I can most readily separate my memories from the Saturday and Sunday of that first disciplinary weekend by recalling the markedly different state of my backside on those two days. Whilst Saturday morning had certainly provided some distinct reminders of the 100 hairbrush strokes I’d received on Friday night, Sunday morning was a wholly new experience of spanking after-effects that ensured a virtually constant reminder of the three butt-blisterings DW had administered during the previous evening.

Perhaps in an effort to provide some protection for my severely tenderised flesh, I had retrieved and re-installed my panties at some stage during the night. I had slept rather well in the afterglow of our lovemaking but now, come morning, even relatively small movements tended to re-intensify the stinging from the worst affected areas of my butt. Judging from the extent to which the nylon material of my panties tended to adhere to the blistered area on each cheek, DW had very nearly achieved her objective of an even treatment for both the left and right sides. After gingerly extricating myself from the bedcovers and climbing sideways out of the bed, I carefully lowered the back of my panties to survey the damage in the mirror. The two damp and slightly red patches in the seat area of the panties simply confirmed what I could make out as a clearly distinguishable area of raw flesh on each cheek. After carefully restoring my panties, I donned my dressing gown and wandered out of the bedroom. Meanwhile DW had set about making some breakfast.

After we had exchanged a warm good morning hug and a kiss, and being in no hurry whatsoever to sit down, I decided that a shave should be next on the agenda. Just as I was getting that underway in front of the bathroom mirror, DW wandered in, and with somewhat exaggerated casualness enquired, “How’s your butt?”. I suspect that my reply must have been along the lines of “pretty damn sore, thank you” because with that, DW lifted the back of my dressing gown to inspect the outcome of her handiwork. As the state of my butt was quite apparent without the need to lower my panties, DW simply commented, “Well I’d hate to think that all my exertions were to no benefit. Perhaps THAT will teach you to behave.”

“Yes Ma’am, I certainly hope so.”

A delicious breakfast was ready by the time I had finished shaving, and I can remember sitting on one of the soft living room lounge chairs to eat it from the coffee table as I leaned well forward. After leisurely enjoying DW’s coffee, I announced my reluctant intention to go and shower and stood up – carefully. Just as I did, DW reached forward from her seat, deliberately grasped the paddle and said, “Well… just one thing before you do”.

For some reason, I didn’t attempt to argue. Perhaps it was my total surprise that, after all that had been visited upon my extremely tender backside, DW now planned yet more punishment – or perhaps it was an instinct that the future of our DW lifestyle depended on my willingness to submit this one further time. Instead, I shed my dressing gown, eased down my panties, and with the aid of that same lounge chair, assumed once more the now familiar position – absolutely knowing that this was about to hurt far more than any previous spanking I had ever experienced. As DW laid the paddle across my already desparately sore butt in preparation, I gritted my teeth in readiness.
DW applied herself just as enthusiastically as on the previous evening, mitigated only a little by the fact that she chose to apply her strokes to both cheeks at the same time. Even so, the intensity of the pain from the very first stroke was enough to make me gasp at its arrival, and I only managed to count it after a long swallow. As the paddle strokes just kept on coming I think the agonising pain simply transformed into a blurred continuum as I felt the blistering from the previous night being freshened and then rapidly aggravated. I must have been counting largely from instinct, because I seemed to have lost all sense of how many had gone before, and how many might be to come with the shear effort of coping with the pain and remaining in position. But after 50 strokes, DW did finally desist and carefully replaced the paddle back on the coffee table.

“NOW you know what will happen if you don’t behave – you know it’s for your own good.”

“Yes Ma’am”, I gasped while still trying to get my breath.

After some little time I’d recovered just sufficiently to consider standing. Rather than face the prospect of having to bend over again, I grabbed my panties as I straightened and pulled them up to about thigh level. I then very carefully lifted the waistband over my flaming backside and adjusted them for the least discomfort that seemed achievable.

The agony provoked by the shower was almost as traumatic as the spanking itself, matched only by that of the antiseptic DW insisted on liberally applying as unwelcome but essential aftercare. Once again a fresh pair of white nylon panties was waiting on the bed as I returned from the bathroom – at least these were somewhat less scanty in front than the previous day’s. By the time I had managed to ease my jeans over the panties and zip them up, the stinging of my backside seemed to have settled to a slightly more manageable level. I think my movements for the rest of the day could best be described as “careful” in an effort not to reignite the intense stinging that sudden movements would provoke. Climbing out of the driver’s seat once we had arrived at home was just one of those occasions.

With regular treatments of antiseptic lotion, it was still to be some 3 or 4 days before the red raw areas of my butt showed no further signs of their weeping and meanwhile, thick cotton underwear was a necessity! Not content with that, the outer layer of skin then dried out and gradually peeled off over the course of the next 3 weeks, just as would sunburn or a blister. Now when anyone talks of a blistered butt, I can be in absolutely NO doubt as to their meaning.