A drunken mistake means a girl has a difficult decision to make. By a new writer to us.

By Henry Tanner

There are two things I get from my mother, thankfully. One is genetic; blonde hair, blue eyes, pale complexion and long, long legs. The other is her wicked sense of humour. The thing I haven’t inherited is her common sense, and that’s what got me into this pickle.

When I told Mum I was getting engaged to Paul and moving in with him she laughed and told me it was as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor man. See what I mean about her humour? And Paul is rich, he does some weird job I don’t understand called commercial reinsurance. He’s forever jetting off to foreign cities, especially Geneva. Whatever it is, it pays well. He has a beautiful home near Ascot racecourse and a luxurious lifestyle.

I work for myself, I’m a personal trainer. That’s how I met Paul. He’s a good looking guy but he was a bit out of condition. Not now, I’ve done a great job, even if I say so myself. Of course, I like it that he’s well off but I fell in love with him for himself. When I started working with him I could tell he fancied me. Sorry to sound big-headed, but that’s pretty normal with male clients. Long blonde hair, blue eyes, a pretty face and long, lithe legs will do that, especially when I’m wearing a tight vest and tiny gym shorts. This time, the attraction was mutual; I fancied him and I loved his personality and sense of humour.

A year later, we are engaged and I’m living with him. I’m still busy with clients, but only female ones, at Paul’s request. I’m happy with this. I was getting tired of the blokes hitting on me, though having said that there are still one or two of the female ones hitting on me. I have a credit card with a generous monthly allowance and I drive a bright yellow Mini Cooper convertible Paul gave me for my birthday. Our love making is fantastic, best ever. Paul likes to give me a little spanking as part of foreplay and I’ve come to enjoy that. It’s not very hard, more playful, and it makes a super tingling sensation. Life was great and then I blew it.

I just didn’t know what to do. Should I tell him? Should I try and put it out of my mind and not spoil things? As it happened, the decision was made for me. When he got home he had a face like thunder and I knew Pierre had told him. He took one look at my face and said: “So it’s true?”

I burst into tears. I tried to hug him but he pushed me away, his face as cold as ice. He told me to pack my bags and get out. I could keep the car but he wanted his ring back. I pleaded and pleaded to no avail, then I had an idea. I told him I knew I deserved to be punished but not to be cast aside for one, admittedly dreadful, mistake when I was intoxicated. I said I’d acted like a rotten little girl and should be treated like one. Why didn’t he give me a proper spanking? I knew he liked spanking me but he knows I’m not masochistic so he takes it easy. I was suggesting a real spanking: I’ve never had one but I was willing to do anything to keep him.

He got a thoughtful look in his eyes; do you know I could tell it appealed to him. He said he had to go to Geneva for a week. I could stay in the house while he was away and he would think about it. He would stay in the airport hotel that night and would email me. I didn’t argue or say any more, just helped him pack his bag. I tried to kiss him goodbye but he was having none of it.

I was on tenterhooks for the next twenty-four hours. Silence. Then, two days ago, I got the email.

Dear Rachel, 

I love you very much. I’ve never known such happiness. I know that what happened was because you had been drinking. I know you rarely drink because of your fitness regime. 

And Pierre is a very attractive man. He did the honourable thing telling me, he was ashamed and I know you are.  

I’ve thought long and hard, and selfishly maybe. I’ve decided I don’t want to lose you. But I’m sure that you can see I can’t just let this go. You suggested a spanking. No, that won’t cut it. This is far more serious, and anyway spanking is our fun thing, not a punishment. I do believe you deserve a proper punishment and I think you feel the same. 

So this is my offer. You accept my punishment, accept it willingly and with grace. If you do, that is the end of it;, we will never speak of this again. If you agree I am going to cane you. You have a choice of three, four or six strokes. You may choose six strokes across your jeans, four on your panties or three on your bare bottom. 

I will text you when I am fifteen minutes away. I want you to get in the bath, with the water as hot as you can bear it. I will call out when I arrive, get out of the bath and come in the living room. Dressed in jeans and a T shirt if you choose 6, T shirt and pants if 4 or just the T shirt if you’re going for the 3. 

You will not speak. I will not speak. You will go to the coffee table and bend over with your hands on the table, legs slightly apart. You must practice that position when you’ve finished reading this. The caning will be painful and I expect you to jump up after the first stroke. That is acceptable but for the remaining strokes you must remain in position or that stroke will not count. 

I want you to reply to this email saying a) I agree or b) I do not agree and have left. Do not say ANYTHING else. If you do, the offer is withdrawn and you must leave. If you do accept I shall order two canes through the mail. Watch out for them. Two in case one breaks; this will be hard. Then on Friday email me again telling me what you have chosen; 3, 4 or 6. 

All this is non negotiable. I don’t want to lose you but for my self respect and to wipe away your guilty feelings for the future this is the only thing I can think of. I hope you accept but of course the choice is yours. If you take the punishment the slate is wiped clean  Rachel, follow these instructions to the letter. I look forward to hearing from you.

My first feeling was relief. I was so happy I burst into tears. There was nothing to think about, I’d have done anything. I’d no idea what a caning was like. Sure, I knew it would hurt. It would probably hurt a lot, but so what? It was nothing to the pain I felt at losing him.

My first thought was to email him back. I grabbed my iPad and started to write. But wait, I thought. He was still furious with me, no doubt. I had better be careful. I read his email again and realised I must do exactly what he said. I went over to the coffee table and took up the position. The table was a low one so, with my long legs, my bottom was in a very vulnerable position stuck up in the air. I could imagine what it looked like. I’d seen the same with the odd client who needed a bit of my plimsoll motivation.

OK, it started to dawn on me that this would be no walk in the park. Sticking my cute little ass in the air got me imagining what it would be like to have a whippy cane thrashed across it. I shuddered. But I never reconsidered for a moment. I would do anything to get him back. I emailed straight back: “I agree.”  I didn’t sign it off, no love from, no xxxs. I would comply to the letter, I wanted that slate wiped clean.

I didn’t sleep well that night as you can imagine. I had that choice to make. I ran it through my mind over and over but I just didn’t have the experience to know which was best. Or rather the least worst. The very next day the canes arrived in a long brown packet that I had to sign for. Any fantasy of saying they hadn’t come was destroyed. Anyway, I had to go through with this to put things right.

The canes were both the same; they didn’t have the crook handle I expected but ended in a sort of little knobbly bit. I picked one up. It was heavier than it looked. It was very flexible, yet strong. I could bend it into a big curve but I could feel the springiness fighting the bending. And when I swished it through the air it made the most horrible sound. Scary, I could imagine what it would be like to hear that a second before the horrible thing crashed into my poor little backside. I put them on top of the wardrobe where I didn’t have to look at them. Come Friday I’d put them on the coffee table, ready.

I just couldn’t choose. So I rang Jackie for advice. Jackie is my best friend, she lives a mile down the road. She started as a client when she married and gave up her modelling career. She wanted to keep in shape, both for her own sake and to keep her multi-millionaire older husband happy. We took to each other immediately and now she’s my best friend. I rang her for advice because I know her husband canes her occasionally, usually for madly over spending on her credit card. I saw the marks on her bum when we were showering after a workout. I asked her what the marks were. She was totally unashamed, said Donald had caned her for overspending by ten grand that month. What’s more she said it was worth it!

I told her the whole sorry tale and asked her what I should do. She absolutely agreed I should take the caning. Indeed, she told me I deserved it, which I know. As for which to choose, she said that was a difficult one. The one she wouldn’t go for was the four. She reckoned that my lacy panties would provide zero protection and it would hurt as much as the three on the bare. She suggested that I go round to her house. She would get Donald’s cane and give me a half strength stroke on my jeans and one on my bare butt. She also said that if I went for the six I should forget my designer jeans. They cling like silk and look fantastic but the material is very thin. I should go out and buy a pair of Levis or Wranglers for the thicker denim.

So today is Wednesday, I’ve got till Friday to decide. So my dilemma is two fold. Should I take up Jackie’s offer? Will it help me choose or will it just hurt unnecessarily and scare me even more. She said half strength but I train her, I know how strong she is.

And secondly, the big one. I see Jackie’s point, I’ve discarded the four. So should I take the three on the bare or six on my jeans?

The End

© Henry Tanner 2018

Any reader wanting to correspond with Henry can email him at:  henrytannerotk@gmail.com