and grabbed a firm hold with both hands to the board at the end of the bed. Once I’d settled into position, DW placed the smooth, cool back of the hairbrush on my backside, just about where the “protection” of my panties ended – “Do you know why you are getting this?”. I managed to semi-coherently explain that it was the result of my bad language in front of our girls. “Yes that’s right, and maybe this will help you remember not to do it!”

For remedial spankings, DW does not even consider the luxury of warm-up strokes, and this was no exception. Alternating from one cheek to the other, DW set a steady cadence of (I estimate) about one stroke per second – fast enough to have a cumulative build-up in my pain level, but not so fast that she can’t give each one her full force, and listen and watch for the right responses from me. From the combination of my flinching, involuntary exclamations and tone of my counting, DW can clearly determine which of her strokes have REALLY struck home. Probably from a combination of this particular position and DW’s determination to make her point, every stroke was finding its mark – and as she progressed through thirty, to forty and then fifty, the tone of my counting had become progressively more acute, my breathing quite rapid, and the first signs of a cold sweat were emerging from my efforts to deal with the agonising build up of the stinging pain in my backside. At fifty strokes, DW paused, again placed the back of the brush gently on my backside – “Can you remember what else you are receiving this for?”

This is one of the more difficult aspects of DW’s punishments. Up until now, my sole focus had been on mastering the pain being inflicted on my backside and on keeping an accurate count of the strokes but now, knowing that there was obviously more to come, I was being asked to perform some minor feat of memory. I tried to re-focus from the pain and cast around mentally and finally came up with the only thing that I could recall – that I had been too late in coming to bed earlier in the week. Now this situation can be a lose-lose from my position – to not recall may, or may not be worse than reminding DW of a yet different offence to the one she had in mind. Fortunately in this case, I picked the right one.

DW successively hitched up each side of my knickers to expose my bare butt-cheeks, expressed some limited satisfaction at the state of their colour, and set to work once again. Any illusion I had that thin nylon panties offer virtually no protection from a well-used hairbrush were dispelled by the end of the 51st stroke. There really is nothing to compare with the stinging pain of each well-aimed stroke from that hairbrush on my bare butt cheeks. As ever, DW was undeterred by my reaction to the escalated pain-level. It turned out that she had 100 strokes in mind, and inevitably, that’s what I was to, and did, receive.

As I lay on the bed, breathing hard and seriously perspiring, and as I gradually relinquished my grip on the end of the bed, DW simply said, “That will do for now, we’ll save the rest for later”.